Week One – Poems written in response to Photo 1 by Chris Sims
15 poems entered which is a fantastic result. Thank you.
Please read and submit your votes to susan@poetryspace.co.uk Think about what poem you would like to see alongside the photo in the proposed book.
Poets with a poem in this selection are ineligible to vote. This is to make voting as fair as possible.
Everyone else reading this is eligible to vote and I will also be inviting Poetry Space “friends” and others on the mailing list to vote for the one they like best.
Poem 1
Curtain raises;
the audience
are under starters orders.
Rows of ready readers
contemplate the stage
hiding for the moment in
emotions on the page
of some playwrights
imagination.
And, in their hidden worlds,
they’re escaping the mundane
for a land of makebelieve
and second handed pain.
Curtain closes;
the audience
are off at the gallop.
Keith Wallis
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Poem 2
One Night…
Mother, the moon has fallen from the sky!
The beautiful strings that held it up
are broken.
Gill McEvoy
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Poem 3
Open tabs
Softening fibres
going forth towards a circle of warmth
motionless like an unborn
velvet rainbows gathered waiting
a planned rendezvous.
Audrey Arden Jones
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Poem 4
It was raining,
It was friday,
It was Leicester
And for goodness sake it was Bailey’s
The taxi dropped her off just near M & S
She paid quickly and ran to work .
Jamie had been crying all day
“Thank Christ for Mam” she thought
She made it to the solid black door
And was greeted by Paul
With his obligatory three day beard , cigarette and coffee in hand.
Then down the narrow corridor to the cupboard that the girls called a dressing room
There was a picture of Gary on the wall, 23 and a Leicester boy could you believe it .
She carefully did her make up , brightened her tired eyes
Put a little rouge into her pale cheeks .
Then did her hair into those kissy curls that the punters like so much.
The knock at the door came :
“five minutes love”
The sequins were on
The glitter was on
The short skirt and the bra
Everything that moved was a glow.
Then the walk to the stage
She came alive her hips assumed a swagger
And her body became her weapon
She could see the thin curtain with its rainbow of colours in the smoky lights.
It was moving ever so slightly calling her like bejewelled ribbbons
And the old floor
Worn by the feet of all the girls who had gone before
Lights ,camera , action this was her moment
And she was on in the golden spotlight once more …
Andy Scotson
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Poem 5
Spotlit
Could a poem convey the intensity
of a small spotlight? Could it iridesce
to come alive for each reader?
Could it hide the muscularity of language
with the grace of a dancer?
Cover its minimalism with layers of costume?
Make its workings effortless and flawless?
Does it need applause or could it take root
and grow silently in a forest?
Could it be as delicate as a budding rose,
waiting for the full bloom to distract
from the thorns and snares below its petals?
Could it create an impression that burns
onto a retina long after its been read?
Could its rhythm reverberate,
hours, days, months afterwards?
Could its lines linger, hook into a memory
and stay after linguistic connections fail?
Emma Lee
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Poem 6
The Interrogation
The space waits
Lit by a small spot
Of light which, like an iris,
Can be expanded or contracted at will
By an operator perched high on a rig.
The stage is lit for my interrogation:
They will drag me on.
I will blink and tell amazing stories
Regarding the plight of rabbits and pigs
And sick dragons blundering about…
The spectators will boo or cheer,
A great rush of adrenalin will move through me,
The curtains will descend at last to finish it
Like a flaming battlement of spears. I bow.
They will come and drag me off.
Clive Donovan
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Poem 7
Rainbow Night
The full moon smiles
on the black-ink depths
of a woodland pool
and fairies, wings
neatly folded,
slide down
moonbeams
that shimmer
with rainbows.
They giggle in squeaks,
shed gossamer frocks,
and titillate their nightly audience
of moths and mice and wide-eyed owls
by skinny dipping
Di Coffey
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Poem 8
The Absent Black Swan
Acquiescence, light ray, sun ray
Ribbons of my DNA
Tells a story when the light
Torches the ground I am thus to be of a creative soul
Curtains up
Absent the dancer whose stage has been drawn
Allow my imagination to make use then
Of this space, allow me to picture in view
A ballerina on this stage graced
With swerves and turns and tip toe stands
With twirls, and twirls
And tutu flair worn
Tell me a story about life with dance
Tell me a story about the black swan
Was she once pure, as white as snow
Was she once kind hearted welcoming to all
Did life do this, cheat her of her heart
I cannot believe she was born this cold
Seeing the lights, the strings that fall
I cannot believe she would ignore her stage
Kodjo Deynoo
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Poem 9
Jazz Singer
Into the limelight you step
feel white heat burn, split rainbow
spots of lavender, indigo
blue. Cocooned around
your shoulders glossy shawl
of brass, of strings, of timpani.
