Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

Sep 24, 2008 at 02:41 o\clock

Frog from New Zealand

Sep 22, 2008 at 14:09 o\clock

Mystery Solved


I now know why the frog population is reducing.

I recieved a comment from a Percy the Frog who stated  that it loved Lesbians 

I suppose I am leaping to this conclusion but if these frogs are croaking by the pond   it could be caused by this sexual revolution which is leaving the poor neglected males to blow  up their throats and disappear in a puff of sorry male hood

Sep 21, 2008 at 09:02 o\clock

book launch

Sep 16, 2008 at 09:04 o\clock

After the Storm


Sep 16, 2008 at 03:51 o\clock

A Reliquary by Brendan Galvin

A Reliquary

Soaking and tilting the woods, a storm
too late in the year to be named
drew offshore for the Maritimes, and I went out
walking the wrack line for whatever
rarity might have churned up-

a boat handpump once, workable after
I knocked the dried sand from it,
and once an albatross
driven broken-winged over the dunes,
which I found in the white mat of itself days later
and verified by its four-inch tubenose.

Where the river has shifted its bed
like a whipcrack in an eon of slow motion
between two high dunes, I came on
a patch of ground that water and wind
had cleared as smoothly as a glove
sweeps snow off a windshield.

It looked like wet asphalt on forty feet
of road lightly sanded. I dared not walk on it,
but stood to its side, seeing it was
a stretch of peat with horseshoe patterns
among wheel tracks, and larger hooves,
probably of oxen, then a few boot prints:

whoever had driven those wagonloads of fish
pitchforked off the trapboats in the river,
and the carts piled with salt hay,
would have ridden, mostly, adding weight
to impressions the peat took and kept.

Orlando Shaw or Phil Ryder, I might have
guessed, names on an old map, though few are
remembered by name here, more by their
back-and-forth traffic on cart roads
from cellar hole to cellar hole,
paths to the kettle ponds, a hillside midden
of sea-clam shells, and in layers the next
anonymous wind tucks back into the berm.

Brendan Galvin
Ocean Effects
Louisiana State University Press

Copyright ©2007 by Brendan Galvin.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

Sep 8, 2008 at 12:37 o\clock



Once, two spoons in bed,
now tined forks

across a granite table
and the knives they have hired.

Billy Collins

Random House

Sep 5, 2008 at 01:42 o\clock

Leave RussiaI

I heard the voice. It promised solace.

"Come here," it seemed so softly call.

"Leave Russia, sinning, lost and graceless,

Leave your land, pray, for good and all.

I'll cleanse your hands from blood that stains you,

And from your heart draw back black shame,

The hurts of failure, wrongs that pain you

I'll veil with with yet another name."

With even calm deliberation

I raised my hands to stop my ears,

Lest that ignoble invitation

Defile a spirit lost in tears.



1917.By Anna Akhmatova. Translated by Gladys Evans.

Sep 5, 2008 at 01:28 o\clock

War of the Russian Wars