Thirteen Ways of Looking at...
A compilation of individual works, inspired by the poetry of Wallace Stevens
Contents
Introduction - by Ian Parks Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Rose - Tracy Davis Thirteen Ways to Appraise a Lurcher - Mick Jenkinson Thirteen ways of Looking at a Rainbow - Paul Dyson ThirteenWays of Looking at a Bucket - Val Bowen Thirteen Ways of looking at Time - John Wolf Ten Ways of Looking at the Sun - Sharon Granville Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Poet - Frank Colley Thirteen Ways of Looking at a TV Set - Philip Dawson Hammond Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Goblin - Ian Parks Thirteen Ways of Looking Through Eyes - Tony Hitchcock Thirteen Ways to Look at the Moon - Terez Nagy Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Shell - Tracy Dawson Thirteen Views of Silence - John Beal Thirteen Ways to See the Sun - Mick Pettinger Thirteen Ways of Looking at an Apple - Tim Fellows The Clock Strikes Thirteen - Paul Iwanyckjy Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Wall - Barry Griffiths Thirteen Ways to Look at a Bird - Peggy McHale Thirteen Ways of Looking at Dada, Mama - Wayne Riley Thirteen Ways of Contemplating Your Navel - Mike O'Brien Thirteen Ways of Looking at an Oyster - Lesley Merrin Thirteen Ways Not to Attend a Poetry Class - Paul Brookes Several Ways of Looking at a Tree - Neil Skinner
Introduction - Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Poem - Ian Parks
The American poet Wallace Stevens was born in 1879 and died in 1955 and is generally recognised as a leading poet of the Modernist Movement. He studied at Harvard University and spent most of his life making a living as an executive for an insurance company in Connecticut. Like other poets who held down routine jobs - T S Eliot (bank clerk), C P Cavafy (customs officer), and Philip Larkin (university librarian), Stevens led an extraordinarily rich inner life which is reflected in the diversity of his poems. His Collected Poems was published in 1955 and received the prestigious Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. Thirteen Ways of Looking at a blackbird is one of his most famous poems along with The Man with the Blue Guitar, The Snow Man, and The Idea of Order at Key West. Stevens is an experimental poet, allowing images to work independent of a coherent narrative or formal structure. This has led to criticism of his work as being difficult or obscure - but Stevens has a clear eye and holds his poems together through the exactness of his images, in much the same way as an artist might hold together a painting. Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird was first published in 1917 at the very beginning of the Modernist Movement but failed to reach a wider readership until it appeared in his first collection. Looking closely at Thirteen Ways, the challenge for the Read to Write Group was to try and gain a clearer understanding of the poems by attempting to write their own versions or variations of it - the results of which are included here. We were amazed at the sheer variety in subject matter and tone produced as a result of the exercise and it was a real pleasure to be able to workshop and improve them during our weekly sessions. We hope you enjoy them too. Group member Paul Dyson came up with the idea of putting the poems together in loose leaf folders so everyone could share them, and we have him to thank for putting them together. An excellent example here of how poetry can reach the imagination and stimulate it to produce poems as varied and engaging as these. Read to Write is an independent poetry reading and writing group which has been running for eight years. We meet at Balby Community Library on Mondays from twelve o'clock and on every other Monday at Mexborough Athletic Social Club from seven thirty. All sessions are free and open to everyone. New members welcome. We would like to thank Mike O'Brien for reviving this project and making it available to a wider audience.
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Rose - Tracy Davis
I To observe in the upturned cup a lucky rose - an emblem of friendship. II Scrying in a crystal a stranger came close, threw a rose to the floor. III In a dream Arab boys in an inky pool reach out to claim their rose. IV A bloodied hand tried to grasp the rose's beauty. It's unreachable. The drip of his blood on the earth did fall: up sprang a rose. VI Red is the finest rose - a smooth silky head pursed against her lips. VII Cupid's mouth as luscious as the rose, fragrant and divine. VIIII A rose by any other name is not a rose. She's just another flower. IX She entered through the hole With a rose. Petals fell from her mouth. X Symbolic in prophetic vision the crayfish crawls into a rose. It's a curse. XI The withering of a rose As the withering of a woman foretells the decline of affection. XII Hearing their words placing roses at her feet she senses she had parted. XII A rose pokes through the socket of a skull - new life found in death.
