Featured Poet of the Month: Joshua Seigal

Joshua studies Philosophy at University College London, and hopes to continue doing Philosophy as a postgraduate. He writes mainly around the themes of childhood and memory; he has written for as long as he can remember and never stop reflecting on the minutiae of the everyday. He became seriously interested in poetry after studying Philip Larkin at school. As far as fiction goes he is mainly interested in 20th century American literature, but thus far has not had the patience to write a sustained piece of prose, although he offers: I’m working on it!

Keats’s House

I sent you some things I had written, with a message
giving you my considered opinion that yours is the
one that matters to me most. I had always given
time to your preferences, which were often irrational,
and I must admit that I balked at your pretension in reading
Keats for fun, or professing Shakespeare to be anything
other than the drudgery they made us learn in school.

I don’t know why but I could never really bring myself
to love those old, dead guys. Even the best of them only
served to quilt the sandpaper walls of the classroom with
a slight, filmy gauze, but you told me otherwise. I
could never tell whether you really meant it or whether
you wanted to paint yourself with a cultured brush like
countless other sixth-form larvae starting newly to hatch,
but you seemed to know and you seemed to care about books.

And I know and I care about you. Maybe not as much
as myself (I hate to confess that this is true) which
is why I scraped off the skin from the bowl of sour milk
containing some thoughts I had written in ignorance
of whether others cared, and which is why you were my first
port. Your familiar lighthouse lured my scribbling
drifting yacht. I groped at the ether for an anchor
and in its absence I made do with the next best thing –

A person. Just starting out yourself. Perhaps it is
that I’m too scared to seek out professors of the art
and offload my pile of question-marks onto them. Their
scepticism gives me nothing but the urge to give up
and curl up and cry, but yours makes me want to extend
a grasping arm and try harder, and not stop until
I reach the end and can see that I’ve pleased both boys and men.
You are only a boy: I’m not insulting you – when

I compare myself I see that I am a zygotic imp
mischievously turning pages in picture-books whilst
the teacher is talking. At least you’re on the stage
to something. And that’s why I sent you those words.
That’s why your voice on the end of the phone, calling from
a different town, was the only one that mattered. That’s why
I came to you and not mum or dad – they know my insides
too well but nothing of what they have to say. I came
to the boy who walked with me through Keats’s house in Rome.

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Primary School Victorian Project

When I was young I asked a silly question.
My ears still retain the hooting laughter -
The howls of derision and disdain
Before each new enquiry. And after
The query, in the interlude before the reply,
I half-expect to see James’s face contort,
To hear Alan’s big nose emit a snort
And Miss Rose to bury her face and sigh.

In olden days they used no anaesthetic –
Miss Rose said in front of the video.
An actress lay prone in a hospital bed,
Fake gangrene covering her leg, and so
They fetched a doctor, who gave her some gin
To dull the pain, then the surgeons came in.
Some medical students were sitting on benches
Watching the screaming, the slices and wrenches.

After a while, Miss Rose turned it off.
We went to our seats, tore a page from our folders,
Wrote Victorian Operations, in neat blue letters,
And she asked if we had questions for her.
I put up my hand, and heard myself blurt:
Without anaesthetic do you reckon it hurt?

Looking back now, of course, I should have asked
What I’d meant: to what extent would the drink
Have affected the pain? And that, I think,
Would have been a reasonable question.
Back then the class laughed while I cried in the loos,
So now I’m careful with the words I choose.

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Nothing is Mandatory

Nothing is mandatory:
a good maxim to keep in mind
when trying to live.

Nothing holds us down – no quicksand contracts
ready to haul us under; no pointed rifle
with us in its sights.
There’s no moon now,
no gravity.
no scabbing from handcuffs on our arms;
no sting but the inflammation of liberty.

I’ve felt the legs pulled under, and a taut rope burn
across the chest. I’ve seen proud minds
cave inwards.

I’ve seen wide white eyes turn powder grey and seem to forget
that nothing here is mandatory.

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My Brainchild

(apologies, Daniel Dennett)

This is my brainchild –
my mind’s eye’s phenotype.

It’s a double-helix wending
its way from earth to sky;
it’s an emergent foal
with a long way to fall.

It needs love and sustenance.
It will recognise the contours
of your face
and become attached,
forging human bonds
above the amoebic track.

