March 21-27, 2016: Poetry from Dominic James and Richard Lynch

​Dominic James and ⁣Richard Lynch

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​Dominic James
djamesdom7@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Dominic James lives in SW England with his partner, Helen, near the source of the Thames. He attends poetry meetings along the M4 corridor, from Richmond to Stroud in Gloucestershire. Published at home and abroad by, among others: Ink Sweat & Tears, The Cannon’s Mouth, SLQ and Kudzu Review. He has a blog needs feeding at www.djamespoetic.blogspot.co.uk.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by ​Dominic James and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Nones

In winter the tree is a small thing, a pulled root,
with earth kicked off on the heel of the boot
but in the summer, vastly garnered in green,
I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely
& etc.

it chimes strangely then Yggdrasil, the giant Ash,
tree of life, in the roots of words comes back
a gallows, above the shield shine of Valhalla’s roof
a goat, chomping down its wild shoots, those compound leaves,
to make strong milk.

The barrow’s tree long signified the rise of man:
flowering in Spring, his generations in the Fall,
un-bound this tree – as the race – grows tall, its branches
reach into the eye’s deep well, blot out the sun,
where birds nest

and Ratatock, a chattering squirrel, runs the trunk
from eagle to worm: most like the rat in the brain
that defeats us all. Three weird sisters tend the great tree.
Witches at the well of fate dredge up white mud to salve
a wilted stalk.

Give me, three girls at a drain, drinking cider,
talking cock.

 

 



⁣Richard Lynch
Richard@aps8.com

Bio (auto)

⁣Richard Lynch (Platja de Gandia, Spain) had beaten a drum as a boy before karma reclaimed the episodes, and beat him back. He wasn’t impressed, swallowed three toads, saying "oh, crap" only after the third, when he realized it was frogs he’d wanted, and his throat swelled him to the hospital. Some people count almonds to be sure there are enough in the bag…Richard only almonds when it counts. In recent years he has let his camera help him discover grotesque things, foods that lurk in the ice tables of fish mongers when he fails at fishing, and the sight of a woman so incredibly perfect that he was once consumed by the flames of a group of young boys she passed when they spontaneously combusted. Having risen from those ashes as well, he found people jealous of his nimbus, which he named Bob and taught various card tricks, and lives with his medusa, looking at her only through mirrors. When Bob turned to Three Card Monty, all bets were off, and so was the nimbus, creating a paradox so complex, Schrodinger’s cat begged for mercy loudly enough that you could hear it behind the door, and Bob (sometimes known as Three Card) was forced into slave labor at a repair shop called Quantum Mechanics where cars were fixed by putting them in a box and thinking. There are times when Richard’s antics become uncles. He hopes to have the opportunity to explain his life the right way, when it is over, again.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by ⁣Richard Lynch and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Letter to a Cumquat (or Entertaining the Raccoons)

I have not heard from you
since I sent the picture
of the slate walk.

I’ve been busy with the job
where I shuffle my feet and
listen to the grit from
the melting snow scrape
the rug protector.

It takes my time like
a raccoon’s little human
fingers thieving from
the trash.

Last week
I lost a cumquat.
It hopped
from my lunch bag and
rolled away, then
was so lost it
could be in
my pocket.

The cumquat is like you
that way. Sometime
I hope I’ll find it hiding
under the sheets, nibbling
the edge of a crayon
wrapper while it thinks
about what to draw
next. If it is gone
forever, I won’t know —
not until I never find it.
Never can be a
long time.

I’ve shook
out the message,
suspecting the fruit may
stow away there,
hiding behind letters or
In a dark corner
of the envelope,
Just as it crept into
the sensibility of
my lunch bag
like a spider on
the small hairs of
my neck.

But I hope this letter
found its way to you.
And that it is not just
wadded up and tossed
away before you open it.
If so, the cumquat
may be gone now, and
I’ll never know. If so
everything is just one
more thing I do to
entertain the raccoons.