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To submit something, send it in the body of an e-mail to mail@readrawltd.co.uk along with a few words about yourself.Put Poetry Submission in the subject line.There is no limit to length however pieces under 40 lines would be preferred.
Copyright remains with the author.
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When
I sold Morrison and Boyd
that great green covered text book
of organic chemistry
I didn’t know what
I was doing
all I knew was
I wanted to be a poet
not a chemist
poor auld chemists
I thought
there they go
travelling along
a different small street
yet small streets
have infinite
patterns and cracks
at their doorways
sorrows and joys
in the mechanisms
of their being
too much room for freedom of thought
our heads are crowded
with lives that are not ours
they come from the stars
from
inside the stars
and from
out of the stars
and from sleek black golfers
in neat designer trousers
and slim slips of girls
in slight silk dresses
and strange wan publicists
in smart dark glasses
and wrinkled balding editors
in mad woolly jerseys
and em-pha-ti-cally honest newscasters
in gaudy orange lipstick
and healthy-skinned politicians
in disingenuous suits
and former punk academics
in clever doctor marten boots
our attention spans are brief
our attention spans were brief
we look to the star-favoured
favourites of our lives –
from L.A. and Hollywood
and cliff-edged Latin Soaps
to stratospheric actors dead on dope
to hedonistic rock-stars dead on dope
to super motivated sports-folk dead on dope
and we eat it all up
oh aye, we ate it all up
our lives are doubly dull
our lives were null and void jokes
and we drink it all down
oh aye, we drank it all down
our lives are Friday night
out on the town
coz oor minds wur crowdit
wae thoughts that wurny oors
they came frae oot the stars
frae ootia big bright… empty… bubble…[mommy
unlike descartes
that’s thi thing wae fuck all
if thirs fuck all there
yi jist canny see it
fuckin marvellous eh
emperor’s new clothes
jist bollok, wioot a stitch
fuckin bold though
brass neck uv thi hale fuckin hing
problem wae persepshin
this real
that imajined
never thi twain eh
point thi fingrr
lukkit it
tellsyi yur alive
thank fuck
stull breathin
Jim Ferguson
Jim is a dynamic poet who comes with a HEALTH WARNING. His poetry is PROFOUND, PROFANE, FUNNY and SEDUCTIVELY MOVING.
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Duck Egg
As the sea froze all the waves got caught up in surf and that duck-egg reflection from the East coast sky came to a halt ....
Then the sea stopped looking like a poetic dance as it became a distant memory fading away beyond newly raked sand ….
Now all the buckets and spades are stowed away forever.
Catherine McDonald was born in Glasgow and lives in Portobello, by the sea. To date, most of her poetry has a coastal theme. Catherine is fast becoming a regular on the Read Raw site.
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Acceptance
Chattering teeth, foul smell of decay and sweet sickly aroma of something unknown..
Rattling bones, grey horny skin, wet dark traces left on the ground..
I can feel its breath on my neck, tickling and burning.
I can see its shadow following me everywhere.
And I curse it and try to chase it away hissing “Go away devil!”.
But it won’t go.
It stays like the most faithful dog.
And then I realize…
It’s not HIS shadow, the shadow is mine.
Mirror reflection without a face.
And then I see…
My shadow is made of fears, like a patchwork rug,
Laid down on a path of my life.
And then I wonder…
How can I lose my ghostly companion?
..looking at the veins in my wrists.
And then comes acceptance.
I smile.
I’m alive.
KBoreysza 2010
Kasia lives in Glasgow and is a regular attender of The Hidden Lane Cafe where she reads both poetry and prose
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Proud Mothers
Proud Mothers watch the passing Parade,
The drums beat loudly as our boys keep in step,
Shiny new soldiers ready for war,
Training is over , Green berets fly high.
What lies ahead no one is sure,
Perhaps they are too young to understand war.
Win Hearts and minds and fly the flag high,
Well thats what they are told when they march forth to Die.
Our boys trample down the Taliban Scum,
Proud Mothers await the return of their Sons.
