Neon Highway Issue 21 ISSN
1476-9867
Note from Jane Marsh:
November
2011
Welcome my friends. It seems there has
been anarchy in the UK. Riots throughout the country!
It is strange that young people will
risk gaining a criminal record for the sake of a plasma TV? That to
me is the saddest thing, that these material items have gained such
prestige amongst the youth of today that culture and art have taken a
back seat.
When I was a girl, I spent most of my
youth walking through the
Coleccion de Arte Cubano, in the Belles Artes Museum, Havana,
admiring the paintings of Jorge Arche. So what has
happened to create such emptiness that these material possessions
somehow have such power to fill these gaps in people’s lives? If I
had it my way, I would introduce kids to art. Art needs to be top of
the list at school. Artists, Poets and lecturers should be invited in
from all over the world and kids should listen and take part in these
projects, projects that show how to protest through art and writing
projects that are fun and colourful, projects that are messy projects
that are refined, projects that involve communities and youths
together. It is this lack of inspiration, I feel that is preventing
young people from discovering the key to their future. We need
philosophy, discussion, creativity, poetry and love and beauty. The
Uk could be turned into a society that encourages the journey of
aesthetics. Etymology is derived from the Greek αἰσθητικός
(aisthetikos, meaning "esthetic, sensitive, sentient"),
which in turn was derived from αἰσθάνομαι (aisthanomai,
meaning "I perceive, feel, sense"). This is what I feel
these children are missing. That’s why so called ‘privileged’
people were looting also much to people’s shock and confusion. It’s
because they are looking to feel. The trouble is that the looting did
make them FEEL. That rush of adrenalin, the excitement, the
feeling of self- control, the misguided barbarism and hooliganism.
This is all just an excuse to perceive to feel, to sense to feel
inspired!
And autumn approaches us and I am
feeling SO happy. I can’t explain it but there is an inner peace I
have not felt in years. The letting go of old attachments, the
letting go of heavy memories, the desire to wander through my
midnight park alone with only the sound of owls and foxes.
Contents
4. Sutirtha Roy
4-5. Alexine Aschler
5. Van Den Budenmayer
6. David Morgan
7-8. Eunice Ogunkoya
8. Richard Thomas
9-10. Grzegorz Jędrek
11-12. Scott Cameron
12-14. Nicholas Falkowski
14-15. MUDI
15-16. Nick Monks
17.Ben Macnair
18. Anthony John Ward
18-20. Drew Smith
21. David Mac
22-24. Graham Brodie
25-26. Stephen Doyle
26-27. Anne Rees
28-29. Steve Troyanovich
29-30. Robin Moore
30-34. Emma Bullen
35. Christopher Barnes
36. Publications/Listings.
Artwork for this issue by
AC Evans.
Sutirtha Roy
Apologue
The clock was ticking
towards midnight
It was creepy cold –
trampling down
The sound of the darkness
and sea waves
A weird stallion reeled
into the eight
Polish Street – alone,
perhaps leaving
Behind the easel of
Picasso instead.
No one else except a
swarthy blind
Angel flying high in the
late city sky
Ever saw that – but the
miracle prevailed.
Alexine Aschler
When to the milky walls
of the
When to the milky walls of
the
Last city on earth their
wagon
Came, they did not expect
the
Gates to be open,
unguarded.
Scouting warily ahead, the
Leader found only docility
Among the dwellers, no one
to
Challenge or to challenge
him.
Languid imbeciles met him
with
Vacant mouths, obsolete
eyes.
Concluding this place
also was
Infected, the Leader told
his team they must face
the
wilderness again. His
wife said, ‘There was no
clue?’
‘No,’ he replied
gruffly.
‘None.’
Van Den Budenmayer
Of Course I didn’t meet
the man near
The marble arch at Hyde
Park in an
Idle Sunday afternoon,
precisely at
Four p.m. nor he shook my
hand or lifted
The dark felt hat for a
while, before
He could slurp. But I
always knew that
He was the one – the
invisible maestro,
The Dutch who loved waltz,
red tulips, merlot
Fragrance or, may be
sometimes fresh polish
Scones, – certainly the
life above all.
And only he could capture
the immense beauty
Of time and space silently
flowing like rain
Beyond the grey-scale,
perceptively limned ever
By him – the most
perpetual Van Den Budenmayer.
