Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen

She writes from deep within her
Opening up her soul to all,
finding the words like a river
Allowing them to come, to flow


Power transformed to her fingers,
igniting the flames of her soul
Fire given form to the written page
Releasing all she has deep inside
Just like she would submit to a lover


All-consuming fire is in my essence
An eternal flame burning wildly,
never to diminish, throughout time
As it seeps through these fingers,
in unearthly passion, writ in blood


A creative mind is set into motion
Capture now this notion, if you will
As I spew forth, in depths unknown
Yet known, in the core of existence
The pulse of an unrelenting desire


I press pen unto page within love
Nevermore to please the masses
Evermore to appease the essence
I care naught for fame, nor fortune
Wishing merely to pierce the silence


In a sole purpose, right to be heard
Amongst the chaos of every day
Creating a cleverly laid design,
to ensnare those who take notice
Touching the soul of yet another




Copyright © 1/2013 Chris Smith/Lucy Martins


All poetry by Chris Smith/Lucy Martins are copyright protected by International Copyright Law, the use without written permission is illegal. All Rights Reserved ©

You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth  night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.

like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.

A distant man with distant heart

Kept her, a fallen Angel, in a cage

Never would he let her be seen

But every night he visited her

Entranced by her naked beauty



Fallen from grace I now linger

Utterly spellbound by my captor

Veiled, remaining in the shadows

Untouchable – Quite vulnerable

Entangled, I shall never break free



Her thoughts within his head

He wants to take her, desire her

But afraid to surrender to lust

Always watching her, needing her

This dark Angel of hidden mystery



Clueless I am where this will lead

I can feel from afar a deep longing

Yet, I am mystified with every move

Hoping for a sign to appease my soul

To not have fallen from grace in vain



Oh, how I wish to know his thoughts

If it is not at all a dream within a dream

On the edge I now stand – so insecure

As I tread these waters ever so lightly

Frightened to awaken to a harsh reality



No longer can he resist the urge

Opening the cage and takes her

She does not resist, welcomes him

He penetrates deep into her soul

Both lost in the art of experimentation

She takes all he gives and wants more



Over and over again, they have their way

Never has she surrendered before like this

He cannot match to her satisfaction

As he fears her, the Angel of Death

Knowing she will never age, never die



He knows she longs to keep her

Wanted her forbidden lover,

these emotions are unexpected

He will always be her temptation,

now he leaves but forgets to lock the cage



Never in my darkest of desires did I dare,

surrender in total abandonment of my soul

I long for more, but my captor now eludes me

Should I escape, there shall be no going back

So here, I linger awaiting his return in my arms…



II



In the darkest of my secret desires
It becomes unsettling as time passes
The silence of these days and nights
As I wait, longing for my beloved


I become lost, in a loving memory
Yearning to become alive anew
As only, he can touch my soul
Ever so profoundly, in every touch
Soaring in abandonment – awakened


I cannot envision a life without love
Since the day I have fallen from grace
I was dually blessed and then cursed
As I am alone in the mind’s memoirs
Awaiting the break of unbearable silence


Years have passed him by
His youth seems fading away
Still she is as fresh as before
From the first moment he captured her
Now he watches her from the shadows

Remembers the sweet feel of her flesh,
the sensation of her kisses of nectar
He never locked the cage, she stayed
She yearns for him each and every night
But now he finds himself too afraid

For he is only mortal, she is Eternal
An Angel of Death fallen in love
If only he dared to approach her
Take her now in a fury of lust,
could she still crave this withered shell?


Penetrating the stillness of the night
I can hear a voice, long thought astray
I can feel the blood pulsating in my veins
As I cry out for my beloved to come anew
Even as times passes, nothing has changed


Though my wings have has been clipped
As I had fallen into forbidden temptation
I remain the same, though he has now aged
I care naught for appearances, as in my eyes
It is the pureness of his heart, which lures me


I cannot help but wonder where he dwells
Grasping unto faith, that he shall return
Accepting, with no remorse of what was
Surrendering to this love, I so freely offer
United as one being, forever without end


He dares to approach her once again
Long ago he felt no love in his soul
But she has changed how he once was
An ancient naked body, he now offers
To this beauty that smiles to welcome him


He responds to the gentle touches she gives
Feeling like a young man again, once more
Lovers in this night of forgotten shadows,
daring to surrender to desires of the flesh
Allowing two hearts to be now, as one


Then he feels the agony within his chest
Age has taken a toll for a moment to cherish
He holds her as she trembles, knowing
The last thing he sees are an Angels tears
As in the final moments, he dies in her arms


After waiting for so long, it seems cruel
Befalling such heartfelt sorrow, losing
Once again my beloved, as destiny rules
Fallen from grace, atonement must be paid
Pleading now for redemption for my sins


I know there is no going back to paradise
As I have found heaven, here earthbound
It is now within my power, to make amends
Bestowing my love upon those in dire need
Finding peace in the light of loves true gift


A state of a higher power that takes hold
Ruling now these days, that comes forth
Nevermore in the darkest of my desires,
as I find the strength within to arise anew
In moving on, with all of my heart and soul


Copyright © 1/2013 Lucy Martins/Chris Smith

All poetry by Lucy Martins/Chris Smith are copyright protected by International Copyright Law, the use without written permission is illegal. All Rights Reserved ©

It’s an annual tradition that London Fashion Week opens every February with the newest of the new—the bang-fizz of The Central Saint Martins’s M.A. graduation show. These are the people who are destined to shape the fashion world—not least because they are talents gathered from everywhere. The class of 2017 has students from China, Taiwan, Bulgaria, Slovenia, Gibraltar, and the United States as well as Britain. This is just normal in London, a city that has built its reputation as a creative capital on the strength of talents from all over: all backgrounds, all nationalities. In the face of Brexit, and its possible future curb on immigration, London has its Muslim mayor Sadiq Khan, the city’s elected representative, who stands up for the vitality of diversity and interfaith harmony every day with his social media campaign from City Hall, #Londonisopen. In his words: “We don’t simply tolerate each other’s differences, we celebrate them. Many people from all over the globe live and work here, contributing to every aspect of life in our city.”