Tracy Davis is a Mexborough poet and artist
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Thirteen Ways to Appraise a Lurcher - Mick Jenkinson
13 Ways to Appraise a Lurcher 1 The late autumn sun half-lost behind trees stirs sadness with contentment. At the limit of your gaze where the lip of the copse meets the line of the field the lurcher runs. 2 You can pray to whatever gods, adopt whichever wretched religion - The lurcher will stick with what she knows. 3 There's a little of the sight-hound in all of us; wanting to take life in with a dispassionate gaze. The lurcher waits - inscrutable. 4 The day-to-day affairs of the local council preoccupy the lurcher - she shares their concerns. 5 The lurcher splays at an ungainly angle over the edge of the chair. You want to say: "you'll get a crick in your neck" but you know well that she never does. 6 The lurcher looks askance that you would consider walking out in this weather. 7 You look at her she looks at you the lurcher believes you hold the key. She doesn't know how lost you are. 8 Don't be seduced into supposing that the lurcher's black-and-white bearing in any way implies that she sees no shades of meaning. 9 The lurcher sits bolt-upright on a chaise lounge in the bay window - manifestly queen fall she surveys. 10 With her refined senses and simple pleasures the lurcher regards you And your shifting perplexing priorities With bemusement 11 You watch the evening news with impotent rage. The lurcher watches you; reading your emotions with anticipation. 12 The lurcher pelts, pell-mell - no direction in mind - embodying joie-de-vivre. 13 The bell-weather tail of the lurcher is telling you if you'll only listen that the tone of the day is set.
Mick Jenkinson is an accomplished poet and folk musician
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Rainbow - Paul Dyson
I We found love in fallen leaves beneath the forgotten colours of a rainbow. II We wrapped our arms around an oak shared its spirit and the rainbow healed her soul. III No-one came only many and no-one heard the tree fall or spring in the forest and the rainbow smiled at our first fantango. IV Skittles of coloured crystals rained down as Richard of York gave-away bees in vases and the rainbow wept purple drizzle. V Sourness stained the abyss but faith lasted and love sonnets cast to the Wind gave hope to a rainbow reborn. VI She was my pagan queen holding an Olive branch in her wings while an angel lifted her with his rainbow-white feathers. VII Capricorn slips into Sagittarius and the cusp refracts the light as the blue shift of the rainbow pierces my heart. VIII Twenty two naked harlequins entertain the solstice as tectonic plates spin and she whispers a rainbow palette of words in the language of Eros. IX A meteor shower perforates the evening sky and the night is always day in the forest where our rainbow illuminates the penumbra. X We wash our feet in a stream of invisible light and the rain bows down into our hearts XI Orion and Achilles circle above as time rotates backwards, and the painted prism of her eye reflects a rainbow XII onto my face in parma-violet rainbows. XIII And as the leaves ascend to the sky autumn surrenders to spring and a new rainbow of hope is born.
Paul Dyson creates art, poetry and music from his studio near the wee hoose on the brae
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Bucket - Val Bowen
I It was raining all night And it would rain all week The bucket sat Open mouthed Waiting to be emptied II A man and a woman holding hands Domestic bliss A man and a woman holding a bucket Domestic drudgery Ill Look behind you, little tramps of Sheffield For lurking there or round the corner Is a bucket. Golden slapstick Makes men and women about you laugh At the antics of your big feet. IV A bucket without a handle Pails into insignificance V When I toss this bucket Will it land in the tree With the other 2 buckets Looking down and making a fool of me Or fall, to win, by flying Beyond the circle's edge? VI At the sight of a bucket and a ladder Even Vestal Virgins Undress to bathe VII Face like a bucket Ne'er won fair maid But bucketsful of money Did. VIII I know noble self-made women Their shield of arms Adorned by buckets I know too that Mops are involved IX The bucket twirled In the Arctic waves A small part of the vast plastic ocean X A bucket fell through a hole in the sky Landing on Lisa's head Henry knew he'd have to fix it But sang along anyway. XI Red apples fled the boughs of the tree. A shadowy hand holding a bucket Struck fear into the hearts Of startled blackbirds XII I do not know which to prefer Going up the well in the bucket Or going down It’s really down or up to you. XIII The wind whipped the windbreak With fierce blasts. The shadow of the bucket And spade beckoned me to the sand and sea. For some inexplicable reason my mood changed As it started to rain again.
