Swan Song

So full of grace

she walks in beauty

on sun-drenched days

simply doing her duty

trailing white flowers

in full bloom

of a lazy spring

gone all too soon

with lustrous petals

all Nature’s creation

without any artifice

or Man’s manipulation

Soft, fine sand

between her toes sifts

doesn’t choke on

deadly seaweed drifts

she swims in beauty

with a curving waist

untouched, unbloated

by toxic waste

she dances in air

that’s fresh and pure

for fumes and poisons

she cannot endure

she soaks in beauty

with no allergic shock

by pollen, hay

or pink Holly Hocks

she faces the sun

beating down mercilessly

through an ozone hole

made so carelessly

she floats in beauty

with her lovely train

while she sheds tears

of never-ending rain

she sings of beauty

but will it last;

is Nature’s poetry

all in the past?

Sultana Raza

June

In June we meet again.

No baby this year, she explains
as we lie sideways on the couch,
her skin rough
like the heal of my foot.

And I dip my face into hers,
sopping her tears with my cheek.
*
Once we saw a snake
outside a shop, Bloor street,
slithering, confused
to be in a city,
not even looking
for his home,
not even trying
for a patch of grass.
*
I think of her only in winter:
skidding on beetle black streets,
raw skin and runny noses.
Or on the lake,
our bladed feet licking the crusty frost
as we glide, paths slicing
gutters onto the virgin ice.

Only in winter
did the soft parts under her eyes
turn red from the pawing winds.

Only in winter
Did she wear the snowflakes
about her like a veil.

Only in winter
could we make whole families
out of snow.
*
But it is June when we meet again.

And while lie sideways on the couch,
listening to our bodies
that breathe together,
I will ache for the winter.

Home at last
the first time in years.

V. Macdonald
Toronto,
Canada
nessy416@hotmail.com

Kings Cross

Fresh scent of jasmine flowers
mingled with exhaust fumes;
telephone booth, graffiti
numbers, scattered pages,
direct line to love. How much
everything grows out of everything--

Or the way God shows herself
to himself, as our eyes meet.



Paul Christian Stevens
Central Coast,
Australia
caratacus@gmail.com

The Chimaera

Geisha Girl

You are a star
Four pointed and not quite perfection
I make wishes on your lips
Millions of inconsequential wishes

While you are sleeping
The moon and sky cry weeping
I clutch at all the thousands of dreams I have
I believe I am dreaming
Your presence melts shattered tomorrows
All I am is my gift to you
Daisied eyes, damson dressing
Belief in this vision of you is my blessing

Gaze into my sleepy time, Geisha Girl
As I trip into midnight.


Natalie Williams
Liverpool,
United Kingdom

Website: www.natalie-williams.com
Email: nataliewilliams-gypsybutterfly@hotmail.co.uk

Review: Daydreams in Mermaid Grass/Natalie Williams

Review – Daydreams in Mermaid Grass/Natalie Williams, 2008, Jeremy Mills Publishing Limited, ISBN 978-1-906600-09-9. www.jeremymillspublishing.co.uk
www.natalie-williams.com

This is a stunning collection of verse by a promising poet from the UK. Here we have magical imagery and mysterious lyricism evoked with a masterful touch. This is exactly the type of poetry that this editor likes to savour.

The flyer to Natalie Williams’ collection states that: ‘In her verse, Natalie Williams summons up the world of Bracken, a mesmerising realm populated by fantastical creatures. Serpent dragons journeying on quests that reflect all wrongdoing, princesses clothed in darkness and the enigmatic `Speaker` are just some of the treasures that await.’

Daydreams in Mermaid Grass is most definitely a wondrous epic read of beautiful dream-inspired visions. Williams explores the mindscape of dreams and dreaming and what happens to us in that mythical state of not quite knowing what’s going on or rather feeling that something important is happening if only we could fathom the depths of its meaning. Williams makes poetry her medium, her prism and what we readers are served up is a enchanting kaleidoscope of wonder and beauty.

In her poem The Mockingbird and the Jewelfinder we read: 'I am ancient; I am old/So I sing, jewels to me bring/I am withered; I am cold, so cold…/I shout out, let all the earth with my echo sing'. This is highly successful imagery and the lines convey a sense of place that lies without our normal mundane sphere of interest. It is ‘other’, ‘over there’. These are glimpses of some kind of wonderland that is never sugary sweet or trite. It is a realm of enchantment and the way in which Natalie Williams evokes this state of being is utterly confident and capable.

Here we have a unique poetic voice and one that at once thrills and moves. In Geisha Girl the reader is transported: ‘While you are sleeping/The moon and sky cry weeping/I clutch at all the thousands of dreams I have/'…and: ‘Your presence melts shattered tomorrows/’..and the beautiful line: ‘All I am is my gift to you.’

These poems are a tonic to the soul, a wondrous balm for modern humankind, so often engaged in the trivial and exasperating facets of life. Natalie Williams’ poems are rich and exquisite and reflect a sense of purity that, ultimately, most of us long for in some way or other.

Speckled Dragon is an intriguing, terse poem but perhaps my favourite verse in this outstanding volume is Komodo Princess with its crisp, sharp images: ‘I am reversed/Painted onto the backside of time/Blurted forth into wickedness/Into your moment of death/How sublime.’

This volume makes for supremely compelling reading. It’s not escapism that delights; these poems refer to that blissful dreamy state of being itself. These are poems that denote wonder. It’s a gem.

In the biography it states that Natalie Williams grew up in Zimbabwe and lived on the purple carpeted Jacaranda Lane. Where I live Jacaranda trees abound and when they are in season they are a joy to behold. It is no wonder that it would instil a sense of wonder and magic in a budding poet. Anyone who has seen the Jacarandas in bloom must believe in the power of dreams and poetry.

i know a dancer

and she walks with the grace of a dream
a billowing message of the worlds goodness
and it fills you from all angles and lifts you to say
‘Hush, it’s okay’
and that’s all you wanted to hear anyway.

and the kiss of her lips to the fumes of the ash
kissing the air of creativity
she sucks with a passion and blows with a
sigh
and that’s all she wanted
anyway.

the dancing arms and the dancing hands
the dancing fingers
wrap around
my welcoming neck
and we dance in each others eyes to Brahms
as we kiss the air
and not each other.

and it will be quiet
and it will be perfect
and everything will be clean and perfect
possibly
probably
definitely.

Alexander J. Allison
London
UK
aja_clarkman@hotmail.co.uk

Painting the Isles

The busy Scillonian
disgorges, absorbs.
Tourists melt away,
ferried to other Isles,
or slowing the pace
along St Mary's trails,
where, if the flora fails,
then the beaches will not.
They care not that waves
now massaging this sand
will one day wash
over sharp, remnant rocks.
For the day's colours
are deeper,
the land
more solid,
than any legend
lost to sea.


David Wilkins
Bristol,
United Kingdom