Saturday, 6 October 2012

Fourth Birthday Sonnet by Andrew Martin

Written and performed by Andrew Martin at the August poetry evening

When this divine cafe opens it door
Fine poetry takes to the floor
It draws such a crowd
Even Shakespeare'd be proud
Happy birthday, dear Reddits, you're four!

Sunday, 23 September 2012

Only This by John Forbis

for my Father
Written and performed by John Forbis
The pulse I may not always hear
but it is there, a part of me
in my blood, always present,
always comforting.

Soothing hisses of water smooth
the sand leaving behind only
little holes through which
the tiniest of creatures breathe.

You look at the sea as if
you understand it,
its motion, its many expressions
just below the surface.

You look at the sea as if
you are kindred spirits
and so you are.
You were always as constant.

Coming home from school,
from work, from our own lives,
you always remained
keeping the cycles, drawing us home.

In all the surprises,
disappointments, triumphs,
always the rocking,
the breeze and whisper of sand.

When I am entangled
in the mechanical, metallic pace,
I can remember you
walking next to the sea,

your slow, long strides,
giant feet in the cool, fiery sand,
the sun revealing its last array
of colours as it sinks into its luxurious rest.

You were also tempted
by the relentless pace
of the offers of
a lifetime.

And yet, you simply walked away,
the ocean rolling onward
drawing you back
to the moist sand,

your arms open wide,
hair swept and shirtsleeves
flapping in the wind,
receiving all that already is.

That lesson will always be with me,
maybe in glimpses,
snatches of memory
like fragments of shells,

but they will always
be washed onto
the shore again,
the pelicans and gulls calling above.

And the wind will ride
every wave, inviting me
to believe in what you believed in,
in all there needs to be. 

Dope by Derrick Newson

Written and performed by Derrick Newson

Do I look like a drug dealer?
Well, I didn't think so either.
But there I was in this little town of Karlshamn in Southern Sweden.
I'd just enjoyed a meal of flounder in a cream and cheese sauce
Sitting on a bed of mashed potato
Flounder on a bed of mashed potato. Pic: Derrick Newson
Washed down by a bottle of Moselle Reisling.

 Afterwards I was walking back to the hotel
Through the deserted main square
When I noticed this boy
No more than sixteen
Tall, thin, fair with the obligatory sad blue eyes.
He was wearing a woolly pale grey track suit,
Soft to the touch I am sure

I noticed him but I just walked on
Down the cobbled street towards the hotel.
A minute or two later
There he was tapping my shoulder
Asking whether I had something to sniff.

Quick as a flash I thought of my cock
Very sniffable I always think.
But I politely said no.
Disappointed he disappeared around the corner.

He seemed a decent soul,
Which is more than can be said of me.
And there I was left alone
With nothing to offer but an old body
And the experience of being mistaken as a dealer in drugs.