Look after my brainchild,
for now it’s yours and I
can never take it back.

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Looking for Snails

He likes them, I don’t know why.
I lift up a stone and find a woodlouse,
and I say look, it’s a woodhouse,
but all he wants is a snail.

So I dig in the dirt and find a worm,
he smiles weakly and walks away.
I tell him we’ll look again another day
but he says, no, I want to find a snail.

I find the neat indentations in the leaves
carved out by the teeth of a ladybird
and giant slugs under clods of earth
but all he wants is a snail.

And on the way home, I walk to my car
and there on the pavement,
waiting, is a portent, a present,
a plump, ripe, juicy snail.

I put it on a leaf and put it in the car
and drive home smiling, thinking of him,
I leave my car to wait overnight
but the next day the snail is gone:

It left a faint trail on the floor.

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Poetry More Poetry More Poetry More

Kerry-Fleur Schleifer

Episodes Of Light

Episodes Of Light
Grasp my collar tight
Neck bone rigid with fright

Crude like lights on Mars
Sweeps away all that sings
I wait patiently for hope

Yet marrying words
of torch bearing truths
I let the story be told

Of a forest green
Where I may have been

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Mood Of Beauty

Whispering innocence fiery
Tangible as time's steam
The Egg-God claps one eye

As newborn souls arise
To an open escape
Brooming their entrance
In dragging cloaks of gold

Channeling magic in rooms
That house vacant stares
Their Delight tells the story
That kisses daylight on the nose

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Midnight Scent

I smell your brain
Fiery and rude
Inside column's of unsolicited support

What tranquil effort has thee made
To frantically bewitch
A life of found findings?

Retreat! I say, into your
Brown, oval shaped cocoon
Let night become the kite
To lift duty from her ground

Until dust becomes dust
And light becomes sight!

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Copyrights remain with the author

Ben Barton

The Row

Coarse phrases of endearment,
perhaps – or deep-cutting insults

dredged from murky fountains
of wisdom. Every word you throw

at me, you chip, chip
Chip away another fragment, another

piece of me comes crashing
to the floor, until one day

soon, you will have smoothed
me out. I’ll be stood there

as still as Mrs Lot
pale alabaster

A stalagmite.

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Six Months After I Left the Hospital


I returned to the very same room
that ward
the site of incarceration
eerily unfamiliar
it became
the last place I saw my grandfather
clutching tightly his mask
desperately sucking the air, hoping
that life would take over.

Instead: the cancer was growing
gargantuan, a parasite
taking up his spaces, chasms
His eyes so frightened.

For the first time in my life
I kissed him
without realising
it was goodbye.

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Copyrights remain with the author

Purely Poetry Purely Poetry

Neelam Shah: Culture
 

Everywhere I look I see culture,
surrounding the world just like nature.

I gaze at the Indian saris gleaming with,
radiance just like a peacock.
I taste the spicy hot food,
that sizzles in my mouth,
like burning flames.
I am drawn towards these dances that,
symbolise the lord of the dance Shiva.

I hear the African drums beats through the sky,
I see Colourful clothing bright as the rainbow
Shines the streets,
I smell the citric exotic fruits which hides its sweetness.
I watch the carnival bringing in
joy, excitement and new life into our town

I look around to see the eye catching Chinese hidden dragons,
parading through the city of China,
I wonder who’s inside these magnificent dragons.
I tour around and admire the glorious sights
of the temples in Beijing.

I venture of to see the spectacular world in Islam
I wear the embroidered salwar kameez which,
has shimmering mirror work.
I walk around the Shalimar gardens,
thinking what peace and tranquillity there is.
I see how devoted they are to their religion,
by praying to their god and fasting.

Everywhere I look I see culture,
Surrounding the world just like nature.

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Copyrights remain with the author

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Editorial

Welcome to the May 2008 Issue of Poet's Letter Magazine. Hope the spring sparks up imagination for everyone and invites us all to live this life more so that a myth of it can sing out! Let Diamond Bite speak as the Editorial for May.

See you all (whoever could make it) at Poet's Letter's May Reading on May 12, Monday at 7:30 pm at Temple Bar, Walworth Road, London SE17.

