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Poetry Page

NERVE asked a local poet/creative writing tutor to choose poems for these pages - our ‘pome selecta’. We have been given this list of ‘wants’ as a guide for those submitting poetry.

...things, not concepts.
...people, not ideas.
...clarity, not obscurity.
...concrete, not abstract.
...a picture, not a lecture.
...emotions, not instructions.
...humour, not jokes.
...daring, not convention.
...the ordinary made extraordinary.
...romantic, but not sentimental.
...rhythm, but not tum-te-tum.
...rhyme is fine, but let it serve, not rule.
...the right word in the right place.
...street language, not book language.
...today's language, or even tomorrow's, but not yesterday's.
...language that's straight from the shoulder, not up its own arse.

Garden Of Eden by Clive Griffiths

She taught me everything,
not that I was caught carelessly spying,
or taking one sneaky look
under that black moon
whilst her curtains silently twitched.
No, that was not I,
so it was, she taught me all I know
secretly, as it transpires
all I know is hers
the honey between her lips.

Beyond uncertainty lie worldly tricks
of light and darkness,
that which consumes silent lovers
who may never meet
outside of dreams or damp fantasies.
Yet it is her shape, her very curves
that slowly corrupt,
until all I knew was hers,
her teasing navel, the waterfall hair,
that musky scent on my skin.

We weaved a careless love,
quietly, under a bright sparkle of sky,
piercing our minds and bodies,
beyond a mere touch of flesh,
for that wholesome worldly magic.
That of being the first,
to cautiously walk upon earth.
I touch her where she quivers,
ashamed under stars,
as we lie nakedly silent at night.

Power by Val Walsh

By feeding you,
did I subordinate you?

By waiting on you,
did I diminish you?

By anticipating your needs,
did I confine you?

By serving you,
did I render you dependent?

By bearing the load,
did I weigh you down?

By allowing you time and space,
did I abandon you?

By wearing myself out,
did I make you guilty?

Watching me unravel,
did you need to attack?

Sorry Mike by Alex Holt

Sorry Mike
Though I doubt you mind
My memory doesn't
always serve
My observance leaves
me worrying

I've had one of your
tipples
The awful deprogramming
debugging unobservable
black broth of stout

Cool it went down
old bud
And flowing I was
Young youngly made
bud, as I trotted over
the sunblazed
promenade grass
over a small mound

But I doubt that'll turn
Out as conspicuous as your
importance in my life.

the banalization of liverpool. by Paul Robinson

in all facets of the city (and i imagine in all cities of the country) banality is demonstrated, conformity is rampant, there is no new milieu, just the reclassification of old principles. people are still scared to leave plates in the bedroom for fear of what other people might say. in the surge toward cosmopolitanism, we forgot to watch our backs as tedium crept up and snatched our wallets.

***

"ugliness, poor design, stupid waste". the new build sought only to conglomerate existing structures, not to threaten. the new tenements, espousing inner city living, are bland reconfigurations of brick and mortar, indemnifying the unity of the moneyed. no architectural rebellion, no challenge to the skyline or the eyeline has been implemented, no liverpool revolution, only dash renovation to make room for transportation of citizens in and out of the city. the city must be rejected, its edifices denounced.

***

there has been no significant artistic movement for over half a century. the merseybeat legacy has jammed new pathways in music and poetry: in music we look to continental europe for inspiration and bring back mere imitation; in poetry we pack no unified punch, no "wa! wa!" or hand jive, no imprisonment, none willing to commit poetic crime. creativity often requires penury: contentment strangles creativity, reducing artistic purpose to a diversion, pastime or hobby. investment is not a requisite for creativity. where is the avant-garde liverpool breathing artistic fire? a vision we must will to transpire, otherwise the monotony of reality will lock us up and throw away the key: the artist must reject the city.

***

originality is confined to subterranean hideouts, radicalism is a shop, protest is the new spectacle, no adventure or defiance stands-up in the crowd, no artistic infection that can revolutionise our town. flash clubs and bars act as fashion parades, places for courtship serenades, the weekend providing destructive escape from the working days gone, and those to come, that mash us into the ground.

***

klimt cannot reclaim the city for artists, lovers and poets, nor continental tender, nor transmutation, be it lamb or banana, nor movement or scene be reared on gossamer dress, yet the throng will tread in ignorance sublime, ploughing through reactivate buildings assembled from hurried cement.

***

a new expression must be seeded, a new artistic ideology needed, the old guard thrown aside, the sewers and the backyards opened to see what can be found, no care should be given to national trend, we should cut our own path through the earth, wear what we want, think what we want, create the profound, a new subterranean art that eschews pound, terrifies the classes and reclaims a liverpool lost to contaminated investment.

***

let starved cars choke the roads, pedestrian streets be deserted, let litter festoon retail doorways, window displays wither until dead. the emphasis must be shifted. let liverpool create its own masterpiece, let the domestic screams of grafton street be condensed into artful streams of consciousness, let the river drown the town hall and absolve the capital spunked on culture. within a few years liverpool can become a hub of progressive chaotic excellence saturated with artists, poets, musicians and lovers, reclaimed from the dull misery that we have been intravenously fed. the city must be rejected.

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