Nowhere will that be better demonstrated than in what’s to come in London Fashion Week. In defiance of dark times, its youth and multicultural camaraderie is about to roll out the welcome mat. Expect to see it coming from all directions, in kaleidoscopic variety. On the Central Saint Martins’s runway, there’s Gabriella Sardena’s wildly decorative glam-femme collection to look forward to, for example (she’s the one from Gibraltar). Day one, there’s also the opening of The International Fashion Showcase at Somerset House, where emerging designers from 26 countries, including Ukraine, Russia, Khazakhstan, India, Romania, Czech Republic, Egypt, and Guatemala, will put forward their viewpoints on the theme “Local and Global.”

Stand back for a blast from New York, too. Michael Halpern, one of the latest Central Saint Martins M.A. graduates (class of 2016) will unleash his first multi-sequined disco-fabulous collection in a presentation that is being aided and abetted with volunteer help from Patti Wilson and Sam McKnight, held at a posh venue laid on for free in the heart of St James on Saturday.

Fighting gloom with glitter is a London thing. Ashish Gupta, born in India, longtime London trailblazer for LGBTQ rights, is the king of that. Given last September, when he took his bow in a T-shirt emblazoned IMMIGRANT, admirers will surely be packing his Ashish show to the rafters. These times demand a standing up for pride in identity. Osman Yousefzada, more quietly creative, with his strong art-world following, will be coming out with a statement about his British-Asian roots: “Before, we were rarities, trophies and exotics from distant lands…some of us fleeing famine, war, or persecution,” he writes. “We were thought of as good labourers, businessmen and women—hungry, reliable and eager to succeed…and then some wanted to close the doors. Today, I bring you colour, opulence, texture, tailoring, a modern woman in different hues who isn’t scared to stand out and have fun, and embrace the beauty and difference around her.”

London is open to more newcomers. The Ports 1961 women’s show has relocated here from Milan this season. It’s actually a homecoming of a sort: This collection, placed on a woman-friendly lifestyle-centric wavelength somewhere on the continuum between The Row and Céline, has in fact been designed by the Slovenian-born Natasa Cagalj (also a CSM M.A. alumna) from a studio in London’s Farringdon all along. Two more “returners” to the schedule are Hussein Chalayan and Roland Mouret, long rooted in London since the ’90s, who are repatriating their shows from Paris.

It’s a whole London creative community picture, in fact—one that makes a complete commercial nonsense on every level of the “Little Britain” xenophobia of the send-them-home faction in U.K. politics. Cohesion and creativity, the welcome and support given to the newest, from everywhere—that’s the flag that flies over London Fashion Week. Scotland, Ireland, Greece, Austria, America, Serbia, Canada, Syria, India, Germany, Pakistan, Nigeria, Turkey, Ghana, New Zealand, Portugal—come one, come all, says fashion. There’ll be protest and prettiness, resistance and humor—that’s a given this week. Here’s glitter in your eye!Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

IF we were such and so, the same as these,
maybe we too would be slingers and sliders,
tumbling half over in the water mirrors,
tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun,
tumbling our purple numbers.
  
Twirl on, you and your satin blue.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
  
  Dip and get away
From loops into slip-knots,
Write your own ciphers and figure eights.
It is your wooded island here in Lincoln park.
Everybody knows this belongs to you.
  
  Five fat geese
Eat grass on a sod bank
And never count your slinging ciphers,
    your sliding figure eights,
  
A man on a green paint iron bench,
Slouches his feet and sniffs in a book,
And looks at you and your loops and slip-knots,
And looks at you and your sheaths of satin blue,
And slouches again and sniffs in the book,
And mumbles: It is an idle and a doctrinaire exploit.
Go on tumbling half over in the water mirrors.
Go on tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun.
  Be water birds, be air birds.
  Be these purple tumblers you are.

Hush my little one
They might hear
We must be silent
Not let them find us
For they never understand

They hate who we are
Always hunting us
We try to survive
But still they come
They always do

So in the shadows
Do we now dwell
Reduced to hiding
From these mortals
We may die in thirst

I say we must rebel
For we are stronger
Shape shifters
With naught to dear
Let us rise in freedom

Remember little one
How they killed her
The way your mother
Was taken from us
When they found out

How can we fight back
They have too many weapons
Different ways to **** us
We can only use the night
But they can use the day

How can I not recall
My dearest father
The way she died
The cruelty of it all
Never feeding on them

Ripping her from our coven
Leaving us in eternal misery
Of a loss forever engraved
Yet, I can not shake
My deep thirst for revenge

I am tired my little one
Feeling my true age
For too many centuries
This was my existence
Now you must carry on

My life is slowly fading
The coldness is close
You have fed from me
So you can be strong
Goodbye my little one

My father now gone
The ultimate sacrifice
Of an undying love
For his only daughter
Lost now am I - alone

A curse once bestowed
By the dark of night
Never to return
To the day of light
Losing all I have loved

With new found strength
I now hold - I will seek
The one who cursed us
In this living nightmare
For time is now immortal

Through the silence
Of the nights calling
I shall fight, with might
Striking - taking down
The prince of the night

Deep in the woods where the wild things roam

Back in the dark there are things

That happen at night when you'r all safe at home

When young men compete to be kings.

It happens each year when the falls fairs are on

These gatherings out in the dark

Thanksgiving arrives and the boys all move on

From these things that they do for a lark

The gauntlet's thrown down by the challenging swarm

To the winner of last years crusade

His blood doesn't boil, but it sure does get warm

Now that this years challenge is made

It normally starts at the Aylmer Fall Fair

"Josiah, you're not is our class!"

He doesn't fight back he just breathes deep and stares

For to him,  it's a sin for to sass

They show up at night, all dressed up in black

No surprise if you knew how they live

But tonight is the time, for them all to step up

For a Lesson's about to be give

The street was all dark, save a lantern or two

as the riders came out from the trees

These were not the old wagons you saw in the dark

These were ones that would make your heart freeze

Josiah stepped forth from the bustling crowd

Mr. Martin he said...I am here

Now is the time to show just how proud

of the horses you have over there.

I've heard of this race in the darkest of nights

Where the young men come out and are facing

Their fears and their hopes with only two lights

It's the start of Amish Drag Racing

It was something to see these men dressed all the same

Two big clydesdales each made up their team

But to both of these men, this was not just a game

This was the way that they all burned off steam

They didn't dare fight for that was a sin

And team sports didn't get the job done

None of them drank so there was no need for gin

And a barnraising just wasn't fun

Mr. Martin climbed up and he steadied his ride

Young Josiah just stood there and stared

Mr. Martin looked out, he was beaming with pride

Poor Josiah just stood looking scared

The starter came forth and he said to the men

With this hanky I will start the race

I will let it fly loose once I count to ten

And I let it fly free into space.