Diamond Bite

The man was fishing being methodically
Patient was at his task readily tipsy tidy
Suddenly the scene sizzled in the lake as
The call of the catch rustled in the waves

Before all the eyes excitements flared up
Where the man was playing with the fish
To home her in this white-gold carp now
The simple catch being homed in netted

Yet my eyes were sucked in not on this
But rather what was going on in the lake
Water witnessing a power-bond a bond
Pure magic that I had never seen before

The gold-white carp being homed in was
Being followed by a glistening black one
Swimming along with his mate he won’t
Go away determined heart-beats he was

He swam with her as though caught by
An invincible string of a stronger magic
Than the fishing hook he won’t go away
He swam along being her alternate being

He swam with the caught-carp till the
Very end where he could see the faces
Or at least hear the voices floating over
The water’s transparent surface yet he

Won’t go away until the very end very
End in which I saw he found that power
Broke his elements and pushed him down
And he disappeared! How magnanimous

This power of bond this connectedness
Between two living things in the water
Where lights rained in and spring sung
He fished me in with his magic before

Drowning away and he went leaving his
Heart-beats flowing towards her as water
Fall on her sun-drenched body glistening
I was caught forever by this diamond-bite

Copyrights @ Munayem Mayenin 2008

Kloster Angel: Kerry-Fleur Schleifer

May Poet in Residence

Lucy Baker

Lake Windermere

We are sometime tourists,
forever wanderers
in open topped buses
tie-dyed amongst Mercedes’.
Stringy haired,
smelling of campfire smoke,
our pockets filled with menthol cigarettes,
tin whistles,
and skipping stones.
We find ourselves
basking in the glow of laughter
under the dripdrip
of cave music.
Beers and sticky chocolate bars
fill our tattered canvas bags,
alongside leather flip flops,
discarded for bare footed expeditions,
amongst spiders,
daisy chains,
and blood chilling streams.

Read more of Lucy's poetry at her Poet in Residence Page.

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Presenting Spanish Poetry of Natalia Carbajosa

Poet's Letter presents Dr Natalia Carbajosa's original Spanish Poetry from her latest collection, waiting publication, Desde una estrella enana.

ECLOSIÓN

I


Hay quien acostumbra contemplarse en el dorso de ajenas palabras
devuelve a su reflejo un perfil
opaco
creyendo en el trato ventajoso
de aplazar para nunca el tacto de la voz
y la propiedad del rostro

esos funámbulos de la usurpación consentida
no saben que azogues verdaderos
tiemblan de aristas en algún último bolsillo
y que el hierro de sus átomos dormidos no crea energía
sino que la consume

pero hay explosiones silenciosas
larvas enfriadas durante millones de años
que un día, casi sin querer, absorben
la materia de una estrella contigua y
traidora (así las llaman)

y comienzan, comienzan a nacer
antes de su extinción definitiva.

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II

Aquella crisálida extraviada
de su fingida naturaleza
puede tardar años luz en anunciar la deserción.
Conoce la amenaza de perderlo todo
aun cuando todo sea nada
y prefiere, de momento,
ser callado núcleo de hidrógeno
desprendido de la gravedad
hasta que llegue el tiempo jubiloso y terrible.

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III

Acaso sea tan tenue el rastro
la cola de diluida luz
los jirones de materia a duras penas
recordando, del vórtice aún reciente,
la brutalidad

que caigamos en la trampa
de una apresurada conclusión: un agujero
de nada engulló a la nada.

Mas, ¡mirad ese arrebol,
ese brillar postrero que atestigua
la permanencia del girar
caer
girar
y su mudanza! Nunca, no

subestiméis
a un cadáver invisible
del que nacerá otro
corazón de gas.

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IV

Y nunca olvidéis que en el escombro cósmico,
en la levedad alada que sucede
a la destrucción
aguarda un equipaje de silencios
susceptible de medirse
en alientos humanos.

Sólo el hombre, que no es forma
ni permanencia
pero inventa cada día múltiples modos de regeneración
es capaz, en la crónica de una nebulosa,
de leer su personal Cosmogonía,
su negra historia de tierra.

