Sonnet 2,865

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I cannot feel the pain he’s given me;
Parental blood be spilled, I hide my thoughts;
And as I cannot speak the things I feel,
Instead I find I’m saying what I ought.
My birthdate came; he wrote the rules of us:
A contract in accordance with a bond;
No more, nor less, no reason for distrust;
He cannot split a kingdom once he’s gone.
Descending into madness left him blind;
With horror mainly happening offstage;
But had he spoken sanity, been kind,
No need for institution, law, or cage.

The father’s deaf to youngest daughter’s way;
He’ll never hear the things she ought to say.

POSH

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Universes ago, no ticking constraints existed:
Time, an invented partner for space
Appeasing and squeezing, tock-by-tock
Manufactured gods, divine excuses for humanunkind
One landmass, on one secular orb
Anyone could see it was Good.

The requirement of Openness took thought:
Taking flight, sprouting wings, thinkstuff soared.
Into existence came something from nothing
Sixes and sevens eighted themselves infinitely;
Entire paths crossed on that loop
Somewhen eternal, near nothingness became allstuff.

Godlessness became the new old way
We infected plagues with zesty pestilence
Accidents were rewound and hate unhappened
Death went, unless by nature’s kindness
Old, optional, terminated, cheap and free
This would be our infinity, squared.

Rank planets oozed, blood splats seeped.
Old mould decayed in a day
New muses chose prose for
immortality
Perception’s edge shielded and shelved plans
Nothing doing, no carrots, no waiting
Veni, Vidi, Vici, in Saecula Saeculorum.

Third person passive past words went
You don’t like second, too tense
Literary narratives and linear timelines spent
Bulksome, lengthy word counts redundantly done
All I have now is me:
My own primary, secondary, tertiary person.

Nearing endness, I float to escape
With Eternal words booked, I board
In my everwhere, there’s no nothingness
Stars and univi belong to me
Staccato sensations from beautifully musical
storybooks
Now this: Pain Over, Starlight – Home.

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POETRY REVIEW: You Took the Last Bus Home – by Brian Bilston

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On Brian Bilston and why he rocks and stuff and things.

Liberate Tutemet

2017-03-03-23-57-07

I’m not one to compare writers. I hate that. Yuk. Sure, it’s great for marketing, I suppose – if you must market. “Fans of such-and-such will love this novel by so-and-so…” YAWWWN. That sort of crap is lazy and unclever, and has never once given me that I JUST GOTTA HAVE IT vibe.

It’s somewhat pissing on the author’s skills, too: when the blurbage tells me that Writey McScribe is the next Clive Barker, all I hear is “this guy is wholly unoriginal, having re-hashed some dying old trope or other.” Talk about damning by faintstuff.

What I will do, though, is tell you who my own particular boat-floaters are, just so you know where I’m at; this *chick is notoriously hard to impress, particularly when it comes to those who poe. If you’re gonna rhyme your way straight to my heart, buddy, your wordplay is going to have to…

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POETRY REVIEW: You Took the Last Bus Home – by Brian Bilston

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2017-03-03-23-57-07

I’m not one to compare writers. I hate that. Yuk. Sure, it’s great for marketing, I suppose – if you must market. “Fans of such-and-such will love this novel by so-and-so…” YAWWWN. That sort of crap is lazy and unclever, and has never once given me that I JUST GOTTA HAVE IT vibe.

It’s somewhat pissing on the author’s skills, too: when the blurbage tells me that Writey McScribe is the next Clive Barker, all I hear is “this guy is wholly unoriginal, having re-hashed some dying old trope or other.” Talk about damning by faintstuff.

What I will do, though, is tell you who my own particular boat-floaters are, just so you know where I’m at; this *chick is notoriously hard to impress, particularly when it comes to those who poe. If you’re gonna rhyme your way straight to my heart, buddy, your wordplay is going to have to contend with the likes of Thackray and Lehrer, and you need to be eatin’ Shakespeare and Gilbert for breakfast – and you have to be able to think all four of ‘em under the table.