He counted it down and let go of the rag

And nobody moved from the post

Mr. Martins horse stood as did Josiahs old nag

And they both looked like they'd just  seen a ghost

The hanky was black just like ones they all had

And nobody saw him let go

The race buildup was great but the start was quite bad

In fact some men started to go

So, they tried it again with a different technique

Cause they found nothing there that was white

You can say it was strange but I say unique

To watch Amish men race in the night.

The horses lurched forth like two huge tyco trains

Sweat was poring from off of their backs

You could see from their eys it was really a strain

As their drivers took up the reigns slack

Equally paired, with two horsepower each

They tore up the road like a shot

But a really fast speed they both never would reach

Cause two clydesdales just don't run so hot.

Amish drag racing is really a night

To see if the other would show

For it's really no way to prove who is right

And the attendance is really quite low

So if you get invited and your hear of a race

That takes place where wild things  roam

Say you'd love to attend but you think to save face

You'd prefer not and would rather stay home.
..

The Owls are Watching

In memory of Helen Martins
'The Owl House'
Nieu Bethesda, South Africa

In sculpture and rock rested your art
Cement faces that speak volumes
Of emotions and tales untold
As mysterious as your life itself
Glittering walls of crushed glass
That shone by candlelight
Outside of art you were branded
Though remembered as unique and ahead of your time
With big glass eyes the owls watch the world
What was once your sanctuary
Now a showcase to the world
Recognized at last
Unspeakable loneliness of a soul misunderstood
Now your handwritten letters are framed and displayed for all to read
But you don't mind the curiosity of mankind
With cement hands raised to the heavens facing the east
You drank your chosen cup
Your Mecca now complete

Written by Sean Achilleos
28 March 2016©

How this poem came about:

I was a visitor to the Owl House Nieu-Bethesda South Africa in 2015. Approximately, one year later I was inspired to write a poem about the late great Helen Martins. I was intrigued by the eccentricity of this woman.

One evening while in my living room and enjoying a glass of wine, my eye caught the cement owl in my windowsill which I had purchased outside the Owl House from a vendor. I saw its big blue glass eyes glaring at me. At the time I was listening to a Jennifer Ferguson record, and decided to write while the music was playing. Once I had completed the poem I felt exhausted. Then a very strange phenomena occurred, the lights went off for a few seconds and came back on, unlike a power surge. It reoccurred a second time that same evening, and never since. It felt like a supernatural intervention. As far fetched as it may sound, it seemed like Mrs. Martins had personally given her approval of the poem. I then decided to email it to the official Owl House website. I didn't think much would come of it. However, they embraced the poem and were generous enough to display it on their official Website for a number of years under a section titled "A Visitor's Perspective".

https://g.co/kgs/BPyx1U

From caribou, sheep,
and seal skin linings,
to modern leather,
and endless refining.

Boots have come
so far in a hurry-
once thin and essential,
now stylish and furry.

From Doc Martins moving
on mosh pit floors,
to fireman's boots,
and kicking down doors.

Buckles and laces
and straps and steel toes.
Patterned, simple,
they fit with your clothes.

Each boot has a story,
a personality too.
They help you dress up,
and with the things that you do.

We all have our favourites,
our boots we don daily,
The boots that add to
our own story, maybe.

For me, it's my gumboots,
you may ask yourself, why?
Simple: they keep
my blue jeans dry.

I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
Not like the ones we used to know
Where the hoods and robes are
making things all *****
Those kooks dressed up white as snow

I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
His uni underneath the tree
With his new Doc Martins
That he'll look smart in
To show his mentality

I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
I'm glad it only is one night
With his new plaid shirt on
This racist *****
Hia  tree...has no coloured lights

I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
What would he do if he just knew
The KKK man
Had better re-plan
His Christ....he was born a jew

I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, black or white, green or grey, red, brown and yellow. Have a wonderful Christmas Season, because it is Christmas after all.....and remember, this is just a poem, just fiction. I want a White Christmas, but, one with every colour of the rainbow treated equally, and hopefully some nice prezzies and a song or two by Andy Williams and Bing Crosby.
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

Dear
Brown colored boy,
Mine
Shining in all your melanin filled armor I salute you.
The soldier you are as tall as the tree that bore the wood of the cross they burned on martins lawn.
You burn brighter than those flames
You ignite something in me that wants to melt into your melanin crossing legs and arms and becoming tangled in ligaments that look more like trees before they were torn apart to become those burning crosses.
Mine
Eye closed I imagine you holding a brown boy bore from my trees,
Laying him on your bare chest
Loving him because he's your own.
Not just mine anymore,
I'll look at you both in fear seeing those burning crosses become shining badges and sirens in the distance
Not just mine anymore

along emilys hill road
the trees are bare

she's skipping stones
across st martens creek

as she turns
smiling my name

her breath comes out
white clouds
mingles
and hangs in the air

the quiet
stillness
in her eyes

she sees something
in me
that I can't
see

and that s why
i love her so



emilys hill road
unchanged

the trees are bare

she's skipping stones
across
st. martins creek

I believe that's the way
I remember her best

Christmass is come and every hearth
Makes room to give him welcome now
Een want will dry its tears in mirth
And crown him wi a holly bough
Tho tramping neath a winters sky
Oer snow track paths and ryhmey stiles
The huswife sets her spining bye
And bids him welcome wi her smiles
Each house is swept the day before
And windows stuck wi evergreens
The snow is beesomd from the door
And comfort crowns the cottage scenes
Gilt holly wi its thorny ******
And yew and box wi berrys small
These deck the unusd candlesticks
And pictures hanging by the wall

Neighbours resume their anual cheer
Wishing wi smiles and spirits high
Clad christmass and a happy year
To every morning passer bye
Milk maids their christmass journeys go
Accompanyd wi favourd swain
And childern pace the crumping snow
To taste their grannys cake again

Hung wi the ivys veining bough
The ash trees round the cottage farm
Are often stript of branches now
The cotters christmass hearth to warm
He swings and twists his hazel band
And lops them off wi sharpend hook
And oft brings ivy in his hand
To decorate the chimney nook

