Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

Mar 29, 2009 at 01:47 o\clock

Bar in Brisbane with juke box and sailors c.1943

Mar 29, 2009 at 01:32 o\clock

Circles by Aidan Murphy

CIRCLES  
Chased by beer-cans
I wake on a foam bed
with a stiff knee;
my mouth's been chewing
Kleenex in the night.

She enters with a vengeance,
draws the curtains,
sighs a dragon-breath
at the sight of stubble,
blood-shot eyes.

She never asks how I feel -
too late for such nonsense.
Her plans are higher than
my small hungover head and
its flat pillow-world.

I try to explain my circle-
theory (always the same day,
how permanent I am).
But I slur again,
I screw the context.

Her loveliness hurts.
It scares me back
to the northside of town
where the jukebox goads:
One Day At A Time Sweet Jesus.

    

    

© 1987, Aidan Murphy
 

Mar 18, 2009 at 07:47 o\clock

The shape of every box by helen mort

he shape of every box by helen mort
in this eagerly anticipated debut volume helen presents us with twenty engaging poems of people and place. Her poems are tender and intriguing, filled with subtle yet memorable images. She writes with an easy maturity and is a welcome new presence. Helen was a winner of the Foyle Young Poets Award on five occasions from 1997 to 2004 
£3.00 - ISBN 978-1-904551-29-4
ORDER NOW

 

all-lighthouse, Stark Gallery, 384 Lee High Road, London SE12 8RW United Kingdom
e-mail: orders@tall-lighthouse.co.uk 

 

Mar 18, 2009 at 07:44 o\clock

North/South from the shape of every box by Helen Mort

you hated the bicycles,

all sharp spokes and silence

sluicing past with no lights on, leaving

puddle water up your trousers. 

Not a hint of warning, you'd rant,

cursing a blur of silver.

On King's Parade, I almost

slipped right past you, blonde in the crowd. 

We order pints, talk with an accent

I'd forgotten, you don't want to hear

about lectures and cloisters, about girls

you'll never meet with names like Coriander. 

When you go to hug me

we skirt each other, move in close -

two cyclists with their heads down,

each waiting for the other to swerve.