Val Bowen wrote this piece after attending her first session at the Mexborough Read to Write group.
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at Time - John Wolf
I Slowly and by degrees, leaves grow on trees My time is told in heartbeats, biorhythms For the Earth It's the cycle of the seasons. II Time is like an introverted yogin; Bending in upon itself. Intrinsically of no value yet ruler of health, Time, ironically, may be our only wealth. III An ice age conquers, Continents drift, Icebergs calve, subtle shift In temperature and intent. IV Anything worthwhile takes time to achieve. Instant genius would be easy to sell, But hard to believe. V The clock ticks as I count the hours, Surge of anticipation grows, As the man in Black appears Three o'clock whistle blows VI Punch in punch through, punch out. Not a boxing ring, but factory shifts VII Time has more immediate relevance when you're maternal, Than it does until you realise That you are eternal. VII By sloth and apathy I've missed my window to become famous, Will Dedication speed its return IX Time is an old father, Care-worn, Accepting. X What is time but now? XI Is time a friend of mine, An experienced adversary I must learn to respect, Between life and death there is an unwritten line, A watermark, a subtle metaphor That we miss by focusing on cataclysm We were born, we will live, we will die, you and I Yet time itself never dims XII Plink, plink, plink Inside an ancient cave Water drips, The formation of stalagtites, Bloom of mighty crystal cathedrals, Unseen. XIII Time is invisible and intangible The canvas that decorates life's play Time permeates everything. It never exists, yet it never goes away.
John Wolf is a Performance poet and story writer whose recent poetry collection - Heroes, was published by Glasshead Press.
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Ten Ways of Looking at the Sun - Sharon Granville
1. The sun is rising heralding another day as it warms the earth. 2. Fine early morning a cloudless sky is promised the sun brings us hope. 3. Bright and clear and warm now at noon the sun is high In an azure sky. 4. On the horizon and moving toward the sun some rain clouds appear. 5. And as the rain drops fall through the rain, the sun's rays create a rainbow. 6. Sun light is diffused a host of many colours arch across the sky. 7. Late afternoon sun now the showers have passed on and shadows lengthen. 8. Evening draws nearer as the sun begins to set on another day. 9. Now the western sky is adorned with vivid hues sunlight yields to dusk. 10. And in the darkness the light of those distant suns in the stars I see.
Sharon Granville is a Doncaster creative who supports local poetry
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Thirteen ways of Looking at a Poet - Frank Colley
edited from "Shell Island" by Ian Parks
I
If I don't say it someone will
The wind blows through the poet
As death flows through a crowd.
II
The poet could take you
to the sandbank
Where his father
Dug for bait.
III
The poet is tall
And never thinks of food
Unless he eats Oysters
From the bay.
IV
The poet came from nowhere
Unannounced, ate olives and drank wine
and made love to the teenage daughter.
V
The poet is rattling through
Haunted towns searching
For a way to make a start.
VI
From the city street
The poet sells his poems
To the guilty bourgeoisies
Assassins he repudiates.
VII
A stretch of empty coastline
Where the lonely poet
Searched in rockpools.
VIII
I'm going now, said the poet,
It's for the best.
Watch me disappear in to this
Watercolour, drained of light.
IX
The shells of all the Oceans
Gather here, a cache of pink
Exotic coils, the poet asks
Is it at all possible?
X
And you, old poet, waiting at the end.
Your house a mound and
Your bed a pile of fallen stone.
XI
As the poet gazed across the great divide
he let the balance of the landscape
Strain and give, as if the world itself
were undermined.
XII
The poet was thinking how the daylight
Disappears, how one thing blends in to another
And how time slips away without our noticing.