Old winter whipes his ides bye
And warms his fingers till he smiles
Where cottage hearths are blazing high
And labour resteth from his toils
Wi merry mirth beguiling care
Old customs keeping wi the day
Friends meet their christmass cheer to share
And pass it in a harmless way

Old customs O I love the sound
However simple they may be
What ere wi time has sanction found
Is welcome and is dear to me
Pride grows above simplicity
And spurns it from her haughty mind
And soon the poets song will be
The only refuge they can find

The shepherd now no more afraid
Since custom doth the chance bestow
Starts up to kiss the giggling maid
Beneath the branch of mizzletoe
That neath each cottage beam is seen
Wi pearl-like-berrys shining gay
The shadow still of what hath been
Which fashion yearly fades away

And singers too a merry throng
At early morn wi simple skill
Yet imitate the angels song
And chant their christmass ditty still
And mid the storm that dies and swells
By fits-in humings softly steals
The music of the village bells
Ringing round their merry peals

And when its past a merry crew
Bedeckt in masks and ribbons gay
The ‘Morrice danse’ their sports renew
And act their winter evening play
The clown-turnd-kings for penny praise
Storm wi the actors strut and swell
And harlequin a laugh to raise
Wears his **** back and tinkling bell

And oft for pence and spicy ale
Wi winter nosgays pind before
The wassail singer tells her tale
And drawls her christmass carrols oer
The prentice boy wi ruddy face
And ryhme bepowderd dancing locks
From door to door wi happy pace
Runs round to claim his ‘christmass box’

The block behind the fire is put
To sanction customs old desires
And many a ******* bands are cut
For the old farmers christmass fires
Where loud tongd gladness joins the throng
And winter meets the warmth of may
Feeling by times the heat too strong
And rubs his shins and draws away

While snows the window panes bedim
The fire curls up a sunny charm
Where creaming oer the pitchers rim
The flowering ale is set to warm
Mirth full of joy as summer bees
Sits there its pleasures to impart
While childern tween their parents knees
Sing scraps of carrols oer by heart

And some to view the winter weathers
Climb up the window seat wi glee
Likening the snow to falling feathers
In fancys infant ******
Laughing wi superstitious love
Oer visions wild that youth supplyes
Of people pulling geese above
And keeping christmass in the skyes

As tho the homstead trees were drest
In lieu of snow wi dancing leaves
As. tho the sundryd martins nest
Instead of ides hung the eaves
The childern hail the happy day
As if the snow was april grass
And pleasd as neath the warmth of may
Sport oer the water froze to glass

Thou day of happy sound and mirth
That long wi childish memory stays
How blest around the cottage hearth
I met thee in my boyish days
Harping wi raptures dreaming joys
On presents that thy coming found
The welcome sight of little toys
The christmass gifts of comers round

‘The wooden horse wi arching head
Drawn upon wheels around the room
The gilded coach of ginger bread
And many colord sugar plumb
Gilt coverd books for pictures sought
Or storys childhood loves to tell
Wi many a urgent promise bought
To get tomorrows lesson well

And many a thing a minutes sport
Left broken on the sanded floor
When we woud leave our play and court
Our parents promises for more
Tho manhood bids such raptures dye
And throws such toys away as vain
Yet memory loves to turn her eye
And talk such pleasures oer again

Around the glowing hearth at night
The harmless laugh and winter tale
Goes round-while parting friends delight
To toast each other oer their ale
The cotter oft wi quiet zeal
Will musing oer his bible lean
While in the dark the lovers steal
To kiss and toy behind the screen

The yule cake dotted thick wi plumbs
Is on each supper table found
And cats look up for falling crumbs
Which greedy childern litter round
And huswifes sage stuffd seasond chine
Long hung in chimney nook to drye
And boiling eldern berry wine
To drink the christmass eves ‘good bye’

on july 13th, 2013: George Zimmerman
a florida native with a history of violence
was found not guilty for the ****** of unarmed 17 year old African American boy Trayvon Martin claiming self defense

on may 8th, 2012 African American, Marissa Alexander:
a florida native with no history of violence
was sentenced to 20 years in prison for discharging a warning shot out of self defense from the wrath of her abusive ex- husband

marissa,
i often wonder how you felt on july 13th when you heard the Trayvon Martin verdict
did you feel the heaviness of invisible shackles weighing your hands and feet down like you had stepped into the 1600s?
did you feel a surge of anger burn through your throat like i did for you?

did you ask yourself if you should’ve continued letting your husband play picasso on you?
Letting your body be his work of art as he splattered blotches of black and blue making a tie-dyed canvas out of you?
because the jury treated the bruises you wore as if they were the plague
saying beware of a black woman who protects herself
it takes 20 years of solitary confinement to cure her of this disease

marissa,
are you afraid of the skin of bullseyes your two children were born into
knowing that society will use them for target practice every day like they did for you?

can you not sleep at night out of fear anytime your child pulls a hood over his head
that he is marking himself as sacrifical lambs to our legal system?

did you tell your mother the next day to burn your babies black hoodies
because on July 13th it was made known
being black and wearing a hood means danger
that being black and wearing a hood means you have a hunger for ******
that being black and wearing a hood means you have cosigned to a persecution?
and yet…we all seem to forget the ones in white that fit the same description

marissa,
i hope you’re starting to see America has OCD
wanting to color within the same lines, with the same two colors
segregating black and white
neglecting to realize that blood and blood shed never bleed out in the same two colors
just look at the crime scenes of Trayvon Martin and your ex-husband

marissa,
from now on when you bite your tongue while eating
don’t spit the blood out
leave it, let it settle, then swallow
and let it be a reminder of all the trayvon martins, all the emmett tills, all the james birds, and all the little black boys who died for standing their ground like you tried to

marissa,
i know you feel like god abadoned you
as if he stabbed you into the back and sent you on a suicide mission
but please
know you are my symbol of hope
you are my hero
the woman i wish to emulate and be
you are the one i pray for at sunday night dinners while holding the one hand of my black mother and the other hand of my white father
hoping one day america can sing free at last and actually mean that
hoping one day america can be blended and still be considered alright
hoping america will stop painting pictures in only black and white

There were grass-hoppers once, in these fields of green.

Leaf-hoppers too and a myriad other tiny wing'ed ones.

Now bees fidget fretfully along the hedgerows.

