Saturday 22 September 2012

Keen on Tolkien


In trenches, he dreamt of unusual worlds,
To the dictionary, gave new words.

Remarkable languages were first to come,
Perhaps in the Battle of the Somme.

Complex dialects were soon created,
Then various worlds in which they were fĂȘted.

Wasn’t meant to be read as allegory,
Just as a fantastical, fictive story.

With obscure races of men and trees,
To Elves and dwarves, it gave new lease.

At magical realms, one marvels and gasps,
Have subtle connotations that later one grasps.

Aloof and regal, the women seemed to be,
Inspiring, instigating, were the plot’s key.

Ancient lines of fine men grave,
Their world desperately who tried to save.

Magical tools unexplained by science,
Born of Nature’s and mind’s alliance.

Elves from stars brought far-off news,
His worlds had various scents and hues.

Multi-dimensional was his approach,
Prickly topics could easily broach.

Heroes’ minds, intricate and rich,
With complex plots, could easily stitch.

Has been construed in a thousand ways,
New generations it tends to amaze.

Explores details of human nature,
In Man’s psyche, gives an aperture.

Back stories stretched for thousands of years,
Still relevant for mechanized fears.

Humans and nature, fuel and steel,
We ride the same old karmic wheel.

Can Nature prevail over Man’s iron will?
Cause the crash of industrial hill?

-©2012. Sultana Raza
Luxembourg

Sultana Raza is a free-lance writer. Her article, short stories and poems have appeared in numerous publications and have been translated into French.

Tuesday 11 September 2012

Dusk on Harrow Hill

The song sheet pylons throb
chords of ice and sea salt skin
plucked like dragged lip lovers.

Dusk is a harsh desert;
birds rip varicose rivers,
gullets pulse for dead fish.

A girl disappeared last June,
skipping to a silhouette 
pounding earth with a gosling.

They’re burning gorse to look for her
the covered man points down
hardened men are vomiting. 



Antony Owen,
Coventry,
England


Dusk on Harrow Hill

The song sheet pylons throb
chords of ice and sea salt skin
plucked like dragged lip lovers.

Dusk is a harsh desert;
birds rip varicose rivers,
gullets pulse for dead fish.

A girl disappeared last June,
skipping to a silhouette
pounding earth with a gosling.

They’re burning gorse to look for her
the covered man points down
hardened men are vomiting.


Antony Owen,
Coventry,
England

Wednesday 5 September 2012

Shared Words

In the round room, women gather to share,
Card womb word whispers into soft yarn,
Spun on willow bobbins, to be woven
On aerial looms into sacred shawls.

Like rows of crochet, deftly my words
Link to yours ‘til plaited into a cord,
Strong and binding, closely entwined,
All our hues of colour shining in one cloth.

We sew our shared stories into a quilt,
To give us comfort on dark nights,
To give us shelter from loneliness,
To reassure us we are all alike. 

We stitch our patchwork tales together,
An enduring fabric more powerful
Than each story individually.
Each piece is a memory that binds us

To old dreams of childhood and of youth,
To the white of wedding dresses and rings,
To love, motherhood, joys and trials,
To our sweet, shared knowledge of how it is.

Perpetua Anne Graham
Omagh Northern Ireland
perpetuag@hotmail.co.uk

Sunday 2 September 2012

Three Sisters

We lie on the grass, in a sphere of stars
shrouded by the fabric of night
in liminal space suspended by heat
falling mercurial away from the sun. 

Three sisters’ limbs dance entwined;
weedy minarets, reaching like tendrils
toward the southern cross,
flickering beyond our finger tips. 

We are lunatic kids—moonstruck
skinny silhouettes, wild from the sugars
of plumped apricots; skin reddened 
and poached on sandy beaches.

Our luminous playhouse
is charged with giggle, 
leaf crackle and call of birds— 
night airs played on timeless lutes. 

We thrill in unison with bold
ideas and fierce intent, affection
flowing through our pert silliness, 
its purpose played on our green needled stage.

Our mother’s gaze steals across the window sill. 
Her affection shivers in heat’s shadow,
and rejoins to the call of our wish
to stay, another while. 

Maggie Slattery
Adelaide, South Australia
maggieslattery@gmail.com