...and a Sixty Odd New Year
A puddingful of poetry, with the odd silver sixpence thrown into the mix.
The final Sixty Odd Poets page of 2024 is another compilation where we can meet friends old and new, look back on a year well spent and look forward to the next one. thank you for supporting this project over the past year, have a great holiday, and I'll see you soon, with exciting developments and lots of poetry
MikePoems
Make the Most of it - Amanda Samm Off to Read To Write - Alex Oliver Yule Log - Paul Brookes Our Shame - Richard Harries Out On the Street - Neil Roystone
Make the Most of It - Amanda Samm
You sit in bed with your toes curled tight, Pen poised on paper, wondering what to write The clouds hide the stars and there's no moonlight And there's more than one person who's cold tonight. The queen is in the palace in her see-through dressing gown She's taken out her teeth and she's taken off her crown She's paid all the servants and they've all gone back to town And she sighs beneath the warmth of the royal eiderdown The people in the Yorkshire mines work on Saturday Just to earn the cash they need for bills they have to pay They work every week and some work every day But "We haven't any money left" you'll often hear them say The man comes home from work and the kids are in the tub He hasn't any money so there isn't any grub The wife grumbles at her man cos he spent it down the pub So she can't go to Bingo - and once more she's in the club! You're fast asleep and dreaming now, Though frozen be your spine You're in a world of French champagne and Spanish dinner wine Roast duckling and good company, and you're thinking as you dine "My life is what I make of it, and what I make is mine” <<< Amanda has been published in a number of volumes of poetry, and her live readings are always a delight. She appeared in Sixty Odd Poets back in May
Off to Read To Write - Alex Oliver
It’s a wishing night, and a stay-home stew of wild weather blows a touchable moon olling gleaming craters, light as my mood Flashing in hedges, on lanes of silver, my car smiles, revs a little, Hooting through Wentworth’s yellow windows over Blackamoor, and past the moody kiln Winterstorm watercolours wash a twig-broken green-bright scurry over browning grasslands and ploughshare - fossil-turned and piper-pecked where trees stagger throwing spells from their finger-tips An owl glares in the mesmer road and the verge clatters a muddy chatter in the arches The black queen has driven a coke wagon through holly and over ivy; And the tarnished sickle in smoking mirrors has blood-eagled our aspirant hope. At the Woodman glows a tree blossomed overnight, and gardens blaze with deer and snaking cinders… <<< Alex runs his own Substack "Captain Cat's Chat" and is a regular lengthy contributor to the comments section in Sixty Odd Poems. He appeared in Sixty Odd Poets back in March, and is currently working with me on a "Sixty Odd Pod" podcast
Yule Log - Paul Brookes
And the oak log is the sun stood still, and the sun stood still is winter soaked in ale, honey and spices. tenderly cared for, brought to flames warmth and scars, wounds and shapes. Lit with last year’s remains slow burn new log a message to the frozen stood still sun to move, to make days longer. Melt stillness into movement. Flames hold life and death within, like us. Oak log steadily moved towards centre of crackle and spit as twelve days pass. Ash from the burn feeds freshness Into our soil, our skin. Our eyes a-flicker. < < < Paul is a much published poet who runs the excellent Starbeck Orion substack, along with a website, The Wombwell Rainbow, which contains a wealth of reviews, interviews, writing prompts and advice.
Our Shame- Richard Harries
The sweet Virgin Mary gave birth in a barn But should we not still shout an alarm? As here in our prosperous new century Plenty of people live in abject penury It would surprise no one to find the hospital closed And a homeless woman who one would have supposed Could find a place to give a clean and dignified birth Of such simple rights would find there was a dearth Perhaps having wandered the streets alone and sad Today a birth in a cold barn to her might not seem bad The rulers of this new great glittering millennium should Hang their heads in shame till our needs are understood. Till they act with true and generous humanity Our daily lives will be filled with profanity So things have not changed in thousands of years And Mary could now give birth amidst dirt and tears <<< Richard is a 72 year old performance poet from Withernsea, East Yorkshire. He has had two books published by Stairwell Books of York.
Out on the Street - Neil Roystone
Out on the street where clean, soft skin and coal dust meet A group of scruffy young lads playing cricket A plank pinched from a garden fence, the dogs chewed up ball and a dustbin lid for a wicket The road was clear as it always was, the sight of a car was a welcome distraction The game itself was a wild west saloon, fifteen sheriffs with snot on their sleeves in town to adjudicate the action. Looking around we wern't dressed for Lords, holes in our shoes and hand me down clothes that were meant to last We didn't have any gear, no prima Donna's here, never heard of Nike or addidas But the competition was fierce, we played to win, all we wanted was to be the best. To be able to stand tall in our scruffy torn shorts, to succeed and stand out from all the rest. We had nothing and we didn't care, but every achievement had to be earned If you wern't the best then you were told by the rest, no tears.. and no one seemed concerned. There was no one there to wipe your arse you had to stand on your own two feet. If you wanted to win then you took it on the chin, that was the law of the street. With a kangaroo court as umpires the game was always played under a cloud of doubt Time at the crease was precious, every ball faced was contentious...you had to be good to avoid getting out. Today was my day I was hitting the ball to all parts, I only needed two more runs and I would be the winner. Then my world fell apart, I had to depart.. because my mum shouted me in for my dinner. Growing up next to the pit we played in the shadow of belching cooling towers We didn't dare dream, life was in their steam, until then we thrived in our childhood hours <<< Neil is a Grimethorpe born poet who is scheduled to join the sixty Odd Poets (as number 58) in late February.