XIII
Someone discovered his forgotten poems
And read them out, the poet turned his face
To the shore, as cold waves of love
Washed over himFrank Colley’s “The Story of Soldier A” was published by the Glasshead Press
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a TV Set - Philip Dawson Hammond
I You used to be heavy, fat, monochrome, chunky But now I'm a thin, plasma screen TV junkie. II I see you on the TV every night A child who's torn in someone else's fight. III I eat with dignity and grace My fish & chips or Bolognese From Microwaving for Beginners Or take-aways and TV dinners. IV I see you in shop windows Glaring out, but sound turned down TV broadcast no one hears Must mean trouble's in someone else's town. V She once loved touching you: Polishing your fake mahogany surround And twiddling your nobs "But now the TV remote is all I have to fondle" She sobs. VI You came between us My love and I You've got a dose, the doctor said You'd been and contracted terminal TV. VII We need to buy more toothpaste In case supplies run out Beans for breakfast, lunch and tea And celery for my gout Coffee that needs grinding Especially for Me And Knickers like I never see Except on my TV. VIII Adult Channel, ITV CBeebies or the BBC Lock the doors and draw the blinds Now, where's that damn remote control? IX It came in through the back door In 1963 You never spoke another word Once you'd got TV. X And sometimes when I'm home from work Relaxing with a drink I feel my TV's watching me I'm sure I've seen it wink. XI The programs are programming me They tell me what to think TV takes me round the world Along with kitchen sink. XII And now the News at Ten's repeated Eleven, Twelve and One A timeless zone of repetition Round the clock begun. XIII Did I buy it from a shop or on the National Health? When every household has one On the wall or on a shelf You used to be so heavy Fat, monochrome and Chunky And now I'm just as fat as you A big screen TV junkie.
The extensively published Philip Dawson Hammond eventually had this poem published by Barnes & Noble in his collection Out of Mind
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Goblin - Ian Parks
I A goblin stealing custard when the lights have all gone out. Yellow footprints on the floor. II Deep in the deepest recess of the wood the goblin makes his nest. III Have you heard the goblins singing on the first fine day of spring? The heart leaps at the sound of it. IV Goblins on the bedroom roof after a summer storm. A hop-skip and a jump. V If you should spy a goblin then he's obliged to dance. VI The goblin whistles through his ears on lonely sojourns in the dripping wood. VII Or in the shower, when you think green eyes are watching you it is the goblins peeping through a crack. VIII Have you ever come across a goblin egg? IX The goblin king sits on a carved throne. The other goblins hurry here and there, anxious to do his bidding. X Tonight the goblins are all drunk on squirrel juice. Make sure the door is bolted and the shutters are secure. XI My grandfather once told me how he saw two goblins when he was a little boy. They hid behind the flowers in the church. XII Beware the goblins child. They slip and slide across the ice. There is no green as green as goblin green. XIII The goblins have a special song that they alone can hear. It charms the creatures of the glade and makes the blackbird cock an ear. We scratch our heads and go back to our books. The short-lived goblins know.
Ian Parks runs Read to Write. His Selected Poems 1983 - 2023 were published this year.
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Thirteen and a Half Ways of Looking Through Eyes - Tony Hitchcock
1, behind the grey net curtains of the old terraced house the eyes would follow you all the way and back 2. I went out of my mind looking into the bay window and seeing those eyes watching out 3, back from that performance It was a theatre of comedy and there, those eyes seeing, into my soul 4, a man a woman and a child that's all it said the tears welled up in my eyes 5, down the side alley you could hear the faint sound of whistling the echoing, bouncing of the walls and out of that darkness, the eyes 6, the cold, Jack Frost had visited overnight all nature glimmered in silver all was still my eyes shimmering in wonder 7, songs of the nursery rhymes from a past I could hear them now faint, but true if only my eyes could see - those lost but familiar faces 8, and in the distance I could no longer see the far horizon my eyes too dim 9, we took the bus all the way to the terminus we strained our eyes to see but no one came 10, sun beams send shimmering rays through the autumnal trees my eyes are blinded by the light 11, yes this was a day like no other the weather played its own game If only my eyes could see the truth well, now you are lost forever 12, is it up here for thinking and - down there for dancing I hope I have that one right, at least my eyes are wide open, I think. 13, if only I had a dog we would drink pints of beer and eat oysters together, sitting at the end of the Rainbow, yes! my inner eye can see all that. 13 1⁄2. and maybe blackbirds three. what, in a pie, that's all my Eye and Peggy Martin.
Tony Hitchcock regularly crafts fine poetry as a valued member of the Read to Write community.