Eunice Ogunkoya
THE SIXTH SENSE
Expression,
In words and language,
By signs and symbols,
For speech and writing,
Is perceived and
interpreted,
By the Sixth Sense.
She is an ultra-sensation,
Which goes beyond the
experience,
Of the five normal senses,
Put together.
Her empathy is oh so
human!
She expresses,
All manner of emotions,
Feelings and opinions,
Very vividly and
vivaciously,
Such as hopes and fears,
Happiness and sadness,
Life and death.
Her drama is oh so
amazing!
She feels free to speak up
And let the writing flow…
The heart racing at
overdrive,
A rush of blood to the
head,
A surge through the
forearm,
An outpouring at the
fingertips,
Totally out of breath,
Writing whilst catching
her breath,
The strange scenario,
Like a stroke of genius,
That is simply expression,
Her freedom of discourse,
For being such a wild
card.
Hopes and Fears
Richard Thomas
The Tear
The drop that drips down
the plump, twitching cheek
Magnifies the skin with a
salty ooze.
Water that gathers in the
cracked face creek –
The joy of Earth we’re
afraid to lose.
The make up destroyer
filled with hot rage,
An anti-mascara duct
causing pain,
Putting black gunk on the
writing punk’s page –
But how dare it play such
a tactless game.
The poor eye is bathed and
the face is splashed –
Agony, the sea of the
human face,
Waves of anger and brutal
times have clashed
As the eyelid swims from
the sad salt’s chase.
The eye shall close soon
in great heaviness,
Open
at daybreak in half of the mess.
Grzegorz
Jędrek
From
Lowell’s Letter to Liz Hardwick
an
eelnet made by man for the eel fighting
my
eyes have seen what my hand did
R.
Lowell “Dophin”
Madam,
the lake is filled with feathers
after
you. Who would have thought that an eel
feeds
on nightingales?
(Only
those dainty wings could soar up to the past,
but
you locked up the skies and it is out of reach.)
Fear
none/Do not worry, I can be a kingfisher,
I am
heading for the ocean, would like to listen to
the
dolphins’ songs again. Their bodies
are
not carried with the current.
Were
you capable of learning
they
would show you how to breathe.
Purgatory
Inhale,
apnea, exhale, and in between
there
are two ways, chimney outlets
of
an old house you occupy in dreams
incessantly
writing yet another incarnation
we
all have to type
new
lessons, medicines and wars
to
save/salvage the walls and the roof from collapsing
renovating
the house filling up our words
the
thought is our native tongue
order
from the above, the first principle
that
you will not deceive before yourself
but
can develop closing it to the full
Oddechy
– zmiana, bo brak słów o podobnych podstawach = polskie “dech”,
które działają w tym kontekście
Save
– coś jest w złej sytuacji I ratujemy
Salvage
– coś ratujemy, bo inne rzeczy zniszczono w takiej sytuacji
Filling
up = zapełniać, tzn. Fizycznie, nie „robić to, co się obiecało,
na co się dało słowo” Tak?
Opcja:
command/rule
Ten
wers nie jest dla mnie jasny po polsku.
Scott
Cameron
Fight
The Flag
Rules
incorporated, freedom overstated
Beneath
the scheme there’s a healthy dream
Growing
right out of the mushroom cloud.
Feel
the power, feel the power
Charging
through the streets at the vital hour.
Electricity
spark and the flame is set
Licking
up the flag with the people’s fire.
They
say the war is needed, the plant is seeded
Money
for oil, and the wealth is weeded
The
man on the television’s telling lies
Giving
you an enemy you must despise
But
you can tell by his eyes
It’s
a big disguise.
Volatility
rises, the bomb explodes
And
the alliance erodes.
Damn
this nation to all damnation
Working
overtime in their occupation.
Convalesce
your dreams and reveal their schemes
And
fight until they hear your protesting screams.
Salute
the flag with your fingers raised
Stand
up and be praised by the ones you saved
From
demoralisation and degradation.
Plot
a revolution and spread the cause
Fight
with all our fibre for the one solution
To
overcome the pollution of our pregnant airwaves
Collected
consciousness mounting in the streets
Raining
non-conformity in naked sheets.