The clockwork alchemists of swing
await from you: thumb-click,
tempo rhythm, key that turns
them on to play your tune.
Bold brass horn interprets
graph of notes, plays two bars in,
you catch its breath, gyrate
hips, warm air inside eager
to part your lips, allow the tempo’d
lyricism’s flow. The moment
you release, your sound leaps out
projects, bounces on a
trampoline… the ups the downs
are second nature to you now.
Your pressing lungs emit
curved air waves filtering
through vocal chords, your cavity
of bone and skin vehicles
all pain, all joy, the tearful
spectrum of humanity.
Encircling light your arms reach out,
you spill into a fly’s eye mic
intangibility of soul.
Cheekbones glow, eyes spangle
sequined light, hands percolate
the air, your space expanding
to the outer deep-pooled shadow
in the room. People stand and sit,
receive diffusions: vowels,
tone and pitch of syllables,
semantic cadences, interwoven
patterns sublimely caught.
Your last long utterance fades
into a whispered breath.
Instruments at rest, the call
unsated, more more, each song
funnels reciprocity,
each crafted melody
stealing particles of you.
Angela Platt
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Poem 10
Drawing Curtains
I didn’t know I could feel such interest
From the early light that came in, just as you drew
A sketch of your day arrived at my window
Dark, grey clouds hurrying, disappearing, to let you in
It was like a ‘Big Top’ extravaganza
Attention, roll up, roll up come and see
My lounge now filled with new laughter and cheer
Of finished winter light, and activities.
Clowns, dancing horses and spring birds sing
A spotlight, everything soon to be green and yellow.
Johanna Boal
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Poem 11
Strands and Hands
Hands of transience
Beckon and quiver in the drifting mind
Of a blackened, intimate room.
Quiet stillness, a constant beacon,
Hands of serenity reach out
And soft angels quake and beat butterfly wings,
Whispering behind pillars of stone,
Shrouded in darkness:
‘Hands of transience, welcome,
and colours of luminescence, of the divine,
Offer up yourselves and never let darkness rule.’
Hannah Sgroi
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Poem 12
Empty Stage
The rainbow dips to limelight
silk merges red, blue, green
gold turns autumn brown.
The stage is set waiting
the boards hold their breath
lingering for a fall of stars
banishing the silence.
Carolyn O’Connell
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Poem 13
England’s Circus.
The flat bleak eastern european plains of Lincolnshire
near The Romany Museum at Cowbit (pronounced ‘Cubbitt’)
hosting The Big Top.
I am talking with the clown in a dirty high-viz vest
about artistic integrity,narrative,selling England by the pound.
It is not the time.
Lights have to be fixed
and the ringmaster in his palaced and articulated abode
is wondering if the Romanian high-wire act
will plank the mud over by the ticket-office,in time.
Sylvie,the contortionist,recently wrenched from her mother
is explaining her three cracked vertebrae.
I suggest her blocks might be
bronze and silver and gold.
She says they are already
black and white.
Peter Handley
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Poem 14
Last Exit
As the final curtain falls
I glimpse the empty stage,
the spotlight
fading
away.
I remove my make-up,
my features old in the mirror.
I hang up my costume
for the last time,
script closed,
last prompt made,
props taken away,
stage hands gone home,
no fans waiting at the door.
I walk away preparing
for my final role –
Retired-Has-Been
trudging lonely streets,
draining glasses alone,
reliving Hamlets of the past
and Lears that moved audiences
into tears.
I can still hear the adulation of crowds,
feel the pressure of fans,
see flashing bulbs of photographers,
sense the eagerness of reporters
pursuing their latest story.
I can still smell the theatre,
and recall heights I once touched…
The curtain’s down,
the spotlight fading
Into nothingness.
Evan J Jones
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Poem 15
Spotlight
come-go out
to the auditorium
and think-gaze
at the bold curtains
a pen a yielding pen Ah Play-pen
Oh Act 1 Scene 1
reeds are growing
up-along daring folds of velvet
ruby sapphire gold
to pierce the dark day
release a drop of light
to fall
and spot the ever-ready stage
Mary Maher
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And continuing the challenge with a photo for Week 2 – send in your poem responses by Friday 25th October please
All weekly winning poems will be shortlisted for inclusion in a coffee table style book of poems and photographs. Proposed
publication date October 2015.
Week 2 - Photo by Taz Baldwin
