Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

Read Poem: A job begrudgingly finished, by Louise Wilding

I sit beneath the small porch, legs up on the low brick wall, back resting on the house, and I watch it rain.

It’s warm, humid, but not uncomfortable. Thunderclouds cause it to be unnaturally dark.

I’m happy. No, not happy. Content. Thunder soothes me. Petrichor calls me. I smile, sip my tea.

How long will I allow myself to rest this time? How long until voices from history convince me once more, that resting is laziness?

You’ve got clothes to wash, and fold, and put away, they say. You’ve got pots to wash, and dry, and put away, they insist.

Five more minutes, I tell them. But they’ve already ruined it. I was happy. Well, not really, but almost. I was rested. In the moment. Now I’m anxious. Fidgeting. In my head.

No longer able to sit, I drag myself to a task. Because if I do nothing, what kind of person am I? Selfish?

A slob? The words fill my mind. History rising once more, bringing shame with it.

I have no motivation.

I stare at my chores. Insurmountable. Unending. Pointless.

I trudge through the house. Discarded floor crumbs stick to the souls on my bare feet. I wipe them on my leggings.

I open the door to the cupboard under the stairs. The hoovers steel and corrugated plastic hose already in attack position jumps into my face. I haul it off shoes and fallen jackets. Dropping it quite un-delicately onto the floor. Time to hoover.

But I don’t move.

Just plug it in, the voices yell. Even you can do that.

So, I drag the cord to the closest socket and plug it in. The hoover starts automatically, and the shock of the noise in the silence of my house knocks years from my life. I gather myself. Turn off the hoover.

Breathe.

Interest in my task fading fast. I stare at the hoover. At the floor. At my far less attractive than I recall reflection.

Music.

Music will keep me going.

Ten minutes later, I’ve finally selected the perfect song. I do a little happy dance and kick the hoover into life.

The world becomes noise.

Idiot! Now I can’t hear my music. Suddenly irritated, I pause my song and bend to my work. Listening to my well-chosen (agonized over) song now my reward for a job begrudgingly finished.

The hoover is loud. My body itches at the sound. I grit my teeth. Suddenly too hot, I disassociate. Pushing the hose randomly from corner to corner until the souls of my feet no longer collect passengers.

I turn off the noise machine. My ears buzz.

Music. There was going to be music.

I play my song. It’s not the same. The moment passed. I sigh. The room still untidy, my mood still despondent.

I glance outside. It’s still raining. The door still open. Fresh air drifts through my body. I inhale green scent. I stare at the rain. Sit outside, it calls. The cool air beckoning my prickly hot skin. I want to sit. But I don’t. Shame of my shame. I must keep busy.

When I’m done, the house is calm once more. Sticky sweat clings to my clothing. You’d think I’d rest. Sit
under the porch and revel in the rain once more. Cool my boiling blood.

But shame has dug deep trenches in my skin. I can’t simply sit. I’d love to. I’d love to read a book, curled up in a corner. Quiet. Calm. But even if I did, I’d keep one eye on the door. If you were to walk in, I’d snap my book shut like it was not a welcome escape, rather a dirty secret. Simply a respite while awaiting my next task. You must never think I’m the kind of person who would just sit. Why do you think I’m the kind of person who just sits? In my own home. No. No, not me. I’m busy. I’m up and doing.

Only I’m not, not really. I want to rest. I want to allow myself peace. But I won’t. I’ll follow you awkwardly from room to room, desperate to be seen as useful. Helpful. Only to be found as a mild irritant. But anything is better than being seen as lazy.

I’m alone today. So, I can sit. Not relaxed, never relaxed. But sit I do.

I sit beneath the small porch, legs up on the low brick wall, back resting against the house. And I watch it rain.