They scream;“more body armour” and support for our lads,
Malcolm is aged 51 and lives in the village of Crossford in Fife.Heholds a BA degree in European History and Sociology.He is a qualified Mental Health Nurse, Hypnotherapist and works for the Oil & Gas Industry as an Offshore Medic.
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Jigsaw Puzzle
Five hundred fragments of unfulfilled dreams one piece missing
Cobble stones hot scree white painted houses Zaragoza, tharagotha, sarogosa no sea chipped window boxes broken venetian shutters waves and waves and waves of lovesick sun flowers all yearning for a vase of their own
White tripe disguised by exotic names of forgotten places lurking under tapas trees only its smell giving it away
Spanish train murmurs, mutters, murmurs through seven hours of desert and despair held to the rails by smoke clinging from the end carriage
Catherine McDonald was born in Glasgow and lives in Portobello, by the sea. To date, most of her poetry has a coastal theme. Her poem, "Chocolate" appeared on our rolling poetry page back in October - this one has more of a Spanish feel to it!
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INAPPROPRIATE
On yellow lines it stands forlorn
Abandoned old blue banger,
Parking lonely by the kerb
No owner ever seen to drive it.
But the steering’s firmly locked
wheels held by ostentatious clamp.
Why?
‘Er… Hullo, hi there, Guys.
Don’t think that I am begging but
please help me with donations
for I have no-one in this country.’
Speaking in her London accent
She swiftly works the crowded carriage.
Lies?
Our solemn suited leaders
Go jovially for war
Khaki clad young soldiers
Board transports on command
The manicured hands at length wield pens
Turn bitter war to tainted peace
But,
who died?
Mary Strick, February 2006
---o0o---
Photography Is All About Light.
From under dark storm clouds a shaft of light
illuminates a tree intensely yellow.
Brave flaming sword protecting Eden’s gate,
defiant challenge to dark pines that frown
and give salute to Winter’s coming gloom.
In awe I press my camera shutter. Click!
Next day a lustrous sun in lapis sky
pours light on transformed scene. A gilded tree
of splendour, robed in russet, red and gold
befitting Midas’ court in royal richness
pays Autumn tribute to past and future bounty
I capture eagerly this different scene.
A difference wrought by light. Click! Click!
Photography is all about light.
Mary Strick, December 2008
---o0o---
Life Everlasting.
My tree is being robbed
my Autumn tree of splendour
robbed of leaf of gold
cruel winds bullying
howling
stripping
Branches dance to storm songs
challenge ruthless adversary .
some dogged leaves remain
staunchly clinging
unyielding
hoping
I watch high drama through the window
my tree defies cruel Winter
knowing Spring will surely come
and Summer’s warm returning
rebirthing
living
Mary Strick, December, 2009.
These are both about a tree in the Glen opposite, which I watch daily from our windows. It fascinates and inspires me
Mary Strick grew up in South Africa. of Scottish (100%!) stock and now lives in West Kilbride. As Mary puts it:- "Other than chattering away, storing up observations about the world I lived and live in, enjoying letter writing, I was too busy bringing up kids and helping to run a farm to have fancy ideas about creative writing. Who me? - you must be joking, would have been my response. The poetry bug has sneaked up unbidden and left me and mine with a feeling of astonishment."
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Nude Sensuality
Desnudo sensualidad – a painting by Francisco Alarcón
Dew point
looks to you to chase
the delicate moths of mists
on your short tether.
To put red lips
on pencilled life models,
you don’t have long.
A glare of winter,
a wink long enough
for a rumour to start.
Dishonesty
Desnudo Pelo Recogido - a painting by Francisco Alarcón
behind her back
he is dancing
cheek to cheek
rhythm
he never shared
with her
she is blinded
in the left eye
by the brittle brim
of honesty
she wears
as a shade
blurred
by a single
ice blue tear
Spinning Jenny
in a soaring ash tree
hung with coloured ropes
Jenny spins
in a ring, a full moon,
singing upside down
on the final note
she falls for silk
like a tissue
to catch her
Nightingale
The hour before dawn
falls in fragments
of patterned glass.