Dead
heroes mounting like fallen leaves
Testify
before they bleed you dry
Testify
before shots begin to fly.
I’ve
seen in my dreams
Calamity
bursting society’s seams
Blood
flowing like rain from an empty sky
Paralyse
the hope in the tyranny’s eyes
Until
victory’s impossible, justice inevitable.
March
on the capital and take the palace
Surrender
to our soldiers, lower the flag
And
celebrate the birth of a brand new nation.
Nicholas
Falkowski
You
might not understand and it is very hard for me to
Explain
but
there are certain sights sounds and strokes
of
the pen
that
set
fires in my soul and
fill
me with an
unearthly
energy
–
some
bastard child of
mania
and
salvation
it
tastes electric and grabs hold of my hands, shoulders
and
thoughts
like
the sweetest
of
fevers
and
sometimes,
for
the briefest of
moments,
I
swear I glimpse the burnt oak gates of a heaven
where
words
flow
like
water
and
the angels
are all mutes with the biggest blue eyes
and
the ground is my bruising
skin
and
my soul is both the mountain, the river, and
the
sky.
MUDI
SHIKATA
GA NAI
The
winds came and stole your livelihood
The
waters came and took your family
Skies
opened up and unleashed the contents of hell
The
breath you take has become a poisoned enemy
Polluting
plumes assault your possibilities
Your
tears are of salt, fire, water and ash
And
yet…
You
are reclaiming your waterlogged memories
Rebuilding
the firmament of hope and kindness
Re-clothing
yourself with the stoicism that never fades
Speaking
only to find order in the chaos
Never
descending to the victimless cries of “Why Me”
Desperation
never taking a foothold
Self-abnegnation
your default
Possessing
the patience,
The
endurance
The
perseverance
Akin
to death itself
But
your end is far from near
Dipping
further into your infinite reserves of Gaman
You
continue to find great strength
Your
core unshaken
You
will rise again
Ganbatte
kudasai
Nick
Monks
Manhattan
Skyline
Luminous
eyes across
The
low rise, we have achieved
This,
setting sun behind
The
statuesque scrapers
The
blocks of steel and glass
Breathtaking
viewed from afar
Babel’s
towers reaching
To
conquer the pristine sky
From
ground level look on watch
The
sky change colour, reflected in
The
Chrysler tower The Sony building
Our
eyes meet their eyes
We
drive down the roads
In
the fantasia of neon
Owning
all proud, while poverty
Lies
dishevelled in the gutter
Ben
Macnair
The
Artist’s Self Portrait
He
wears his scars with pride,
pulls
at the wounds until they bleed.
A
face like a map of experience.
He
has the face he wanted
but
not the one he needs.
The
tattoos are not permanent marks of pain,
they
are the rituals he went through to join the tribe,
and
the arguments he has are not with himself,
but
with an unjust God.
Darkness
is hungry.
It
threatens to shallow you,
and
in the foreground stands a man,
as
he sees himself,
at
the mid-point stage of play
that
is only part written.
He
is all splodges and lines,
closed
eyes blocking out the world,
a
Boxer’s nose
caused
by drink
and
not an opponent’s fist.
An
image where life has removed hope,
hanging
on a wall in a millionaire’s holiday home,
where
the canvas is seen as being far more valuable
than
the artist who poured himself into
lines,
splodges and whirls,
half
a century ago.