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Thirteen Ways to Look at the Moon - Terez Nagy
The thirteenth angel displaying her facets for all to see Iridescently illuminated by the Moon Stood in glory reigning magnificently Her Moon's shadow encapsulated her tidal mood Embracing change, transient in nature Yin and yang Contraband was hidden The Moon provided the protection The cave damp dark and sultry Hidden treasures out of the mind's eye At the initiation of menstruation she chose a Moon cup Gently placed to capture her bleed life force Holding the chalice to eternal youth Gently she strode out under the shimmering Moon sky Shoulders back bare and strong Hair golden and flowing Hips and girth wide They were in love and embraced many Moons ago Their faces faded over time Their memories eternally moulded Her face honest and proud Sharing stories in her sparkling moon eyes Lips pert waiting in earnest Her body's rhythm synchronised with the Moon cycle Swaying and flowing Urchin like Her nature was gentle and Moon shaped seeking embracing learning In awe The wolves guarded their pride under the crescent Moon Alert vigilant and awake watching Their senses heightened The sun hid the rays of the Moon Night and day enmeshed together A long journey ahead Her legs were dimply structured like that of the Moon Slender and firm but dimply Emotions were akin to the Moon at high tide raging fierce relentless washed up on the shore uplifted jubilant strong
Terez Nagy is a litter picking feminist poet who is a member of the Lippy Women group
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Shell - Tracy Dawson
I consider this: the conch speaks greek; and the ancient greek sailor shell, nautilus - a living fossil – knows all about time II before shelling out on coins she knew the value of counting cowries III at the turn of the tide baby barnacle shells safe and fast on harbour walls little limpets stick on rocks IV living on the edge of inter-tidal worlds the fine threads, wrinkles and whorls of whelks and winkles in spiral shells V she combs the beach for love and seashells it warms the cockles of her heart VI crustacean crusaders cruise in on breaking white horses then the gentle lap of scallop edge waves wash over sharp razor shells VII thin tellin shells held to the ear aren’t telling tales of the salty sea just like the calm quiet of the clam VIII on our eastern shores not only oyster shells contain northern grit IX it’s like pinning the devil finding the lost mollusc inside its shell X contemplate an empty crab shell at the homeless shelter after a healthy meal XI urchins on the pier dangle lines hoping to hook spineless shellfish or home XII bubbles burst in circles on grains of sand – clues to life on the other side – a burrowed shell XIII mother of pearl inside each mussel shell – a message of wisdom
Tracy Dawson is a founder member of the Lippy Women group. Her poems have been published in anthologies by The Poetry Village/Maytree Press, Ripon Poetry Festival and Black Nore Review.
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Thirteen Views of Silence - John Beal
I Tears fall but do not break the silence, the essence, this moment. II She swallows, moves onward silence falls sympathy her heart - stops III Silence - a great stone wall between the now of me and the lost me of then transitory moments - life IV Her eyes beckon, hopeful and we touch through silence the void - ours coalescing V The mist shrouded windmill silence where once was home to hearts - voices, time pierced their love dreams VI Dream-ache remembered great silence Vast as space endured - eternal VII No one left the building silence, ripe with a self-awareness genius loci speechless observing menacing VIII Forest paths dampened footfall, birdsong lapsed while even twigs snapping can't disturb the silence IX Earth spinning in silence enduring starlit night where love shines X The nadir of silence it's very opposite howling cacophony so much noise it fades into silence XI On awakening she attempts to scream her loss silently, her partner anguish forced on her Raped by the silence of death's tranquil embrace XII Below the squealing wheels traffic noise and hammered steel sky the silence is sensed in his bones XIII The fallen and the grave silence upon silence gazing at her beauty smiling through the tear-fall in silence
John Beal would like nothing better than to be called a poet, nothing more, nothing less.
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13 Ways To See The Sun - Mick Pettinger
1. The big bang birthed the sun, A star of perfect brightness, for life on Earth. 2. A man, a woman and the sun. A man, a woman and a child, 'thanks' to the sun. 3. No ghosts, no holy spirits, no demons. In the sun, we trust. 4. Bringing light in the darkness, unless you're underground Inside a windowless room or it's night, Our sun. 5. Giving us life without asking worship in return Go on, my sun! 6. As the sun sets and he is weightless in the swimming pool, beauty becomes the sky. 7. When our sun rises, some creatures wake and others know to sleep. 8. If the sun does not rise after the twelfth night, God will have no say on the thirteenth. 9. One day, part of us, will be a sun, though possibly not, a brother, we may be very distant. 10. What is the sun without the beauty of the moon? It's a star! 11. What is beauty, but the light, you, oh sun, allow us to see with. My gratitude lasts not even a percent of your life. 12. This is my sun. There are many like it, but this one is mine! 13. You bring life, day, food & energy. You, sun, are my God.