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V

Ésta es la magnífica estupidez del mundo, que cuando enfermamos
en fortuna –a menudo por los hartazgos de nuestra propia
conducta-, echamos la culpa de nuestros desastres al sol, a la luna
y a las estrellas. William Shakespeare

Decidme: si habéis nacido
de una estrella ordinaria, como el sol,
o de una estrella fénix, como todas lo son
alguna vez,
de una giganta roja
o de una enana blanca,
hijos del enésimo capítulo
del colapso gravitatorio
que antecede al helio,
Helios, adoradores
de lo que apenas la excelencia
celeste

roza,
decidme: ¿cómo os atrevéis
a culparlas a ellas
por no haber escuchado ni una sola vez
su coro de moléculas,
por no sobreponeros a su ausencia
cuando la niebla intoxica con humos amargos
la fina capa que separa el titilar de ellas
y en los ojos, los oídos, vuestra turbiedad?

Decidme y no temáis
aspirar vapor indigno en sumisión a algún eclipse.
Luego mirad, callad
y acaso esta vez no os distraiga el latido adulterado
con su urgencia de reproches y cenizas
que hoy os veis instados a ignorar.

Silencio, pues: ellas,
su claridad os habla.

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VI

Y llegará el frío.
Las galaxias se habrán vuelto de espaldas
tras la consunción inexorable de su más remota
fuente de fulgor.
Aún faltan, por fortuna, millones de años.

Será noche perpetua.
Fauces abisales del espacio
habrán devorado cada moribunda bola de neutrones.
Seremos, por suerte, ajenos
a esa feroz convocatoria.

La gran expansión, la vil revancha
final del universo
no será complaciente con el planeta azul
del que nos habremos, menos mal, y a tiempo,
disipado.

Se habrán vuelto los hombres
desechos lejanos, polvo rojo,
neutralizada al fin su absurda pretensión
de exterminarse a sí mismos.

Afortunadamente.
 

To read more of her English Translation works click Here and Here

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Win copies of New Writer's Market UK 2009

We have 5 copies of The Writer's Market UK 2009, edited by Caroline Taggart, published by www.writersmarket.co.uk priced at £14.99, out this month, to give away.

How to enter?

Just send us an email to editor at poetsletter dot com with subject line: Writer's Market UK 2009 Competition and write your full name in the body of the email.

Competition open till End of May and winners will be drawn out of all the emails received by the deadline and declared in the June issue.

Support The Guardian in Katine

Royal Cinque  Port’s Yacht Club (Dover) Poetry Evening

June 10th, Tuesday: 7pm for 7.30pm   £3 per head

Poetry and Prose Reading including Open Mike

For poetry and prose: Jenny Bailey

New Magazine: Inside Out

Poet’s Letter wishes all the best to Inside Out, a new literature magazine, being edited by Rebecca Atherton who helped us being the Deputy Editor of the print magazine. Inside Out soon to appear in print. It is part literary publication, part therapeutic expression; Inside Out is a new breed of literary arts magazine. Our mission is to promote the use of creativity for personal development through the publication of work with a focus on self-awareness and self help.

Creativity offers much more than just the opportunity to educate, stimulate and excite its audience. As many writers, artists and performers know, it has the power to change their own lives. And in this day and age any forward move we can make towards further enriching our lives and achieving a greater understanding of our own emotional well-being is not only healthy but necessary.

As the likes of Robert Lowell, Pablo Picasso, Anne Sexton, W. D Snodgrass, Virginia Woolf; and more recently, Isabel Allende, Bobby Baker, Tracy Emin, Frida Kahlo, Toni Morrison and enelope Shuttle show: creativity for personal development has a long tradition behind it.

Aside from the conscious rewards creativity brings, it is also an incredibly powerful way of coping with and overcoming the inevitable hurdles, obstacles, difficulties and events life throws up at us. It actively helps develop a strengthened sense of perspective, which leads to increased self-confidence, self-worth and self-esteem.

Inside Out plans to explore and expand upon this concept through its many articles, interviews, reviews, submissions and creative exercises.

By focusing on the expression of emotions and the different ways we choose to depict and decipher these complex messages, Inside Out will help put the writer, poet, artist and songwriter in the driving seat, providing them with the skills to confidently express themselves.

It is our goal to encourage the growth of ‘creativity for personal development’ in the marketplace and to make ‘mental strength’ mainstream.