Lady-bugs, now only the twelve-spot greenhouse slaves.

Monsanto's beetles badgering them as they fiddle.

These ditches that once housed frogs and musk-rat, ferocious diving beetles,

The sky absent the wheeling martins, the boisterous larks.

Gone the pests, I rue the dearth,

bring me back my mud, my earth.

Never was I annoyed by them, always an ally that buggy thing,

Who yet knows how the June bugs sing?

Shimmering Sea

Sitting at my cluttered desk
I’ve just attacked a rabbit
with a knife. Don’t fret,
it was an Easter gift,
a golden bunny bebowed
and belled, the chocolate
incised and brought to light,
rich and dark so keenly
comforting aside the coffee
beaned from Nepal.

Her gift so lovingly given
I bless her ever-thoughtfulness,
and turn my thoughts
to see her walking by the sea,
on the cliff path
by the shimmering,
glimmering sea, always
at her right hand, blue,
an April blueness
barely a footstep from
a vertical drop through
the light-filled air . . .


Heady Scents

Fox, she would say,
without so much as
a sudden sniff,
and carry on her way
alert to all and everything.
And I would wonder,
Fox? But I had not been
schooled to recognize
a creature’s scent,
though sensitive always
to the human kind:
that sweetness after ***
found in Cupid’s gym.
So the subtle coconut
of bright-flowering gorse
and garlic woodland-wild
when trodden under foot.
will have to do instead.


Brimstone and Blues

Well, the sea is blue today,
why not the butterflies too?
though seen, it seemed
for a second,
fluttering at her feet,
tumbling indecisively
in flickering flight,
then gone: to leave
a stain of perfect blue
upon the retinal cells.


Peacocks (not butterflies)

I thought it was a peacock’s cry,
but it turned to be a turkey
out in the orchard next
our path to the sea.

Such an unpleasant-looking
bird whose tatty hind-feathers
rose as its blood-red throat
trembled with venomous
indignation at our presence.

Sad creature,
so ugly,
a troubling form
lacking grace or line,
majesty or wonder,
colour or display
of the pave cristasus.


Skylarks

Larking skywards
in the soft spring
vertiginous blueness
of the daylight heavens,
on song with circular breath,
seaward and away.
We only saw it descend
and heard the formants
change of its harmoniced
voice as it brushed
the standing crop,
finally fell,
and disappeared.


Swallows

Martins maybe?
Surely swifts?
But swallows?
Not yet awhile.

Some similar birds
fresh from flight
across southern seas
appeared, tumbled over,
shook the blue air,
then disappeared, as
suddenly greedy for grubs,
insectivously joyful,
so glad to be over land
once more.


Stonechats

I take your word for it
(having still to finish
the birding book you gave
at Christmas). Sounds right:
the sound of two stones
being rubbed together?
This robin-sized bird,
though dumpy in comparison,
who likes to sit on a gorse bush
and flick it wings; a nervous habit
some might say.


Blue on Blue

The sea in your eyes
is blue on blue
dear friend, dear lover
of my earthy self
whose eyes are browny-green,
whilst your’s own cloudless sky,
reflect the still shimmering sea.


A Ruined Castle

In a gap between
Purbeck Hills.
the Castle of Corfe
stands tall yet ruined.
Kaikhosru Sorabji
once lived in its sight,
composer, pianist, recluse.
Owning a cottage
he called The Eye,
with a Steinway Grand
and a cat called Jami  -
he wrote long complex music
people found difficult to play.
Eventually forbidding
all performances, he died
aged 96 - in 1988.
A curious man.


A Complete Castle

This must be an Italianate folly,
hardly ruined but complete.
We’d stopped for tea,
both hot and thirsty.
You’d hoped for ice cream
but had to wait for another day,
another place.

Had we not a train to catch,
and two miles still to walk,
we might have sat on its balcony
high above the shimmering sea,
and whilst eating ice cream,
looked on the sight of Lot’s Wife,
that white and final pillar of chalk
far out in Alum bay.


A Chapel

Profoundly square,
on a cliff-top high,
buttressed to its cardinal points
with a single window,
with a single door,
this chapel stands
where St Aldhelm
of Malmesbury,
would sing his sermons,
and, just for fun, some
hexametric enigmata
(riddles to you and me)

From his weaver’s riddle, Lorica:

non sum setigero
lanarum uellere facto
Nec radiis carpor duro
nec pectine pulsor

I am not made from
the rasping fleece of wool,
no leashes pull [me] nor
garrulous threads reverberate . . .


A Lighthouse

Brilliant white
and thoroughly walled about,
squat and unmanned,
it sits begging for
a crashing wave,
a serious storm,
but not today.
The sea is still,
calm and gently lapping
against the rocks below.


A Steam Train**

At Swanage station
just in time,
and amply satisfied
by our twelve-mile walk,
we settled ourselves
on bench-like seats
in the carriage
next the engine as
56XX Tank No.6695
took on water,
built up steam
for the seven-mile ride
past Heston Halt,
past Harman’s Cross
to Castle Corfe.

A circuit made
in seven hours
by path and rail.

hmph... where are the open mics?

This coffee-bean bag city abound

with eclectic fusions of wireless access

enter-the-net -abilities

Kenya to Columbia / slow, dark roasts...

and Napa Valley vineyards

intermingling

at Cream...

How oddly bright, surrounded by glass

windows--like discovery of x-ray vision,

through clear walls i see how packed

like an iMac convention it is

inside...

   Poetry readings: Yahoo local search directed us here,

barista-scented alcoholic webmasters

thin-legged tables laid out like a life-sized

chess board--us three white rooks performing

black bishop moves to the cashier;

curious like George as to where

in Carmen-cool-San Diego,

in this glowing rubix cubed place;

   where in the fluoresent skin of Comp-USA borne

peoples of the web, where

where oh where's the poetry?

Reading Vista-windows rather than obsolescent-absolutes

of books by Keats

or obsessive-compulsive Koontz...