Dewdrops light
the nightingale’s wings.
His song is dusted with mist.
A low echo to the river.
I put up a fresh canvas
and sketch a frieze
of drying peppers.
To bring up the sun
and silence the nightingale.
Now I can hear
each blade of grass grow
in the morning’s dwam.
Hello
I divide my writing time between Scotland and Spain. Born and raised in Fife, I now have homes in Edinburgh and Alhaurín el Grande. I have been a member of The School of Poets at the Scottish Poetry Library in Edinburgh. My first collection of poetry entitled 'Catapult to Mars' was published in 2006 by Poetry Monthly Press. I have a poetry blog at www.catapulttomars.blogspot.com that welcomes poetry submissions. Here are a few poems for Red Raw.
Slainte
Gordon Mason
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Grey Heron at Peninver
The grey heron stands
in falling twilight
her white neck strained onwards
one leg wide before the other,
a runner ready for the off.
She pulls her neck down and in,
head horizontal with the sea-line
along her body, then a turn
and up, up, up,
like Tai Chi for birds.
But from the front she is ungainly,
her knees knock together, busty, a frump.
She strikes a pose
and I’m reminded of my gran,
lost and uncertain in a station.
In fact she’s only testing, knows
the time of the tide, the best fish,
when to leave, when to arrive, like any elegant lady,
and how not to ruffle water when dinner is about.
But mostly, how not to be distracted by the curlews
or the black backs
or the crash and blast of waves,
or the sudden splash of seal pups,
their belch and shout in the quiet,
or the grace of silent mountains fading with the day
or a million little thrushes, pipits, swallows, larks and sparrows,
or me with my binoculars staring at her hard
the way she stares into the water and pretends she is not there.
Still Water
The water in my stomach is the stillest it’s ever been.
From rising
off plains and seas
to falling
as rain
sweeping mountain tops,
running
in rivulets
down rocks
into gullies
to streams and rivers
into reservoirs
rippling under wind
and shooting
down
dams
into boiling wet infernos
then oozing along gargantuan pipes
to smaller andsmaller ones
until it halts a second behind my tap
before gushing into a crystal glass in my hand.
It swirls past my teeth and tongue, down the gullet and into the stomach
where it lingers,
awaiting dissemination around the cells of my body
until at last it is as still as I am
as I sit in my chair, book and pen in hand.
Glendaruel Camp
I, a woman, became a man that day,
planning, organising, executing,
shuffling huffily when
my sister and kids did something else.
I installed the van, the family
in the camp-site then,
over-whelmed, felt the need to be
not there,
not where
she and the kids were.
alone.
if she would just do things
my way,
not hers,
see the damage she is doing them,
then I could smile and offer
some witty banter
exchange some pleasantries,
intimacies even,
but this allowance of
his little man’s stoicism,
her little girl’s aggression,
her voice as a weapon,
his armour a fist,
this is bad for children and
the world,
the future of
all worlds.
I fulfil my tasks,
dinner, tidy, wash up, then
sneak out the back way
through bushes and playgrounds,
past business buildings, and beyond.
the little gate clicks shut,
the path steep,
the air noisy;
spray soaks my face
and the waterfall reveals itself
finally in a mighty roar
I give myself to this sound,
await a mighty echo in myself,
wait
in silence
I find it green, very green, in fact
isn’t that a …? and that …?
well, does it really matter,
the species of the tree,
the number of species?
the depth of moss that
covers all, its velvet touch,
rocks that made it happen,
the path that someone built?
too wet to sit I
stand,still,just here,
then here,and there
until the roar turns to
silence and other people’s whispers,
moments sad or joyous
rippling through my body,
pouring down the veins,
flowing through my cells then on
to somewhere else or
to nowhere
to nothing.
her son meets me on the path
back down,
worried, enquiring, demanding
to be taken to this waterfall.