Anthony
John Ward
Astronomers
We
astronomers
like
to watch the stars
through
our telescopes
as
astronauts in our own homes
observing
the light of those astral bodies
whose
light shines from darkness
far
from the earth that keeps us grounded
our
lives influenced by the celestial activities
that
hold our interests for the duration
Drew Smith
Airless Mauve
a woman
labours
beneath the
weight
of a
lightening-striking
migraine
headache
she sits on a
park bench
with her head
in her hands
beside a carp
lake
that
fascinates
a spinning
chaos
of high-tuned
flies
that are
sniped in the wide gape
of a swift on
whose eye
tenses the
airless mauve
high summer
storm sky
that aches to
crack under the pressure
of the rashly
flaring sun
that
instinctively juggles nine disparate planets
for a sparse
audience of blind furnace-stars
that crowd in
tiny galaxies
in a minute
aqueous universe
as whirling
pearly organelles
suspended in
the mis-firing brain cells
of a woman
who sits
on a park
bench
beside a carp
lake
with her head
in her hands
labouring
under the massive weight
of a
super-nova-star-spangled
migraine
headache
sequence of
illusions
in deep
disbelief of my daydreams and delusions
in a dismal
state that reiterates my most cynical conclusions
in absolute
denial of my reality in cloud-cuckoo-land and staring
into infinity
in silent isolation in suspended animation
in starry-eyed
mesmerized space-cadet lunacy
then all my
insecure confusions spontaneously convert
into truthful
solutions for far too long inert
the sequence
of illusions tripping ethereally
fix into vivid
visions that serve to alter me
in jettisoning
the familiar paranoia and claustrophobia
i invent a
state of blissful tear-spilling euphoria
and in the
psychedelic primary colour blur
i’m sun
struck by a fantastic phantasmagoria
in stretched
perfect connection with the sense of ecstasy
that shines
like mercury-venus filling me to capacity
with the
promise of redemption atonement and entry
to glorious
annihilation in such light and purity
and now i
create beyond me a superb crystal cube
wherein i
perceive i recognise and conclude
the natural
the absolute the out and out truth
and therein
accepting immaculate reality
i compose my
ultimate abstract philosophy
and conceive
the theory of the freedom
that sentences
me to the margins of this
prolonged
catastrophe
David Mac
Ex
a cigarette hissing in a
glass of Coke
the glowing ember
extinguishing
fizzing into the
sweet blackness
her eyes are sad petals
she’s the mud of my mind
I’m her male of
bony words, but
here we are in these
meaty costumes
darling, don’t you know?
this flesh is fake
and skulls are
expressionless
so it’s no wonder we
refuse to smile
Graham
Brodie
Salt
This
winter is coming
towards
us
our
home sheltered
secure
I
remember the first time
when
the grey lag goose
swept
low across
harvested
fields
migrating
for feeding
seeking
innately
to
survive our harsh blown winds
our
darkness'
like
fishermen
following
the herring
who
dart and dance away
through
the seas
they
followed the route
given
them by nature
a
path plotted
through
skies shedding their skin
white
and grey swirls of snow
falling
like forgotten souls
left
behind, empty
spinning
as if to cry out
'Wait
for us'
we
wait
watching
in wonder
the
geese chasing life
over
our heads
and
ready our fire,
our
supplies of food, water
stored
in preparation for this winter
out
here
this
winter will greet us
passionately
again
and
we will love with it
accepting
her gift
Burned
bridges, broken up
To
look back
seeing
all the bridges burning
feeling
the losses
friendships
thrown away
the
smiles of memories
given
freely on first meetings
now
withered
lost
in a haze of life
of
fears unspoken
along
this river
paths
to where waters fall
now
drowning joy
not
warming hearts
nor
loving welcome friendships
just
thoughts mixing in pools
with
feelings lost
no
bridges not burning
looking
back through a darkness
along
this river
cold
Stephen
Doyle
Between Death and Decay
Drifting ashes settle
slowly among films of glass,
My bag of bones is heavy
from the crush.
And mortars and martyrs
and pestles and petals
Too sweet for decay,
But things are beautiful
too which aren’t held by bad air.
Burning on my lips was
only,
Who I am to you?
Chew a bleached rag,
And purge your mouth of
mortal vice.
Cracking scraps of glass
wreaths,
But you can’t tense with
bones in your pocket.
To love a man is a
masochistic kiss,
For cruelty has talons of
vice, of vice.
Indifference with your
callous and your unyielding malice,
Wretched in woe, wring you
not,
For dry runnings don’t
flow.
But strength, oh contours,
oh clay balls on birch,
Tease in landscapes so
meticulously sculpted
In tessellation, we have,
nothing to go by,
Except the sweet morphine
of hypothesis.
Hypothesis, hypothesis,
subconscious, dreams, hypothesis,
Deadly serious in
graveness action,
Makes harder stones fall
harder yet.
To think as you, is a
sacrificial grace,
For I have loft and
breasts of baste.
I’ve always liked
standing upright,
Hung off a rafter, my
petals flaunt sweet songs.