   Though bright and machine-warm, Cream

felt metallic-shiny, slick as plastic; conversations

with an electric hiss

rather than a hum of heart-beats and laughter

where's the **** poetry??

   the readings?

a prolific geek or Hemingway refined older men

on a single microphone;

turn-table-tales in rhyme

on a platform made by the local grind

college theatre teckies (staple-gunned and glued)...

where are those poets?

   those spoken-word-wisdoms, writers

performing, even in their Goth-blacks, even in

their Seattle angst of cordoruoys or dock martins;

forget Starbucks, leave behind Jitterz,

the Expresso Roma is the poetry of coffee

no enterprise

can replicate

duplicate the unique...

   sadly i must concede, the spoken word

and poetic fluffers are a dying breed; as far as

i can web-surf, no place

houses them any longer, no more

do they sprinkle their pixie-dust of verse

or prose, mosaics,

fantastics of floral or funk

imagery and emotional

stark revelations of discovery...

   sadly--it is the day's turning of a page;

***** is the word,

adverb to lost horizons, i am

a dinosaur of the mess-no-beatnik-era,

"poet-a-sore-is-rest"

deep thoughts' ooze now the blood of

{fingers snapping} history

"yeah, man, cool...outta sight"

and i'm not yet extinct;

i am a teradactyl with so much sky

soon without a place to land, / below

crash into the matrix sea--Cream pixelates my woes...

communication has become a plastic factory

to Japan, and Europe, my inner "screeeeech!"

"where is the poetry?!"

theloraxformula




i am getting to the point of my day
when
waking
up
is like making my way through a battlefield
where Valkyries live in my stomach
when I lay on my back and count my ribs
(what I can feel of them)
and stand only to find my head hurting…again
and I am realizing that your love
isn’t
worth
this.

but this isn’t really about you, is it?
it’s about power
and control
like feeling like a god of titans on a
volcano about to erupt
feeling like pele burning through bones & calories
and feeling some sense
of pretty while
starving myself to death.

but your love
isn’t worth
that
it isn’t worth counting calories in my sleep
playing mad mathematician with meals
weeks in advance
knowing the caloric value of everything in my university’s cafeteria
by heart
and feeling like
passing out when I try to tie the
laces of my doc martins.

your love isn’t worth that
and neither is the hate I have for myself

Andrew Gn

Probably the most prolific Singaporean designer, Gn graduated from the renowned Saint Martins School of Art and Design in London and the Domus Academy in Milan before joining Emanuel Ungaro in 1992. He launched his namesake label in 1996, establishing a fan base among the Parisian high society and A-list celebrities such as Jessica de Rothschild and Sarah Jessica Parker for his luxurious fabrics and exquisite embellishments. Gn was awarded the President’s Design Award in 2007 and is stocked in all the major continents, with his atelier based in the Le Marais district in Paris.

Ashley Isham

The other Singaporean high fashion designer to hit big time in the international circuit, Isham established his namesake label in London in 2000, and is a show fixture at London Fashion Week. The label is known for its sharp, contemporary tailoring and high-octane glamour, and is a hit among film, TV and music stars as well as British royalty.

Aijek

Self-taught designer Danelle Woo creates easy-breezy, ultra-feminine pieces in sustainable fabrics. Aijek is stocked at multi-label boutiques in China, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Indonesia, Latin America, the Middle East and the United States.

Depression

The neo-Gothic ready-to-wear label’s stark, minimalist designs are stocked in Hong Kong, Belgium, Japan and the U.S., and counts celebrities like Adam Lambert and The Black-Eyed Peas as fans.

Sabrina Goh

The feted Singaporean designer stocks her easy-to-wear pieces from her namesake label at multi-label boutiques in the United States, the Fred Segal store in Japan and a London-based online store Not Just A Label.

Max Tan

The avant-garde label features experimental silhouettes and a contemporary artistic flair, and is stocked in Europe, the Middle East, San Francisco and Taiwan.

Benjamin Barker

This stylish menswear brand founded by designer Nelson Yap in 2009 now has two stores in Melbourne and offers custom tailoring as well. It also offers shipping to Australia and New Zealand via its website BenjaminBarker.co. .

In Good Company

The well-loved minimalist label with unusual silhouettes fronted by designers Sven Tan and Kane Tan is stocked in Hong Kong at Kapok, at various departmental stores in Jakarta, Indonesia, including Sogo, Seibu and Galleries Lafayette Jakarta and in New York’s Saks Fifth Avenue.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

The night flopped over the chimney tops
and dripped from the guttering as
the day broke through in spots
I could hear the house martins sing.

The radio sizzled, the
bacon crackled,
on the range was a pan
full of porridge from the
morning before.

Boots by the door which were itching to go
everything's slow when you want to go fast but
at last we were out on the last day of the world,(a
game that we played where zombies were real and
they were coming for us to make of us a meal)

Each day is a  bonus where the onus to be, is
the King of all castles, the Queen of all seas and
to seize with both hands the hands of all friends.
The day ends with a call from,
Mother, you know,
everything goes fast when it ought to go slow.

The hum of the fan
sings a lullaby
as the stress of the day
falls out of the muscles

An angels cloud of a pillow
my head sinks in
covers pulled up high
warm in my womb

The sheep ramble bye
one bye one
and slowly transform
into nothing

The sandmans dust
has been sprinkled
and rapid eye movement begun
falling into the land of dreams

Landing softly
in a newly mown green field
with knee deep patches
of bluebonnets and Indian paint brushes

A creek trickles nearby
its lulling sound
a salve for any remaining pain
brim swim in its cool waters

In the distance
snow capped mountains
haloed by the sun
that hides behind it

Cottontail rabbits
on the move
pay me no mind
on their journey

The purple martins
sing their song
interrupted
by the mockingbird

A whitetail doe
and her two spotted fawns
ease by, head down,
munching on grass

Calmed, and relaxed
breathing easy and rhythmic
eyes dart around
taking in the beauty of the dream

The king wears Doc Martins
For booting tardy servants
And the servants grovel meekly
Whilst planning dire retribution
Come the day, you old *******
Come the glorious day

The queen is in the bike shed
Letting down random tyres
Throwing stones through windows
To while away the hours
Oh! the trial of royal boredom
With a castle and pointed towers

The princess lives in the highest tower
And spits on passers by below
Sometimes she uses a catapult
To fire cats at nearby nobles
And the nobles mutter curses
Whilst bowing so very low

But now that it's Christmas time
And the royals anticipate gifts
But the royal tree hides nothing, you see
Because these things are never missed
And the sleigh did not stay
And Santa did not call

                                       By Phil Roberts

“Graceless Ravens Envy You,” by Eric Robert Nolan

Revel in apostasy.
You are the black dove, hovering
High in an inklike arc.

