the

east street poets

Welcome to our poetry page.

Given Negatives

This lens teaches him not to see

leather jackets talking to each other.

He writes about golf clubs he's never used,

marking no doorways on his calendar.

He corrects himself, leaves his boots indoors,

controls the car now it is much too late,

punishing the kit-bag of his last dreams, pours

light, adjusts glasses, angles, praises oranges.

A sweater she cared for lies untouched, folded.

He lines up no licquorice bottles to reward her.

Given:

Nouns: camera, leather jacket, golf club, door, boots, car, kit-bag, glasses, sweater, bottle.

Verbs: teach, talk, write, mark, correct, control, punish, praise, care for, reward

Negatives! This poem is the result of a Workshop when I received these words as "gifts"!

Valerie Bridge

Haiku for Summer

On a washing line,

a shirt sets sail for Summer

a skirt goes dancing.

Robin Forward

Laxity Becomes Leakage

Breeze accumulates heat as desire.

Creeping across the estate

-owls roost-

moisture clings.

Gunk-soaked fog

bloats and blags with bite

keeping in, letting little out,

stains more than the big house.

Alert to retched fumes, forgetfulness,

sinking into conformity, spluttering

fed on the stench of yawns.

Feet twisting on grit.

At least the drug dealers won't

be breaking into houses tonight.

Laxity becomes leakage and spillage

becomes upturned fish and cattle.

A distinct muddy shaft

curves without obvious presence

through the copse, dips leftward

and courses with the river.

Rest on that quality threshold

oak, ash, willow in that warm

place where bodies tug, press

together, seed, move on.

David Caddy

Expectation

Cycling at seven thirty this morning

tingle of friction on finger tip, itching.

Lichen, mould, drying pits linger in haze

of sunshine that lifts beyond energy.

Rabbits scatter leftward and re-settle.

Drained vestiges glint in wintry hedge.

Nudged cusps of boundary falter.

Cross words echo and subside

between that tapping of seed and cell,

magnetic hum and silent throbbing

court and irritate the mind's eye

so that we must drink a space.

Rooks nonchalantly pick out worms.

Earth-bound they tease and test.

Pregnant ewes, stuck by the tag-end

of maff's regulation, snuffle.

Paint smell of garlic, bluebell.

Some footpaths may yet be open.

Ferns, thorns to crown heads,

living and dead. Calls and responses.

David Caddy

Hillfield Priory

The heart's alive to what's invisible

in the opulence of pistil and stamen.

There's a thrusting between spaces,

a body drained and laden coming to rest.

Despite a lifted headache I cannot

submit to more than a brief uphill

walk and infinite sleep. Entered

being the key word rather than penetrated.

Here the Brothers beguile in simplicity

mark time with prayer, tasks and tea,

clock individual nuances that rise

penny-like out of succulent visitation.

Sharp May wind carries gunshot,

rattling trains and carts far away.

Only the gunshot insists on this rote

of battle between self and identity.

Old drains and gullies filter downstream,

with cargo both toxic and benign,

reek of absence, by the black christ,

and echo contemplation once more.

David Caddy

Plums

Relish the softness of plums

ready only for a moment

to eat, sweet on the tongue

juice seeping between my lips

red plums at Summer's end -

not those magnificent Victorias

from my grandmother's garden

but almost as sweet

as those in memory

Barbara Ellis

Maudie

She would not admit to blindness.

All her working life she cooked

merely not seeing could stop her now.

She knew where everything lay

in drawer and cupboard, reaching

confidently for chopping knives

testing their edge along her thumb

as always, measuring water into

her kettle by sound. Switching it on.

Ingredients were gathered, mixed

and beaten – oven set to temperature

pans greased and filled.

‘Go through’ she’d say ‘I won’t be long’

and soon appeared with laden tray,

fresh baked cakes and tea.

Her cottage fireplace gleamed,

photos and brasses on her mantel –

but what I remember is her face

beaming with satisfaction as

she poured the tea she could not see

into clean china cups, and everything

twinkled – conspiratorially.

Barbara Ellis

Calling

I would grasp your

yellow and scarlet silks

and weave them

with what I know

for what I know is strength

and what I weave is truth

but I am down here

calling from a separate temple

not knowing if you will ever

reach that far

Janet Peters

November 2001-11-26

Waiting

I know this slope will char the edge

of my sanity

I start slowly

unable to stand in my own footprints

I let you in

knowing with each torn layer

new thin threads,   alone

and in turn, will burst through

shining and rich with life

waiting     waiting

while you stay

twelve paces from blame

Janet Peters

November 2001

Arriving

I had not been invited

nor had I wanted to go

but the smell arrived just the same

spare ribs and barbecue sauce

wafting in and stalking my contentment

and a solitary thought escaped to wonder

what I might miss

I drank my summer fruits

and moved into the sun

turning body and mind

like a bare stem after a storm

it is the smoothness that comforts now

and I prayed

that all dreaming would be made smooth

and all believing and understanding

it is the smoothness that comforts now

I will forget

when the bad tasted sweet

because you had not been invited

nor had I wanted to go.

Janet Peters

August 2001

Is it worth it?