And in this compromise of
sex against sex,
I stand at a window,
Like naked, painting
mammals.
Anne Rees
ANNE'S BOOK OF COMMON
PRAYER
ANNE'S BOOK OF COMMON
PRAYER
Beyond the bedroom windows
chimney pots, strung wires
are bolted rigidly against
hot sunset radiance,
these few minutes by
myself, I'm sitting on the bed
hands gripping one another
so bone-white the knuckles with self-pressure,
family noises boil up the
staircase cavern, then mercifully a door shuts.
I admit to myself that I'm
very frightened of my head:
you may ask what I mean, I
know I'm going mad,
how else express it? I
fear these nosy others
their looks, unspoken
comments, they're the Welsh
working class I married
into, this terror is too personal I am too English.
My brain is splitting and
I'm hearing Voices
steady girl – taunting
sneering parodying, I have held it in
in the kitchen, down the
beach, enduring the incessant television
every evening, hearing the
Welsh accents and the hinted racism:
crouched with gripped
hands staring through purple cloud maps
making a valley of red and
green material with my body
weighting the bedspread.
The Voices clamour you're not mad you are aware
shut up shut up! I must be
mad, punching myself in the head,
too miserable to cry, if I
could claw out
a hole in my skin –
dusty white trails with beaded blood on my forearm -
I'll have to go back in a
minute. Saying I'm mad
is self-dramatising,
claiming such a certainty of fiery
Gothic-winged mythology is
this really me? This word mad
is too definitive – the
Voices say I'm showing off,
that I am fradulent, but
what is this terror then?
Why can't I be sane like
the others? They are Darwinian about extraordinary
aberrations like mine, and
so they flourish like the green bay tree.
Christopher Barnes
An Offspring
Manufactured From Kiddiewinks
The residue dreamers
dispense
Has a lacework membrane,
Is postponed on her
Baby’s- Breath leaf
As sun glints thaw, sea
curls see-saw,
Fruit flies blurp a
lullaby.
Ferments are mettle, back,
go-getting,
Stepped stones. A bundle-
To the farthermost of
isles
Where an incoming cell
Flooded its ocean.
Steve Troyanovich
A POEM FOR SHARON
you are gentle
the soft sounds
of a hummingbird’s wings
remind me of you.
your smile embraces me.
like the spring rain
you caress and warm
the earth’s rebirth.
you are like an angel of
twilight.
your laughter hushes the
sadness of the lost day
while fireflies scatter
the silence of memories
and shattered souls.
sirenlike the music of
your body
ignites the doomed night’s
longing.
you blanket it with your
tenderness
unfurling your arms at the
edge of the falling moon.
troubadour of melancholy
dreams
my poem to you is written
on the wind.
somewhere before the cold
fragments
of another loveless dawn I
touch you. . .
i offer you my kiss and my
loneliness
all that I own.
Snow fall
For Elizabeth
You renewed me by
losing yourself
To our deepening
dialogue in fading light.
To stardust we shall
return
---Philip
Casey
you are lovely.
i dream you again….
the snow falls in
fleeting stillness
lost images
dressed
in lonely white….
seeking your lips
moonlight touches you
Robin Moore
Strangers Once in Love at
a Sports Day
We stand at our daughter’s
sports day clapping and cheering for her to win,
She runs with vigour and
youth just like our love once did
But now there is a gap
between us old and withered like a witches skin
In some dusty office a
white paper sits our names side by side but waiting to be apart
A decree nisi the cat
collar a scaratch behind my ear where did the love go it was there
only last year
Did some passing wind and
cold ice blow under our bedroom door, I really can’t remember when
our love departed I never saw a post card, Maybe you did and hid it
in the side board. Did it move to the coast with our memories, curl
up under a blanket and retire.
Your lips look strange to
me now, I once knew every contour and valley and sweet peak and
shore. That dimple in your cheek that once I loved has turned into a
furrow on my brow, an old farmer drags his plough through my heart
sowing seeds of regret.
What would happen now if
our hands touched , would there be sparks of lust without any trust,
would we fall crashing to floor like felled trees lifting leaves.
Parents would scream and turn their children’s heads as we threw
open our bedroom door, a new event on sports day is what the teachers
would say.
As I turn to leave you
both something breaks each time like the first, I turn to see my
mother standing at the school gates waving goodbye trying not to cry.