Mick Pettinger is a 38 year old lad that grew up in Brampton Bierlow, plays music and works in care.
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at an Apple - Tim Fellows
Genesis The winter apple waits in the metal tube in the dark. It leaves no trace. Generous In the bowl the apple, orange and pear are still life for the artist. Gentile Sharpness and sweetness can co-exist. The apple says so. Genteel Under a roof of pastry the apples steam and give scents of home. Gentlemen Beware the seeds of poison growing in the apple core, where the blackbird sings. Genomes The apple, bruised and rotten, has not fallen far from the tree. Forgotten windfall. Gentle In the barrel the apple hides among many others. It feels safe in the dark. Genocide The child laughs at the apple in the pig's mouth but the pig isn't laughing. Generations The apple's connection to the branch is fragile. When it parts it briefly flies. Genuflect The orchards are green and lustrous - I shelter from the soft rain and, kneeling, take an unripe apple. Generic The blacksmith's arm swings. He is sweating and each blow trembles the apples in his tree. Genius Silver, shining apple. A bite taken, but I want you, I need you. Genders In the beginning the man and the woman were one. The man, the woman and the apple were one.
Tim Fellows is a writer from Chesterfield, whose pamphlet Heritage was published by Glass Head Press in 2019. He has been published on webzines and anthologies and is currently working on translations of the poem of Miguel Hernandez.
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The Clock Strikes Thirteen - Paul Iwanyckyi
I Atomised clocks calibrate lives within us all the rise, the fall II Round-faced clocks upon the walls keep watch upon our days III At night within the hall the ticking clock reminds the wakeful IV Drifting deep in space where clocks keep time at star-black pace V Stopped clocks in bell-towers grind in vain to slow the world VI Clockwork motors drive the trains in endless cycles VII Belled clocks designed to alarm awake the sleeping VIII Digital clocks are not IX The cuckoo clocked when wooden shutters part X Speaking clocks are not XI Be grateful the crocodile clock of time ticks loud enough to hear XII Stalking ever stalking till the final clock strapped to the unseen brings a sudden end XIII Midnight the clock chimes thirteen and no one hears
Paul Iwanyckji is a Doncaster poet and songwriter. His Collection “Through a Cracked Mirror” is Published by the Glasshead Press
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Wall - Barry Griffiths
I
The biker mounted his 500cc Norton,
with a fanfare of adulation.
Then proceeded to navigate the wall of death.
II
A wall of silence as the crowd,
Contemplated the death of Lazarus,
Then joy as he rose from the dead
III
As the astronaut landed on the moon,
Looked out of his space ship,
Down to earth.
And saw the Great Wall of China
IV
Incarcerated by that massive wall,
Feelings of despair overtook him.
Would he ever be free?
V
Torn apart brick by brick by the vast crowd,
The wall collapsed.
Now one nation
United in the cause of freedom.
VI:
The sea pounded relentlessly against the harbour wall,
Stood steadfast
Had strength and resilience
Allowed the ship to return home
VII
The prisoner jumped over the gaol wall to freedom,
Envisaging a new life
Instead felled by an alert guard.
With one shot ended his short life
VIII
The refugees from Mexico,
Were not stopped
By this massive border wall built by Trump,
From entering the land of opportunity.
IX
He lay on a wall
Outside the factory gate
Smoking a fag and contemplating the world
A typical Lowry scene
X
That ancient wall in Iraq
Had stood for two thousand years
Guarding the city from intruders
In a moment of criminality
a drone destroyed it in a few seconds
XI
The paper on the wall
Designed by William Morris
A thing of Beauty
I greatly admired
XII
A collier going to work in the early morning,
Saw a black cat striding on the wall,
Swiftly turned round and returned home.
XIII
In the early hours of the day,
A picture appeared on the broken wall
Was this a Banksy
Or merely a piece of graffito?
The image had gone by dawn.