Is it worth it?

getting up?

getting up for what?

to act the same scene

to fight the same fight

with people and things and the weather

yet there are things

one has to get up for

the dog needs a walk and will be grateful

birthday cards need posting

and there’s the need

to lop that silver birch

and there is always the unexpected

a friend might call from Spain

that roll of film

may hold a surprise

and today

your child may learn to swim

and the blackberries need picking

yes calmly and asleep

I will tidy the corners

and fasten all the loops

I will float there for a while

perhaps the mind thrives best

in that place beyond

a certain semblance of order

pushing to the sharpest point

Janet Peters

September 2001

The Cello Player

Seated on his plinth

he watches the flowing river

with his ears

and hugs the silent 'cello to his chest.

With his brandished bow

he marks where the transient moment

vanished in the air

and bars the way to any other.

All night he sits in starlight

absorbing its reflections

waiting.

At last, when light of dawn appears,

but not the thing itself,

he lays aside his 'cello

steps down from the plinth

and walks away.

Roland Challis 

Wieners

Apfelstrdel: ahhh! –

Zigeunermusik, Zigeuner!

blaue Blumen, blaue Bergen,

Yugoslavien!

Crystalishe Christkinder

X-mal x-mal x-mal x-mal x-mal x-mal

Donau Donau Donau

Violetischer Vanilleneis

Edelweiss, Edelweiss, Edelweiss

Undundundundundundundundundundund

Fit Fritz funktioniert: fit Fritz fertig: fertig Fritz?

Taranteller Tanz, tanz! Tarantelle tanzen!

Gut, gut, gut, gut, gut, gut!

Schoner Schonnbrunn, Schonnbrunn

Halt! Halt! HalT! HaLT! HALT!! !

Raskolnikov, Rachmanninov, RASPUTIN RAUS!

ich? ich?  ich? ich?

Quadrat?

Ja ja ja ja!!!!

Pumpernickel, Pfeffer, Paprika: Prost!

Katholische Kirche, Klosterneuburger Kloster

Omeinpapa,

Leitmotiv:? Leid

Nein? Nicht? Nein, nichts. Nein, nein, nein!

Mutti, Muttilein, Mutti, Mitzikatzi

Mozart Musik Mundharmonika

Nachtmusik nachts,

Leicht, licht,

Oper, Opapa, Omeinpapa

Kotholischer Kater kommt?

Papa!

Jawohl?

Queeksilber

Ich! Inselangel

Rainer Maria Rilke

Harmonie

Suss, Strudel, Schlag, Sanfter Schlag

Grinzinger Gluhwein

Telephon!

Feuer! Feuer! Feuer!

UnterdieDeck,

eleganter Elephant

Vase Violetten

DONAUsoblau, soschonsoblau, durchtalund

Weltschermz, Wiener Weltscherz

Christkind

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXmal

Bach Bernstein Beethoven

Yiddischer Yevtuschenko

Amen Alleluyah Amen

Zweig

Valerie Bridge

Houskeeping at East Coker

Blowsy May’s at it with her lace undies

again over this buxom untended hedge,

and Ivy’s making a lewd barmaid’s bid

for Jack the Treacle Eater’s stony phallus.

The five of us are not into sex, as such,

but on the quest for Michael’s famed stamina –

with a modest, housewifely vigour –

in this fine fall of May’s rainy musk.

Sutton Bingham freely does herself in,

even her scratch dials’ maidenly demeanour

disappearing under this unkempt languor:

her frescoes left unlit as chalked up etchings.

But her quiet infects us: one climbs the tower,

peers through a slit in stone: framing larkspin,

graves scattered as pebbles in the untended yard: in

foot-high grasses, nettles, rabbits, lost jam jars flower.

At our next destination, a slice of May beckons,

yet we turn inside Saint Michael: find the middle third rule

askew in the columns’ tipsy leaning. One umbrella

sheathed, three undone, among our visitor droppings;

a deerstalker, gloved hands. Leaving, pass almshouses.

Still May reigns, but: a Vicar’s statement’s ignored

in favour of the puff of a drowned man running in shorts.

Later, May takes my hubcaps to her bosom as trophies.

Valerie Bridge

Transience  (Creativity)

Coffee cups, knocked by an easel,

drip,

sticky-spreading,

over paper palettes

and sketches,

weeping undisciplined colour.

Unhooked finger-painted ‘phone,

left on the table,

bleats

distant sirens.

Stained fluid seeps

to stone slabs;

New pictures appear in cappuccino,

shining garden reflections,

exhibited

with footprints,

dog-hairs,

dust-and-grime collages,

ephemeral masterpieces,

mopped away when the artist returns.

The Man With A Phobia  (Fear)

All night he battled against

sheets which became pythons

winding into suffocating coils.

Even his pillow threatened.

At first light, he slipped to the floor

exhausted, and struggled upright

towards the open window, and

gasped for breath, in  still heavy air.

From above, even the the road seemed

strange in the grey haze, twisted,

gleaming moisture. Its reptilean curves

stirred, lifted slowly towards him.

He rushed to the telephone

to call his analyst, but there was no answer,

only a fainting hissing on the line…..

Salisbury Cathedral (Hope)

Indecipherably

grey steeple becomes pale nimbus,

withdrawing upwards,

leading eyes and thoughts.

Somewhere above our heads,

earth and the heavens meet,

unite in vapour,

or in our imaginings.

This meeting in space

cannot be one-way accident

earth-to-heaven only;

something expects us.

Gazing eyes falter at brightness;

thoughts bow to reseurrection,

seem fragile by this symbol

of hope, this something.

M.C. Wood