week of February 27-March 5, 2006
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click here for submission guidelines
Keith is a performance poet from Swindon in the UK, he is published in Aethsetica, electric acorn and the Raven chronicles, he performs at various gigs including the ‘Pulsar’ Keith is studying creative writing at the University of Bolton where he plays guitar to pubs full of drunks, he likes to bake cakes and walk the hills in his red tracksuit His three poems are loose style sonnets, which address the human condition with inward and slightly existentual themes He deals with contemporary matters and writes with a love of language and style.
The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Keith Hilling and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Dust like you
Three days from there, milk and broken wood
They is to hint a smoke and fire and trace
The broken sprig like life flowers dieing and done
When the lettuce leaf is to flood in November maybe,
Before the rain and frost, I can’t think of much more
That moss cover the shells on beach bathed days
Sunshine opens hearts like windows of forget
Me not I am any slight life, eager in dangerous rite Spite touch the heavens, fender strap the rubber dancing
Under wild woods fork belted lines and seek the shudder man
Camping out like a danger joy, eek, they shriek
And die they do down the dumb of bluster and shame
And forgotten in a doorway, pain is a humble man
I think not of forgetting the last, with time I am dust like you.
Two Sides to Every Monster
That he left the reeds river flood under hyoscine eyes
With lasting tombac towers tall beaching black as tar
Then he wakes raking rancid laughter behind obsidian eyes
In lasting spoor, silent yet waiting like the moon
That the river reeds comb combing parted black as finger threads
Chinook hides salt and sea Rancid monster running through
Posset, murky lurking in a tumbler, tall as trembling ticking, tocsin
Agreed, with proboscis combed his huddle toothed, teaming spilling time.
That she smells seeds some Sunday squeezing on her sabots
With forever daisies dangling dark- darker, dancing on her chin
Then he wakes heaving hell hurting anchors throwing noise
In forgotten Sunday slippers he fucks her rump, she gives some chirr
Was him to her a leaf free of branch and sun?
That the monster came up and bobbed down
Bellowing the nerve of asking for some sound
His leafs to finger branches recoil like a gun.
We fell asleep, the 7th of July
That sofa you brought back from London
A Kentish thread, sent of orange
Peeling hurriedly near the seams
Those marks I care to remember,
You naked one night
As though you might
Fleet back to September
Awkwardly, rushing from beams
Inward as pips to apple
And the core all of a sudden
Became a bowl of bitter beans
Aging quietly near the harbour of cards
Reminds me I’m high and dry.
We had watched a movie
Silently, men came rushing
And lights outside were dim
And London is Fire.
It wasn’t that you left so sudden
The rat tat tat of voice, the silver box
Those silent memories
The fact you lived above our street
The way you held my head
The choice of words you bomb Like a silent fox, finds night a burden
Padding sharp feet to kiss
Knowing town and forest boundaries
Choosing it, the tomb and dieing And perhaps you shielded this
Until our dieing day, or maybe
We had died some time before
As London is fire.
David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in England, and spent several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix in1978 He enjoys listening to very old music, birding, and hiking in the Arizona landscape Along with poems in magazines, he has a list of chapbook publications with Places You Can’t Reach (Pudding House Publications) being the latest, and two recent books: A Normal Day Amazes Us (Kings Estate Press) and Return to Waking Life (Main Street Rag Publishing Company).
The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by David Chorlton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The mockingbirds seem not to know
it hasn’t rained since October
from the way they bounce
in mating dances
and the mourning doves could be forgiven
for believing water comes
out of the earth
considering the sprinklers fanning
moisture over lawns The sparrows
perched at the edge of the bowls
we set out in the yard
dip their beaks into the water
as if plastic were a well
with no bottom The sun comes up,
casts another round of dry shadows
and falls behind the telegraph lines
where starlings hang like black raindrops.
The seven day forecast has been recycled
for another term Smoke on the horizon
tells us there is more
of the same to come The crystal ball
is filled with ashes, shoots peer
from the flower beds
unsure of whether to emerge,
and the trees
reach out with their boughs
to feel for moisture in the air,
while the newscast tells us to stay inside
because there is nothing to wash
away the pollution But the sunsets
are so beautiful when the rays
illuminate dust, we can’t resist
the view of red where a single cloud
blossoms behind the palm fronds.
It’s been so long without precipitation
we’re beginning to hallucinate
and plant illusory grass
beneath our postcard sky
then coax it with recordings
of rainforest storms
that we play each afternoon
to plant the tropics in our ears
while the desert drains through an hourglass
and leaves us nothing but the light
to remember it by.