Blacker, even, than
coal-colored wolves in onyx lines seeking
quarry at starless midnight.

More ebon, even, than
narrow sable blacksnakes staying
cravenly in shade at noon.

Darker, even, than
murders of crows, newly legion at Autumn, amassing
among saw-wing martins at dusk.

You’re blacker, even, then the rooks.
Graceless ravens envy you.

Remember your rebirth?
The sun rose,
Your birdsong changed and then
the questions flew from your beak
faster even than the wrens?
Faster than you could fly?
For a moment, they rendered
all the world obsidian.

Remember your feathers burning?
Sunlight striking your wings and then
all the slow alabaster there
singing, quickening into
aerodynamic black?
Remember the flock’s suspicion?

Remember your siblings, the nest?
Remember when
all their pearl heads turned
their backlit crowns in morning sun
ringed so thinly in shining ivory?

Their song was interrupted,
Yours was made a query —
empiricism’s aria.
Flustered, they fluttered
at all the low notes.
There were all immaculate;
you were the color of night.

Now you arc alone —
soar and sin and sing,
unrepentant one.

Somewhere an ordinary dog,
awakening from shadow,
howls at the sun.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2015

Clover honey sunshine o'er Sassafras rivers
Proud Martins sing for notoriety , full bloom-
white sugar , shivers in the afternoon pasture
Our last Raven of the hard day season
Roaster , stained glass color kinda holidays -
liquid Kildare clover valleys , euphoric July nightshades

You’re haunting me
Rattling my bones with such a sweet song
The melody is setting my spine in a way
that causes my teeth to ache  
It’s the first taste of devastating paired with final notes of irreparable

I have your memory
Buried underneath my bed
slipped between folded up t-***** and double knotted
into the laces of my doc martins
hidden yet taken with me everywhere I go
It’s gonna end up driving me mad if I let it  

You’re haunting me
Yet here I am trying to exorcize my past
sinking my memories of you
right back into your dusted bones
I have you rolling over in your grave
Assured in your afterlife
this secret and I would go quietly into the night
Only I came back screaming

(my knuckles are skinned to the bone)
(but I will keep fighting. I will keep fighting)

I hear you singing in victory
Can you hear me
Answering back

- A secret for the night

'Brownleaf Chestnut giants rattle like Spanish dancers , maracas crackle in the changing wind , do perform auburn 'Lover of Autumn' before the plenteous , frosted daughter of Winter , before Sun sprinkled dale , fig , lilac
Atop the red-rock spillway , as the piping martins , the whippoorwill
question , the wild goose direction
Voice of the swallow , of tenderness and regal griffin
Coppering , flint sparked showers upon the grindstone , mesmerizing  
twilight orbs , polished gems , starlight Guatemalan priestess* ....

just when the provincials spoke the common tongue and ensured the urbanites were demasked, and all courtesy went out the window, and there were no actors left to fake an air of superiority and a stiffening of the upper lip... when the urbanites became baptised in a river of dung, mud and fear - and couldn't play our a theatrical adaptation of pseudo Oscar Wilde's: Airs and Superstitions... the champagne bottle-neck was chopped off in the countryside, not in the prosthetic urban environment... and god that bothered them... they could no longer fake being ultra-pro-xeno when in fact wholly anti - even having ethnically cleansed the Caribbeans to speak their own racist tongue didn't help much.

eye on the prize, there she sat, in the shop-window,
a beauty, a mandolin -
with my student loan un-amused i bought her
working three nights a week for a month
in a nightclub carrying empty glasses from
the dance floor and toilets -
got her in the end, my dear Antoinette mandolin;
all i ever wanted was to play the end
of Rod Steward's Maggie May to a girl
from a revised scene of Romeo & Juliet -
played it, her amused but she can no longer be seen,
unless crisscrossing South America in some weird
Paulo Coelho novel alt. - thinking a pharaoh would
be hiding cremated in a top hat along
with Alice's first impressions of wonderland -
years later i bought a Martins' & Son guitar
on debit, my ex-girlfriend's father ****** it up,
and gave my mandolin up for free -
the nightclub where i earned her? ***** near
the Edinbrugh train station - being almost cornered and *****
and serving my fellow compatriots of study made me
leave - not before i earned the mandolin -
the shop? *Scayles Music - they have no
jealousy on me these days, and i'd frankly give
writing up for my former health, i don't care
what readership i get - i'll keep at it - they can
submit their little Kafkaesque interrogations making
me into a fool - sure, they can, but we all serve
the higher lord above the knee-bending baron of god -
death claims us all - for the life i've had
i find it strangely appreciative to have a chance to
write it, and all the more thankful to live a cameo life,
because i hardly think it's proper to write
a book after having climbed Mt. Everest... it's just bad
etiquette (lack of tact) - the lesser life demands literate affairs -
the grander lifer demands portraits on horseback
and in the finest attire -
but what i accomplished thoroughly was buying
a mandolin, playing Rod Stewart's Maggie May outro,
and that's that... for the love of Scotland,
among the inbreeding locals of English suburbia -
proven by a low haemoglobin count of passion-fuelled
pigmentation, passions reduced to xenophobia rather
than xenophilia.

My alter ego has pixie short, electrifying purple hair
she is unafraid of being bold
she's got tattoos on her wrists, doc martins on her feet, ebony black talons, and a voice that booms to declare her presence
my alter ego is a sass master and snark shark
she can call you out on your b.s. faster than you can bat an eye
she will swing that bat at your eye, she's not afraid of using her words as defense weapons
but she knows when to stop speaking
one night I was speaking to my alter ego, asking her how in the world did she get to be so brave?
she laughed and said
darling, it's always been in us, you just haven't unsheathed the sword yet
you've been too busy hiding behind the shield, you forgot you know how to wield
you fight with gentleness, not bite
and that's okay
I shrunk further back into my bed, while she, larger than life, thunked me on the head, said you'll get there, kiddo
and suddenly she vanished, with a mischievous glint in her eye, disappeared to cause change.
-
-z.z

