By John Pearson On used scraps of board, paint brush strokes made their mark – the silent aftermath of a city scarred, blitzed, battered and burned; rubble piled high in streets, glass splinters, heaps of plastered bricks, floor-boards, door frames – decades of honest Portsmouth dust. Away from war-damage you painted your St
By Dale M Chatwin The cold chills my bones like hypodermic needles scratching stone. I rose from the gutter, thoughts fractured and cluttered, made my way back home, uninterrupted. The streets were deserted, the wind howled. The sound was a choir of souls, lamenting their former selves, anguished they roam, through purgatory, their home. Now it
By Maggie Sawkins, Star & Crescent’s Poetry Editor. The fir cone I picked from a Corsican forest, carried across an ocean nestled between balls of socks, has fallen from the grate and rests where it meets my gaze as I pose upside down in my daily practice. I notice how it makes the perfect mandala,
By Tina Shaw In the kaleidoscope of the town, my sinews constrict with the seasons. On the mortar and tarmacadam through age old streets and alleyways moving quad bikes and BMWs fly by in the autumn, and gnarled trees are my garden guests. I am living in this icy town, with a pumpkin outside the
By Sue Toogood Albert carried humbugs, until they were gone. Mehmet Ali carried his betrothed girl’s scent. Jack carried the memory of an intoxicated starry night. Farooq carried the pain of foot calluses and had broken sandals. Rahman carried a taste memory of warm baklava. Arthur carried the news that Myrtle would bear his child.
By the Ferry Tales Workshop held at the Kings Theatre, Southsea Anderson sips a cuppa in The Café in the Clouds. Goodall prepares a posh picnic on the pebbles. Peirce paraglides from Portsdown Hill. Firth sips a pint in the Phoenix garden. Todd dances, toes wet, sipping a last gin cocktail. Eagle rolls the splendour
By the First Act Recovery Group which meets every Saturday at Portsmouth Central Library. I used to be a twig but now I’m a tree I used to be a room but now I’m a house I used to be a cup but now I’m a bucket I used to be lost but now I’m
‘stirring Dull roots with spring rain.’ T S Eliot Rude, splayed fingers of unstoppable purpose, intruding indecently into the shy atmosphere. Not taking no for an answer, they displace the proprieties, lifting the flower-nub up, and signalling their intention to propel the bright-hued sex-parts into the full glare of publicity. They advertise their shame, wantonly
My dad is a big man A big man’s-man sports fan He shows his affection with food Keeping the dish a secret from me until the last minute So he can see my delight at my favourite meal Our sacred game When I was in hospital he looked after my money plant The leaves frosted
I was born here, under Maggie’s rule. Living beneath her Spitting Image character hanging from a telecom wire overhead. The youth here knew hate before they knew love and everybody hated the Iron Lady. Everything here was grey; from the rows of well-worn tenements and dirt-strewn streets to the sunken eyes of every battered wife.