Read Poem: NEEDLE THE BEETLE, by Dago Schelin

OR Everybody’s got something to rhyme except for me and my donkey
by Dago Schelin

Zoe Needle was a beetle
At the age of 17
Who traveled round the world
In a yellow U-boat

Zoe Needle looked for Jojo
A donkey from Brazil
She found him quite alone:
The fool up on the mountain

The duo searched for meaning
Where life begins and ends
And found it in their music
with some help from their buddies

But in order to play well
They needed to rehearse
To spread their lovely tunes
across the cosmos

The beetle asked the donkey
“Will you play me the guitar?”
And Jojo answered smiling
“Yes, I’m gonna be a success!”

While searching for a drummer
They met a handsome toad
Who looked around and said:
“Why don’t we do it in the street?”

A crowd gathered around them
To hear their melody
The toad was scared
But Zoe said: “Relax and let it happen”

And now the three invited me
To join and I agreed
We’re singing: “All you need is love
Yes, love is all you require!”

We travel with our message
To show our song and dance
For all that we are saying
Is just give peace an opportunity

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Read Poem: THE HARE & THE TORTOISE, by Deirdre Hughes

The hare did declare, with intent to offend,
“See you at the finish line my slow-moving friend”
to which, said the tortoise in a kind of outburst,
“Not if I bloody well see you there first!”
And thus, they set off, with the blow of a whistle
The tortoise, like treacle, the hare, like a missile
Uphill and down dale, the hare made his way
Then he stopped, in his tracks, for a sleep in the hay
“Why run so fast when there’s plenty of time?
That tortoise takes fifty for each minute of mine!”
And then, with a giggle, the cocky wee shit
pulled out some wool and he started to knit
At long last the tortoise arrived at the scene
“You may be ahead, but you needn’t be mean!”
The hare, laughing uproariously, replied
“You can’t win a race if you’re not qualified!”
The tortoise, however, was nobody’s fool
He didn’t take chances, for one, as a rule
In his shell he had hidden a lethal contagion
to be boldly unleashed when he made his evasion
He took out the teeny, tiniest of vials
and, pretending to stop and chat for a while,
poured out the contents onto the hay
then got up announcing “I’ll be on my way”
No one suspected the hare was now dead,
astonished the tortoise had won the race instead
The moral of this tale may be a surprise
for it isn’t ‘don’t ever believe your own eyes’
or ‘slow and steady wins the race’
or ‘cheeky wee bastards end in disgrace’
or even that ‘brains are better than brawn’
but rather ‘beware the dangers of science
and a sociopathic tortoise’s act of defiance’

Read Poem: Rainfall, by Colin Guest

As the dark clouds gather and the sun goes in
And the rain starts falling like out from a bin
Thunder crashes loudly and echo’s round the sky
Lightning flashes and people hope they won’t die
Birds that once were calling suddenly stop their calls
As water cascades off the trees just like waterfalls
Frogs emerge from their homes in sheer delight
They just sit in the rain until lost from sight
Rain fills the gullys, which then runs into streams
Which quickly turn into rivers or so it seems
Rivers burst their banks and meadows disappear
Where land and river once met is no longer clear
Years of hard work are suddenly all lost in a flash
As all is swept away by the rivers mad dash

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Read Poem: FACELESS MAN, Iddris Nyande

1.
I felt the earth for once this time,
Was weird but I was sure about it.
Must I weep again for darkness’ cold,
Or do I beat my pillows again for mine?

2.
Dusk would really be long,
Even dawn takes forever to appear,
The shadows do stretch their tones,
Singing their hideous songs, it breaks my bones.

3.
Will I bask again writ with fear?
Will I cower with face and fingers clenched?
Do I pray a heart that perseveres?
Perhaps God can change things now.

4.
Let the unbidden clouds step aside;
Let the dank leaves receive their light.
Call the faceless man, let him stand in your courts;
Tell him, with torn flesh and blood’s might, my life was the one you bought.

5.
Submit his remains to the sun;
Let its waves scratch and plough his back.
You must undo the sensations of pain he left on me,
And quench with little rain drops,
The hate, it coursed through my roots.

6.
See, a procession!
Look, the marching grey bands,
As they make way for the fainted blue skies.
Blow the horn, you nature’s great trumpeter,
Do it once more, you might become soup at noon.