I tell him
I will take him anywhere
I am able.
he nods appreciation at the roar and
we return, two men to our sisters
and I see how hard they try
how hard it is and
remember how hard it used to be, living
alone with kids
and how tired I was then of being both
Mum and Dad.
Rain
The sun, when blazing,
raises every last molecule of
H - 2 – O,
spreads them lengthwise
and heightwise,
waits,
until two clouds bump together
like bathtubs thrown by giants
and spill their precious goods.
Down they come in verticals,
diagonals, horizontals,
‘til a maelstrom of a mish-mash
stirs a very potent brew,
and in all the glens of Scotland
the battles still rage.
Ba Bridge
black burn
brown water
white rapids
grey stone
green lichen
pumping heart
such are promises
sunlight on mid-morning
a pocket full of rice
the roads are strewn with seaweed
the police have called me twice
the blind girl did a sword-dance
the rats are in a flutter
the cars are red and green and blue
I did not hear you utter
a single, solitary word
it’s only crowds with you
the doctor came, he brought his wife
and now that we are through
with pots and pans and cooking sauce
the chairs are in the garden
the sun’s been on them all day long
my pet mouse ate the lardons
pink clouds are at the window now
and bed-time is upon us
my book is falling on its face
winged chariots a promise
Sue Reid Sexton lives in Glasgow and writes poetry, short stories and novels, mostly about people who're a bit screwy, smell a bit and don't fit comfortably with the mainstream world. Not autobiographical obviously.
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Gawain in the Green Forest
At the centre is the sun But our man can’t mind the path.
Kids won’t play on his estate And all that’s left is to tilt For older, darker lakes.
At right, bronzed selkie brides Sea monsters, sirens, nix Hawk their wares As loach lap the black ink in ratio.
Tractors wallow idle in the fields, Clung to by moss and rust; Silage mires their treads, lodged inside A corona of flecked paint – golden hair Lionised in the warming sun.
Ahead, Our man finds him Like a child found static At the 1939 world’s fair
Green knight asks if His revenant bones Still gird the worthies round; If tubers reach for his dead boot-soles To aid him in his hiding from the cold.
Gawain’s answer, tough as jail Weakened by temptation to the ground – Hasten to me, sir knight Our king’s no longer in the green.
Hello,
My name's Richard Watt and I'm a 28-year-old journalist from Tayside. I write poetry and short stories of a slightly fantastical nature, some in Scots and some in English, and have been bothering grants bodies for money for a few years now.
This stilted house with tacit heart speaks Out in castigation of the card-counting Swindlers gambling by the river.
His ferny feet point to secrets buried Deep in the soil, down beneath the timber; Where, all earthy, only spiders stray.
Together we watch the sky like television Screens: lapis days turn back to black Booted nights but we natter on
Letting colours creep and silence shuffle Out from the shadows in the shrubs - Like milk mixing into tea. Tonight
It’s the ether eyeballing us; its winds gallop From tufts to yarns then settle in yawns – A telltale sign to canter off to bed.
‘Remember Michael’ (with a voice As brass as bells): ‘Inside all bones are white And souls are soft as ripened Mango’.
‘Of course. I won’t forget it.’ And tomorrow can we talk about That Big City who lost his feathered hat.
Owen
Reilly, deepest dreamer, sleeping In the bedroom, petal pink And handsome: around a thousand Broken pieces, long black locks Like dirty cats’ tails; both little feet Bouncing to hidden rhythms.
How he rests this way is beyond me For whom night comes in teasing chapters: Light nods, intruded upon by sun Turned tangerine, on clumpy floorboards.
Soon he’s up too Straight for the rolling tobacco Lungs like power stations; Greets day with coughs and chuckles. Mornings spent tiptoeing Around resting Reilly To the sound of damaged vinyl
Are among my fondest reveries.
***
Nowadays, we’re out of sorts Reilly and I, though I still visit The pictures smiling, framing secret Words through wine-stained lips.
I’m sure we’ve both said it out loud (a train-station aberration perhaps): ‘I miss you’; afterwards feeling a little Exposed - like damp leaves or rotting twigs Laying idle in guttering.