I drive away from the stranger that was once my wife.
Emma Bullen
Unicorn
Child
First man succeeded in
finding a mysterious baby girl. ‘Below her stretched a Dawn Card
from the east and from the south a Sky Blue Card and from the west, a
Twilight Card and from the north a Card of Turquoise. The child was
rocking on Dawn and Turquoise Rainbows, supported by these cards.
‘First man reorganised that Darkness was her mother and Dawn her
father and when he took her in his arms he found a small White Wind
in her right and a small Dark Wind in her left ear, placed there by
her parents. She was Changing Woman.
-Navajo Emergence Myth
I sing
the unicorn dance
of an autumn child,
flood of a veil
sewn by the hawk and the
deer –
echo of antler,
rust of silk.
A white hind
mimes the dust
and a blue fawn
spins
she chants, she chants
emptiness,
autumn flower
lit backwards
through hunger
-the reverse of
herself –
mirror daughter
and the delicate changing
of the stars
*
* *
I
am, I am
In
wisdom I walk
In
beauty may I walk…
In
beauty it is restored.
The
light, the dawn.
It
is morning.
* *
*
In
the hour of the wolf
the
wren sings,
gold
and
snow
–
her
wings are drawn from flowers,
a
thread of owl, a petal of dawn
offering
thought
* * *
The raven craft
of a violent prayer
drops
through her blue footfalls
White raven
blossoms –
iridescence of winter,
invocation of a starling
fire
* * *
She leans through the
smoke
of the sacred pipe of
twilight
silver woman, silver
wheel,
Arianrhod, ishta-devi
* * *
The widow deer
with the hooves
of turquoise,
prayers,
dances the laughter
of winter.
And the white mare
walks the thunder
* *
*
The
world before me is restored in beauty.
The
world behind me is restored in beauty.
The
world below me is restored in beauty.
All
things around me are restored in beauty.
My
voice is restored in beauty.
It
is finished in beauty.
It
is finished in beauty.
It
is finished in beauty.
It
is finished in beauty.
Note:
Arianrhod is the name
of the Welsh heroine who features in Mabinogion, a collection of
ancient Welsh tales. Here she is understood as
An
ancestral spirit of the land.
Christopher Barnes
An Offspring Manufactured
From Kiddiewinks
The residue dreamers
dispense
Has a lacework membrane,
Is postponed on her
Baby’s-Breath leaf
As sun glints thaw, sea
curls see-saw
Fruit flies blurp a
lullaby.
Ferments are mettle, back,
go-getting,
Stepped stones. A bundle-
To the farthermost of
isles
Where an incoming cell
Flooded its ocean.
Publications
'This Sepulchre' -
Avant-Goth poems by AC Evans.
Published by Springbeach
Press 2000
Email:
sian@springbeachpress.freeserve.co.uk
Listings
whirlpool press
poetry imprint
Edinburgh
Editor: Graham Brodie
publishes 50 chapbooks of
54 pages of work for the poet
Author holds all rights.
Symmetry Pebbles
Online poetry journal for
new and exciting poets.
Editor: Richard Thomas
PIGHOG Press
P.O.Box 145
Brighton BN1 6YU
East Sussex England
Abridged
www.abridgedonline.com
for news of Abridged
Abridged is supported by
the Arts Council of Northern Ireland
Neon Highway
Submissions to be sent to the editor:
Alice Lenkiewicz: 37, Grinshill Close,
Liverpool, L8 8LD
Email submissions can be sent to:
neonhighwaypoetry@yahoo.co.uk
Or send via snail-mail to address
above. Please always supply a sae for any returned material.
Neon Highway is available bi-annually,
with 2 issues costing £5.50, or a single
Issue available at £3.00. Order your
next issue by sending a cheque (made out to) to Alice Lenkiewicz.
Please be patient on replies.
If you do not hear about your work
within eight weeks, do feel free to contact the editor.
If you would like to write a review for
this magazine or if you would be interested in being interviewed by
assistant editor, Jane Marsh, please contact us on the email above.
Neon Highway is a non-profit making
magazine.
We do encourage you to subscribe.
We are grateful to all the subscribers
who have kept „Neon Highway‟ in print over the years.