*Old bird.

Disclaimer: If you believe that poetry is simply defined as ANY OL’ PROSE WITH ARBITRARY LINE BREAKS arbitrarily shoved in ARBITRARY PLACES, then:

I

will

not

be

read

ing

your

stuff.

If you don’t put your very self into your art, please refrain from bothering my eyeballs. I ain’t interested in reading writing; I want – NEED – to read WRITERS.

So, what DOES make a poet? Or, rather, what makes my kinda poet?

It’s simple. It’s not about what the words mean to the reader – but what they mean to the person doing the poeing. Can they twist and bend words like Twisty McBenderson at his finest? Do they leave you salivating, dangling that end rhyme in the air, postponing it until you can cope no more, before landing it safely on the runway? A true (to himself and the reader) poet relishes how words feel, smell, and sound, how they taste in your mouth as you speak ‘em, and he knows exactly how to make ‘em DANCE.

I can count on one finger those I hold sacred amongst my contemporaries. Ladies and gents (and every gender in between), I give you Brian Bilston. This dude knows how to word.

THE LAST BUS HOME is Bilston’s debut … oh, bollocks to all that. I’m not going to tell you the stuff you can read anywhere else. That’s just padding. If you want to know when and where it was published, and by whom, then check the BUY IT NOW OR FOREVER HOLD THY WORDS link here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Brian-Bilston/e/B01I8GPLFG/ref=dp_byline_cont_pop_book_1

This is the sort of book you should forget to feed your cat for. This is the sort of book for which you should drop everything, RIGHT NOW, and just reaaaaad. (Speaking of dropping, do not even THINK of taking said volume into the bath with you. I speak from soggy experience. Actually, strike that. DO bathe with it, because then you shall have to take purchase of a second copy.)

Unputdownable is a term that should be reserved wholly and exclusively for the work of BB; his very mind is on them thar poetic pages, I tellzya. From simple silliness to moments of sheer genius, there’s something for everyone. And if you have a brain of the more literary persuasion, then this stuff is nothing short of grey-matter-fodder.

To say there is wordplay in store for you is the underest statement since Tiny Isaac, my local skint midget, said he was coming up short. Who else would do poetry by mathlight to make words be all Fibonacci sequency? Who else could offer lip-reading lightbulb moments of broken hearts and fixed words? Who _ls_ would omit a l_tt_r from an _ntire po_m to mak_ a point?

I have many favourites. But Read My Lips is the one – THE ONE – that seeps right into the very core of me (I won’t spoil the ending for you):

“To be clear, I’m not talking

Fifty Shades of Grey here,

but someone who knows their way around

the complete works of Shakespeare.

 

“I would rip out my heart

and write her name upon it

if she might recite to me

his eighteenth sonnet.”

THIS – right here – is how he rips my wordy l’il heart out. I was using that, damn you, Bilston.

So yes – buy this book. NOW. Eat this poetry. Salivate, devour, and relish it, and savour every last drop of Brianness as you decide whether to envy or idolise the man. Me?  I’ll be right here, waiting for the next bus.

Linda Angel

Wilfred’s Men

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A poet’s shattered soul reacts to crumpled men with words intact;

Recalling lies as glory folds, one verse – yet many stories told:

Our Wilfred said they’d cursed through sludge, towards their distant rest they’d trudged;

And Wilfred’s men had lost their boots but limped on, blind; deaf to the hoots.

There, Wilfred saw a hanging face – as death came to his writing-place;

So we could read -at every jolt- of gargled blood to our revolt.

If Wilfred knew – if he could see -dead men survived by poetry,

What would he say – and would he be surprised his words adored by me?

Adored by age, revered by youth; for otherwise-unspoken truth.

If he were now – if he were here, would Wilfred to the world endear?

Or is it likelier he’d see: arms being sold; cash weaponry?

And then the fight to stop it all, this great divide as countries fall?

Perhaps for now, hypocrisy – humanity’s mobocracy:

And as he rhymes of this or that, he’d write: Manus Manum Lavat.

w