It seems his crooked teeth, this crooked tale Weren’t quite as unsightly as first I thought. It’s just a matter of fact-finding - Like discovering the stories
Behind scratches in wood.
Door, Roof and Drainpipe.
The noises stairwells make are grumbles of grey, blue and green. In winter they speak with snowmen, come spring they’re calling to pigeons or passing gangs of sparrows. Summer’s a season to watch what people do and through autumn, it just depends: if there’s Staffies around they’ll yap away; if not, a rusty bucket does just fine.
Our antique Edinburgh tenements have big beastly vocal cords, to bellow through the gales and hails; you’ll find elders cackling (having gone a bit senile) at sheltering infants, drenched to the bone or traffic-jams festering like old fruit. It’s akin to how a passing boat salutes another - one sturdy honk on the horn and a wily smile pinned to the puss of the captain.
The lighting comes in lantern form and blinks like candles battling a testing breeze. Though the smells exuded, distinct from lavender, pack quite the pong - all musty, musky, wet and leathery. But rest assured it’s nothing wicked; more like a little too much salt on supper.
I think of my favourite stairwells as wise old men; a thousand creases in the skin and mottled beards they’re constantly twizzling. Each like the bard, tinker or storyteller has a handsome ken - from roving fields and forests and talking with strangers.
These jovial giants stand shoulder- to-shoulder with Gulliver and my granddad. As for the rats, Gremlins and even more sinister goings-on they host...well we can’t always choose who comes to visit or at what hour they call.
News Cast
Siem Reap is stitched together With huts and hovels, electrical wires And bendy barbed fencing.
Each day begins by the oily trigger Of a moto-bike ignition; post porridge, Pre the first garish sales pitch.
People’s want to walk flummoxes the Tuk- Tuk operators flanked by the bride - as if They were cowboys pitching to astronauts.
Their red roads come without a welcome mat Quickly turn to sloppy clay when damp; Clump, bubble and cook in a sun
As indiscreet as microwaved eggs. Bees are bigger, beer is cheaper The coins have absconded for China -
So the poor paper’s all grimy and over-worked Like scuffled sneakers. Each evening Conducts its own incongruous symphony
Of capricious deeds (fickle as the habits of fish); And though I end up bug-bitten and perspiring Wildly, taken for mug and sometimes lonely -
I am happy, in this wooden house, reading A backlog of texts from a brimful list So many, many miles from all your news.
Gladiators
Kosal, with managerial magnitude, Proffers a bottle of Johnny Walker - Caramellow-yellow Like the petrol-filled pockets Serenading bike engines On every spooky corner. This one’s more of an arena
And inside it, lurking, amongst The gunk, gloop and phlegmy matter Is a fighting fish: pretty, pink And pouting, like a cartoon smooch. An opponent fidgets in his own den: A plastic bag once turgid now globby As a sopping marshmallow.
Each delicate little samurai Patrols his border - bottle up Against bag - so as the pair Can rile one and other In a shimmering showdown. Only in Asia is there cadence In the pre-match scaremongering.
As an audience, we’re just as puckered When the fish-bowl super-bowl All kicks-off. Fins striking in clashing colours Like kites sparring in the wind; Imaginary symbols clang As we make sloppy figures of eight And grab at each other’s skinny parts.
They duel a little But when the showboating crescendos Into something a tad fiercer He puts a firm stop to it. Just protecting
His investment; it only takes seconds For the dollars on the head of a champion To fold like a bad hand into scaleless Scars and bird feed;
And these are testing times For us all.
My name is Michael Pedersen and I'm a 25 year old writer of Caledonian stock. I've recently launched my first chapbook with Koo Press - the book has received a few anointments including a Poetry Society
Recommended Read.
I'm currently self-exiled in Cambodia completing my first full collection and assembling a film script.
Catherine McDonald was born in Glasgow and lives in Portobello, by the sea. To date, most of her poetry has a coastal theme….. “Chocolate” is something different!