Barry Griffiths is a Mexborough original, his collection Life Histories is published by the Headless Orphan Press
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Thirteen Ways to Look at a Bird - Peggy McHale
1) I look outside onto a cold winter's day, too cold to go out A solitary bird full feathered, dances. Snow and frost swirl around. Inhospitable ground for food. 2) This solitary bird rests on the fence, watching! Watching! Nature's feathered friends Who squabble in unison, in a melodious tone. Feeding on tit bits, an imitation a travesty. 3) Congregation of scavengers, they are in for a fight Transfiguration of a bird the colour black descends from heaven Transforming the fight into dark and light. The beholder, watch and you will find. 4) The red breasted bird appears on frosty branches like bones A reclusive, he his always alone. A sacrificial lamb A feathered friend atones for his squabbling friends. 5) Love lies bleeding, the colour of blood Collecting in pools underneath. The red breasted bird lies bleeding An arrow through his breast. 6) Glaciers melt they are running Stalactites and stalagmites hang up and down Ice age men disappear. The bird has yet to appear 7) The winter sun is low on the ground The blue iridescent sky glares Pillars of salt shine Turning the bird into stone. 8) The Shaman dances in the ring of fire The bird of thunder awakens His eyes bright In a trance, like the gods, the feathers burn. 9) The lady sits in her bower and dreams of courtly love Harmony reigns in the twilight of love A minstrel plays love songs to damsels in distress. Damsels, the sweet birds of love. 10) Down the pit the miners go A bird in their hand within a cage Is it safe to go? Silence remains. 11) An aviary is the thought of man Enslaved birds a spectacle. They walk up and down with beady eyes Is it the enslaved or the man as spectator? 12) Adapting to the role of man The bird, a deliverer of messages Passionate are both bird and man Listen to their song? 13) The boatman sings in accordance His partners have caught a fish Excited is the holder The birds beak a fishermen's net.
Peggy McHale is a South Yorkshire poet and artist
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Thirteen ways of Looking at Dada, Mama - Wayne Riley
13-12: I mistook the pain for pleasure, Alas I did not misplace The brandy for misfortune. A mistake I shall be happy to Regale over drinks. 4x2: From the very second the heart stops beating Time becomes immortal. If only for a little while, At least. 6+4: Youth has no right To wear the shoes of the ages. For it is better To rob yourself of sight Than to be blinded by ignorance. 15 - 11: There are three things One should always live by. Unfortunately The Gods only allow The dead such knowledge. 8-3: The greed of lavender Is a curse To a broken nose. But for a bumblebee It is far more venomous To the virtue of a rose garden. 14-5: 40 fathoms from the knee And the wail and whine Of turpentine Is all the Nantucket needed To be sailed by. 12-10: The beggar is hindered by Neither wealth nor poverty. Such trivia cannot be bought On a summers day Or a starry night. 5+7: The foot soldier refused To march on his stomach. On the grounds that Obesity ran in the family, As did cowardice. 9+4: Art is for the appreciative eye. But don't judge harshly The man who mistakes beauty for Love. For neither can be moored in a storm. 11 - 0: The waiter wasn't dumb, And his rise to prominence Was circumstantial. Even though, He had been kept in the dark About the price of bacon before. 18-12: The will of the arrow Can neither be bent By strong winds Or foolish men. But the aim Would suit either just as well. 1x3: The mirror does not draw The line Where vanity And age Fail to compromise. 4+3: The more silent the scream The thicker the trees grow Around the wood
Wayne Riley brings surrealist art and poetry to the South Yorkshire Region. In his spare time he is a zookeeper on the Pacific island of Nauru
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Thirteen Ways of Contemplating Your Navel - Mike O’Brien
I. Relax. Don’t look, don’t touch. Are you aware of it, or are you only imagining that you are aware of it? II. What is the difference between imagined awareness and awareness? III. Appendage or indentation? Consider its volume or capacity accordingly. IV. It marks the long gone source of nourishment that you depended on for the first nine months of your life. Months that you habitually discount, measuring your time from the moment that your dependence on it ended. V. Is there anything on the other side of it? Is there still some connection to your stomach, some long abandoned country road, rendered obsolete by the superhighway of your oesophagus? VI. Is it a part of your sensory system when it comes to gut feelings? Butterflies in your stomach? The contentment of a full belly? VII. If it is, then consider it as a connection between the outside world and your belly, much the same as your eyes, nose and ears work as a connection between the outside world and your brain. VIII. But also consider the direction of that connection. Does it flow both inwards and outwards in the same way as your brain listens to the outside world through your ears and communicates to the outside world through your mouth. IX. From time to time you should perhaps try to focus on its simple, primal message and switch off the intrusive chatter of your mind. X. It is not as insistent and attention seeking as the voice in your head, nor as intense and demanding as your organs of reproduction. For those reasons, it is worthy of being regularly given periods of your undivided attention. XI. Learn to listen to it. XII. Everyone you know, everyone you love, hate or are indifferent to has a navel. Everyone is aware of it to some degree or another from time to time. XIII. Can you really hate or be indifferent to anyone if you consider them in the peace of navel contemplation rather than in the chaos of mind-driven or sexual motivation?
