Poem In This Month’s Issue Of The Moth

Delighted to have a poem in this beautiful creature.

You can buy a copy here:

http://www.themothmagazine.com/

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Voyage D’etudes Scrapbook of America

The result of many hours shouting at a typewriter: Paula Goldstein’s amazing Scrapbook of America — it’s got chat from Buzz Aldrin, boobies, poetry, memories from the Civil Rights movement, skateboarders, New Yorkers, memory from Dolly Parton, a Kennedy …. basically everything that makes up modern America, including an FBI-themed investigation on the Darker Side of Disney from me.
Can buy here x

 

Fantasia

 

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I’m wearing purple,
who is brave enough
to dance with me?
I’ve not found them in my years
of shaking
with increasing urgency –
this is boiling point my love.

I don’t know.
Maybe you just have to
have the right mind;
but I’ve had the right mind
all the time,
just sometimes
I find
it don’t work right.

There are pigeons on the roof,
satellites on the wall,
and the hum of a freezer
supplying the white noise –
half-silent –
there is no deal to be made big of any more.
Fig leaves like open palms
bristle in the wind;
this world has become unreal.

I can’t turn it off.
It’s everywhere in flashing lights
while they rob you
of your ashes;
night service in your room
from the special forces;
Godly men with deadly things
come riding four white horses.

Euphoria once,
now I am sin:
red sky, red sea, red wind.
Fly-by shootings
between falling angels;
misfiring cupids sparking
hate between butchers;
in making love with kings
I have born a circus,
a carnival of fire.

The pigeons dip their wings.

Grace:
an intake of breath,
a ride
on this wave made
only for the drowning –
so pick a war or dance with me.
Life is but a chain
my love,
you’ve gotta shake it
to get free.

 

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English Ground

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English Ground

Hello old stone, weather worn and calm.

Glassy and wet, little rivulets still pouring from the summer storm.

Blood moss leaches across, and at the top of my thigh high sock

Is a strip of summer.

Shuddering as my legs tread the damp English ground,

Bruising violets and elderberries on dark familiar gravel.

I stand in sunlight parted by the church’s turrets,

and feel it scatter between the crenelations of my frown,

Adorning me a crown. I am blessed for a time.

 

Along the hills the flowering grass are synchronized in their sublimations,

Worshiping the wind, their holy animator.

For a few wild minutes the blades dance and twist and sway.

Sing, choirs of barley, of the bones of fallen kings,

Between buttercups and millet flowers the femur of St James.

Then, as if the spirit were never there, still air dresses them for sleep

And their gentle canopies bow in wait for the midsummer rain.

Which comes, as routine as disappointment, but of a lighter weight.

 

Again the giddy rivers flow, full of teary charm.

And the banks are lined with sycamores as the autumn in me grows.

Birds swoop and scree, and the king of swallows shows me East

As if I’m lost with out a key, and directions all I need.

 

The same ancient loss beats in my gut, as the shepherds I hear calling.

They say soon there will be harvests, and the orange moons

Will cloud my eyes.

So I have time to lie back and blur the damp English ground,

To let the grit seep in. And as a statue I remember,

All the love we’ll ever know is love that has already been.

 

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Poetry Corner …

Cool As Doves

 

I’ve got a fault in my blood,

I’ve got a fire in my gut,

I’ve got a liar in my eyes,

And a torture in my mind.

 

Exhaling poison from my lungs,

Got every nightmare on my tongue,

And I’ll aim straight for your heart,

Won’t someone lead me through the dark.

 

Shine a little light good man,

This witches heart shines nothing but shadow.

Shine a little light good man,

Brighten the crawl into the shallows.

 

I’ve got a prickle in my skin,

Every hair marks every sin,

I’ve got a fever in my soul,

I’m the crack in the Golden Bowl.

 

I hold a raging desire,

That will chase you like wildfire,

I’m the bone that choked the dog,

Am I still a child of God?

 

Shine a little light good man,

This witches heart shines nothing but shadow.

Shine a little light good man,

Take this wretch and make her hallowed.

 

I’ve got a voice as cool as doves,

I’ve got a heart shaped face like love,

I’ve got a moon-light tangled mind

Mine’s the pulse that’s hard to find.

And through the darkness comes the light.

J.A.Fitton