Star POems: Ferries at Southsea
At George’s, we see the ferries coming in, huge trays of light buoyant in the dark blue evening, floating out of the night towards the palm trees, towards the young drunk spraycanning the pavement, his [… read more ]
At George’s, we see the ferries coming in, huge trays of light buoyant in the dark blue evening, floating out of the night towards the palm trees, towards the young drunk spraycanning the pavement, his [… read more ]
Again I leave the ward and look out through the windscreen at the bluebells on the grass, again see Sister’s eyes. She’d thought I knew that if you went home it would be to pass [… read more ]
Late autumn in Lavender Hill and I perched in her kitchen, a Frigidaire to my back. Florrie Mac rolled the fruit with her back to the Belling. Pigeons flirted on rooftops, and the distance between [… read more ]
(Blackberry brambles can be stripped of their thorns and used to fashion baskets and other useful artefacts). The first man clips off her thorns one by one, turns her placid and tractable, cuts her [… read more ]
Citadel of crows: dagger-beaked above the motorcycles ranked out front of Mick’s monster burger van. Hop. Skip. Peck up what’s left over; their bare-faced opportunism rising and landing between the wheels. This ridge is [… read more ]
By Guy Walker Emerging onto the viewing platform the world tilts while spinnakered dinghies sew their courses below. My hometown lurches at my feet. I am inside the tinted eye of a fly. A [… read more ]
By Tess Foley All I did was fall straight down and out of love. Could be when you maimed the lanes, more likely when I Noticed upright sentries, every road with every turn, On [… read more ]
By Helen Elliott Pastel palette beach huts Sun-bleached on the Solent, pebbled sands, Awaiting summer’s curtain call The closing of her seasonal demands. On the morrow, they stand weary To greet autumn aurora with [… read more ]
By Richard Williams Portsmouth and Southsea then Fratton and Hilsea, clattering over the creek to the points at Cosham west to Southampton, Salisbury and Cardiff, east to Brighton, north to Waterloo. And you [… read more ]
By Tess Foley We don’t know what you are: door ajar, not from Mars, not Venusian maid, Turn around, let us see that fine dress that you’ve worn, is that right? Wearing white and [… read more ]
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