Mike O’Brien Curates the Sixty Odd Poets Substack, and its companion site Sixty Odd Poems - in which he boasts about his own work.
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Thirteen ways of Looking at an Oyster - Lesley Merrin
1. living on the wild side deflecting the predators the oyster clasps the reef. 2, the snail has empathy for the oyster's irregular shell a house to protect it from enemies 3.under the crushing force of the ocean the changing tides moves the oyster it stubbornly protests 4. the pearl of life exists if you look hard enough only the oyster knows where 5. if you pursue your dreams you will not fail to reach your goal or so the oyster says 6. Aphrodite lays roses and myrtles on the water, doves nod in the tree swans drift by she gives her gift to the oyster 7. we cling to our beliefs the oyster clings to the rock 8. the sea anemone wavers the sun and moon regulate the oyster in the great ocean causing rhythms unknown to men 9.snow and ice arrive unexpectedly the snowflakes mesmerise the children igloos are built and melt toboggans sliding smoothly down the hill the oyster slips down the throat 10. the delicate spider's web catches the misguided fly as the oyster's gills catch the algae 11, is the oyster aware of us? does the mollusc have feelings? We may never know 12, huddling together in groups makes us feel secure and wanted the oyster also huddles on the reef where other sea creatures live 13. the tornado Venus causes mayhem mischief and murder the oyster remains safely where it is
Lesley Merrin is considered by many to be the Grand Dame of Mexborough poetry
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Thirteen Ways Not To attend a Poetry Class - Paul Brookes
1. Fail to turn up Without explanation As if forgot it completely. 2. Sit in the class Tutors voice distant You see a weak old man In a bed breathing Through oxygen tubes. 3. Arrive to a cold house Once a warm smile It frowns in the snow You turn the heating up. 4. You remember the lively Talk around the table. The laughter and wisdom. 5. Empty home. 6. Silence. 7. Illness, not yours. 8. Doing right by family. Priorities. 9. The old man wants Two small duvets Not the big one Given to him. 10. Snow inches up The morning After the journey. Is this wisdom? You were warned. 11. A pleasure deferred To be revelled in later. A promise. 12. A reminder to photograph Snow for a video Poem promised last year. 13. Shop for the old man's Comfort in the trudge And crunch of tasks Yet to be done.
Paul Brookes is an extensively published poet who curates the excellent Wombwell Rainbow website, a treasure trove of poetry and resources for poets everywhere
Several ways of Looking at a Tree - Neil Skinner
1. I look up the hill A shadow appears in my vision As I approach, the image gets clearer It is just a copse of trees 2. Jesus died Judas betrayed him He hung himself from a tree 3. A wondrous morning Sunrise glistening through the tree Life's promises stretched out ahead of me Which path will I take? 4. People gather around Are they related? One says "We will have to check the family tree 5. A baby is born A child learns to walk and speak A chick fledges and leaves the nest A caterpillar pupates then emerges as a butterfly It is all part of the tree of life 6. We are walking together She says her feet are hurting I say those new shoes are too small Give them to me and I'll take them to a decent cobbler They will stretch them with a shoe tree 7. We were hemmed in Fences enclosed us The last trees on earth Choking on the putrid detritus of greedy capitalism 8. Went to a hotel Receptionist was polite and helpful Chatted to barman He said her name was Jen Tree
Neil Skinner was a stalwart of Read to Write, attending both groups regularly and taking part in performances. We remember him for his generosity of spirit and his love of poetry and life.
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Why not have a go yourself? I would be delighted to read your “Thirteen Ways” poem or find a link to it in the comments below! It could even be included in a future edition of Sixty Odd Poems (But only if you want it to be)
ah, now I see what folk were gabbling about when I first came to R2W.