Submissions:

Send confessional/autobiographical work on any subject.
Written:
* Short Stories: up to 2,000 words
* Personal Essays & Prose: up to 500 words
* Poems, Lyrics & Mantras: up to 30 lines
Drawn:
* Illustration: 216mm (w) x 256mm (h)
* Design: 216mm (w) x 256mm (h)
* Fine Art: 216mm (w) x 256mm (h)
* Photography: 216mm (w) x 256mm (h)
* Textile: 216mm (w) x 256mm (h)
Please send a hard copy of all work in the first instance; where possible, accompanied by a CD
containing a digital copy (see website for specifications).

Please include a cover letter with your name, address, email address, daytime phone number and 50-word biog.
All correspondence should be sent to: Editor, Inside Out, P.O Box 429, Sevenoaks, Kent, TN13 9HF. For further information email: editor@myinsideout.co.uk  or visit our website: www.myinsideout.co.uk 

Subscriptions:

To buy a copy of Inside Out, simply complete the form below and return
it to us along with a cheque for the correct amount. Copies of Issue 1 will
be posted in September 2008.
• Cheques should be made cheque payable to ‘Inside Out’
• Payment in £ sterling only

Issue 1: Autumn
UK £5.50 ..........
Rest of World £8.50 ..........
www.myinsideout.co.uk 

Thanks to National Poetry Library

1.       Bank Street Writers Competition 2008 | Closing Date: 01-May-08

2.       Chroma International Queer Writing Competition | Closing Date: 01-Sep-08

3.       Nottingham Open Poetry Competition 2008 | Closing Date: 08-Sep-08

4.       National Poetry Competition 2008 | Closing Date: 31-Oct-08

5.       Cannon Poets 2008 Competition | Closing Date: 31-Oct-08

New Magazines:

1.       If p then q

New Events:

1.       MANCHESTER: Dylan Thomas: Return Journey | 01-May-08

2.       ADDLESTONE KT15: Poetry, Q+A and Booksigning with Wendy Cope | 01-May-08

3.       LONDON: Bloodshot Monochrome: North Soul at Southbank Centre | 02-May-08

4.       ESSEX: Barker Aloud | 03-May-08

5.       LONDON: (Mis)Guided Literary Tour of Archway | 03-May-08

6.       Gender & the Lyric Voice and Emily Dickinson & Charlotte Mew | 06-May-08

7.       MANCHESTER: PUSH Initiative | 06-May-08

8.       MANCHESTER: Gender & the Lyric Voice (a talk) with Vicki Bertram | 06-May-08

9.       LONDON WC1A: Shearsman's 2008 Reading Series featuring Hazel Frew & John Welch | 06-May-08

10.   GLASGOW: Michael Hofmann, in discussion with Robyn Marsack | 07-May-08

11.   LONDON SE1: Live Poetry Readings Sylvia Townsend Warner and Valentine Ackland | 07-May-08

12.   The Blue Bus: a reading by Alice Notley and Simon Pettet. | 08-May-08

13.   DORCHESTER: An Introduction to Verse Drama Writing | 10-May-08

14.   EDMONTON N9: Poetry Workshop with Katherine Gallagher | 10-May-08

15.   LONDON SE1: Chloe Barter Poets in Photographs | 10-May-08

16.   LONDON N6: John Milton Pre-eminence lost? | 11-May-08

17.   LONDON SE1: Liz Mathews: Working With Words 1 | 12-May-08

18.   BRIGHTON: Festival Finnish: a Night of International Poetry | 12-May-08

19.   CHESTER: ZEST! Open Floor Poetry Night | 12-May-08

20.   CAMBRIDGE: CB1 Poetry | 13-May-08

21.   LUTON: Allison McVety Reading | 13-May-08

22.   CORNWALL: St Ives Literature Festival: Fal Poets | 14-May-08

23.   LONDON: Openned Reading | 14-May-08

24.   LONDON SW8: The Moon Has Written You a Poem | 14-May-08

25.   LONDON: Orpheus Behind the Wire | 15-May-08

26.   MANCHESTER: Emily Dickinson & Charlotte Mew - a talk with Michael Schmidt | 15-May-08

Latest News:

1.       Candelabrum - Now 'live' on poetrymagazines.org.uk | 29-Apr-08

2.       The winners of the 2008 Christopher Tower Poetry Prize | 29-Apr-08

3.       Enigma: Call for submissions | 18-Apr-08

4.       BISHOPSGATE INSTITUTE APPOINTS FIRST EVER POET IN RESIDENCE | 17-Apr-08

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