We love urban, ice wrapper choc full, dense with matter, cream the power runs through, finding space, each cell. Unit, one by one, stacked upon deck, pile, floating concrete and multi access path. Crank each floor, glass patent steel, glint the Thames, Humber and Clyde, a boat in the reflection, slum cleared gentle penthouses on the other side. Dogged, ***** not allowed, Barking, Hackney, Toxteth, Little Ireland aka Cardiff gone. Dodo, hatchet, escalate poverty, high rise cool, the high rise flat.  Crowning glory, a sea of chiming memories, stirs the tenement cat. Swept beneath the paradigm, catapult off the parapet, somersault into a different time, moonlit skyscrapers, street sweepers become the concrete and the fifty foot glass dancers, cross between the cargo arches, gargoyles and shields bring them to the ground. The twisted metal of prams and brand new cars grind, traffic in drones, and the city drowns. Strip turn central, gorgeous girl, Hoxton lad, a touch too Dad, deposit on a Liverpool street pad, generation retro spinning fractal, money linear pavement uber yellow, scuttling insects and street martins, skylarks flying Saint Pauls cross and ball bearings, shopping centres unending. Biting into Cheapside, the hidden livers, gold delivers, pure to stay the shivers, the office block rises. Sharp bends, the bridge divides, shark rides the sky, dumps the bank and pierces its side, docks in every city worldwide, rivers pink with the ticklish blood of regicide. Pumpish, Victorian, sweet and blue, the older the City the quicker the glue. Mortar rectified a moment to ***** and overawe you. Shock, new wave architecture, backhanded awe. Brum pill wave beast eat your heart out, find another Chinese storm, currency blizzard, scales hardly balance, aha you had it, now you simply own. Own the moment, the pebbledash, corrugated roof, outside toilet and underground transit. We love urban, your moment we cherish and drain, there is nothing we can’t refuse to understand, too complex to refrain. Bounce as we ride the terrace and its suburban long train. Take your sweetheart on the nightbus, ****** him her, the hier of your plane, that’s where they will love you in the memories of the life near the top floor, and the final flight you were too drunk to gain. Seventy Two, you’re only thirty and you’re on forty one. You’ll fall back or you’ll begin ascendency. Shrink with wisdom, pick up the building, a tool, dreaming of scaling London, young a journeyman, jousters young son, learned, resisted the gun. I’ll fight with two hands, pile bricks or guide with a pen. Draw your city, write my memory, bind moment with every fragment, underpath, cycle through. Lights fading, jumping colours in the district where the girls who live the density beyond you and me, each element boiling their hearts and steaming potent New York’s paths. You had poetry in the apron of your mother’s lap, golden syrup and milky sap. You love urban, fifties bubble contrast in your seventies shunted through urban oasis and with that unknown factor, uber bijou, ‘Finding Nemo’ flat. We are urban, you are fashion, you are the generation that copied that, found the culture in the swinging city, post uni shack. Seven Eleven, Atlantic side heaven, promised more than double checking your watch before bedtime. Look at your daughter, she’s got ‘more than’ you hoped for, already in the palm of her sleeping hands, waking up to a metropolis only she will understand.

Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys

Sitting on the floor
Watching James bond overpower foes.
A complicated character with
A subtle ethic, ice-chilled wrath –
Most of all, a yogic path
Of duty and detachment;
Yogic while the villain,
Mega-bombs his own routinely -
Ligaments and muscles blown,
Royal houses overthrown!
And yet we have so much in common.

Villain cool, detached but mean,
Followers his **** machine.
Bond the Lancelot,
Jaw-dropping stunts his lot,
Fencing, boxing, crashing cars;
Fights and scars his calling cards –
And when in need of surgery
He heals quickly.

Evil lurks, Bond never shirks, and still
His life is filled with perks:
Hotel suites, girls en suite,
Dry martinis, Aston Martins (note the plural)
Sure of all
And unequivocal
Bond’s megastar, ideal and idol.

This poet rather fond of Bond,
Both yogis of a different kind:
He the running, driving soldier,
I, the yogi on the floor,
Each connected to a power.
Grinding skills the Bond-dynamic,
Mine the tranquil skill-iambic.

I give in to un-excitement’s
Ordinary daily yoga;
Bond the knight with right to ****
(Nice guy James with license, aimed at
Ordinary evil ogres -
There you see the box of riddles:
Bond the paradox in middle
Fighting off the oh, so evil bad guys!


Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys 2.10.2015/revised 8.28.2016
Circling Round Yoga II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;
Arlene Corwin

Just another girl forging the beat.
Led zeppelin on her tee shirt,  doc martins on her feet.

She walks with a stride
Then blames it on pride,  when really it's the tight leather that surrounds her feet.

Play her any two songs and she'll just nod along.
She'll be wearing a new band in a week.
Letting trends set,  before she takes a hold. Last week she liked her coffee hot, this week she likes it cold.
She went from liking guys with long hair to men who are bald.
And so on and so forth, now she's getting old.

Her youth waisted hiding behind a face painted with short lived fads.
'I'm a lesbian,  this is how I was born, this is who I am, dad.'

Ladies and gentlemen!
To you, this seems a simple set of stairs
mildly vertiginous perhaps,
but no real challenge
with careful steps
and grip upon the bannister
even granny still manages

But I, The Great Fearlesso,
for one day only will attempt the impossible:
down the stairs in a sleeping bag!

Yes, your frightened gasps are suitable
(at least I assume that’s what the sound was
as it was a bit like tutting)
but I will not be dissuaded

I ask my glamorous assistant/mum
to help me into the bag of doom
with as much grace as a baby elephant
on roller skates

And here upon this precipice I pause,
my life flashing before my eyes
Look! There’s last week!

I peek through my fingers at the drop
and though my bottle is challenged
I, glorious I, commit!

I go, and the bumbled blur
of carpeted steps is lost
in the howling hiss of synthetic materials
I am tumble dried to an almighty
thump...

And dazed, I rise
to the thunderous applause of the cat
I stand and take my bow

Then do it twenty more times

"if i had a son, he'd look like trayvon." barack hussein obama
there will never be justice on stolen land.
be concerned of the people,
and the system,
and the philosophy.
nights like these i fear:
having a son
having a black son
being black
being American
being a woman
being...
i fear raising a murderer or the murdered, of spending the rest of my life scared of a shadow, or becoming one.
victimized.
they only regard our kind when we shake the grounds in anger, when our voices boom off the walls and translate into violence. we are marching Martins.
i fear my son carrying his struggles on his shoulders, doning a black cloak like his black hood.
i can't watch him die again.
no black boy should feel like dirt when their pigment is golden.