Sunday, 13 September 2020

VIRTUAL DODO 3 SEPTEMBER 2020

 WELCOME TO VIRTUAL DODO THREE 

Welcome to the third virtual show from Dodo Modern Poets. The latest production takes our tally to more than 90 performances and contributions since the first outing in April this year. We thank all contributors for taking part in a project which keeps keep Dodo alive until we can return to live performances. And, of course, we thank viewers who take the time to enjoy the shows and have often responded with such positive comments.

 As ever, the show begins with two fine featured acts, so please welcome Camilla Reeve and Steve Tasane.

We hope you enjoy the show 

All the best

Patric Cunnane 
PR Murry 
DODO MODERN POETS




CAMILLA REEVE is a writer, independent publisher and organic gardener camilla_reeve@yahoo.co.uk. She has written four poetry collections: Travels of a Spider, 2006; Travelling East by Road and Soul (flipped eye publishing, 2009); Raft of Puffins, 2016; and Tales from Two Cities, 2018. She enjoys performing live. Her young adult futuristic fantasy, The Cloud Singer, is about global warming and a sequel is planned. In 2016, after 30 years in IT, she founded Palewell Press, publishing books on justice, equality and sustainability http://www.palewellpress.co.uk. Palewell Press is a founding member of the Changing Wor(l)ds Network of cultural activists.

 

STEVE TASANE Pre-lockdown, Steve was poet-in-residence at the Chocolate Poetry Club and now co-runs and co-hosts the online open mic event Poetry From The Grassroots. He was one of six poets selected for Edalia Day’s first animated poetry slam https://homemcr.org/production/animation-slam/ and he has many videos on YouTube,including poems for children. He regularly works with The Poetry Society, often hosting slams for primary schools. As a novelist, he has three children’s books published. The latest, Child I (Faber) has been translated into 11 languages and is shortlisted for the German Youth Literature Award. 

Open mic videos:


PR Murry




 

 Pauline Sewards


 

 Stuart Larner



  


 Lantern Carrier





Lofe (featuring Zolan Quobble)








LOFE is Stephen Elwell, (Bass Guitar, FX)
 Nik the Deks (Beats, Synth, FX)
 Zolan Quobble (Words & Voice)
Production, Nik the Deks
Mastering, Max Quirk max@cutsville.net  





Kate B. Hall

 

 Django Moon

 


 Christine Eales


Frank Crocker

 

 Dino Mahoney


Joseph Healy

 

 Max Fishel



Heather Moulson



Kevin Morris




Helen Nattrass



Robert Drury


Graham Buchan



Harriet Truscott



Isabel Bermudez




Roger Stephenson



Emile Sercombe



Sue Johns








Page poems:



THE YEAR THAT WENT MISSING

 

 

It began well enough

Glad to get Christmas out of the way

Kick start a new year, catch a play

Meet up with friends, enjoy a gig

Take a spring break by train

 

Then the year went missing

Everything replaced by a blank

Sickness stalking the land

Lockdown entering the language

 

Everything closed and life closing in

The missing year creeping away

Each day copying the last

Phone calls with nothing to say

 

During the year that went missing

Nothings pile up - plans are banned

 

How did we mislay this year?  

Where was it seen?

Blank as snow, each morning

Insists it must be lived through

 

Time will restore the hours and days

The year will pop back into place

Diaries will fill, something to do all the time

 

Though not for those who didn't make it

Snatched away like the hours and days

Of the year that went missing

Not revealing its destination

Was it just pantomime?

It's behind you! Oh no it isn't...

 

 Patric Cunnane


Bramble

 

I cut you

I chop you

I saw you

I pour hot water over you

 

I pull you

I drag you

I dig you out

I dry you up under the sun

 

I curse you

I scold you

I shout at you

I burn you to ashes

 

Still you grow

Tough and strong

You even flower

I give up

 

Wild you keep growing

Gleeful and green

And you bear berries

Black and shiny

 

Spelt I pluck you

And put you in my mouth

Sweet juice dribbles on my tongue

 Yan Li


FIRE    WATCHING

a bright log fire   heat induced euphoria

a man stares at the curling flames

pictures once more   his native shore

friends of his youth  and their childish games

foam flecked waves from a restless ocean

red sailed trawlers put to sea

from winter gales they  then trim sails

like the ancients  in gallilee

he can hear the scream of the herring gull

the soft tune  when a blackbird sings

and all around there’s a mellow sound

when a distant church bell rings

the pungent smell of new mown hay

he breathes ozone like port wine

he can almost feel his senses reel

when he sniffs the wild woodbine

he tastes soda bread when its still warm

feasts on mackeral caught to day

from gleaming shoals cooked on glowing coals

this manna from our bay

he plaits rushes with their silky feel

walks bare foot on warm sand

holds seaweed fronds  neptunes fairy wands

to cast spells  in his dreamlike land


John Hurley


 

THE  DECALOGUE   [© LORAINE SAACKS]

If you’ve harkened to rumours and fairy tales –
      with the usual infusion of farfetched details –
           one fable grew roots,
                when some rambling recruits,
                    who’d had failed to stockpile,
                           found they were trapped in a desert exile!

The chap at the lead bade them put down their tools,
      while he’d just scale Mount Sinai for some trendy new rules;
           Moses climbed up and down six or seven times,
                fearful his flock enjoyed some petty crimes,
                    his suspected disgrace, was their sculpted gold calf,
                           at which his Supremo was loath to laugh!

He stayed at the helm while the herd sought their land,
      generations wandering – all still on remand –
           they’d lived forty years on glucose molecules,
                but manna alone is the nectar of fools;
                    this food had a hint of Shipham’s fish paste,
                           but there was ne’er a call for defecating waste.

Aches and pains from the weight, saw him crack the concrete,
      so, once more, he staggered, to his apex retreat,
           where exchange was conferred, without a receipt,
                but there was added engraving his eyes did not meet;
                    on the reverse of the covenant blue-print,
                           no-one bothered to turn it over and squint.

Thereon etched, in eight point Italic text,
      guaranteeing the nomads to be confused and vexed,
           hieroglyphics confirmed milk and honey a-plenty,
                but a rare shock would arrive in two thousand and twenty.


Lorraine Saacks


Citrus

 

Lemons in a bowl, illuminating

this room closed with dust.

 

Slicing a lemon, mist scents my hands.

Pouring sunshine into a long glass

 

in Italian small-town squares

we feasted on wild rabbit and fennel.

 

Citrus fruit strips the moisture

from my lips. See you I said.


Barry Coidan



pandemonium nitrate

 

angels swarming

 

banshees wailing

 

tombstones fuming in the blackened sky

 

 

 

 

John Sephton

 

 

 



John Sephton

Saturday, 30 May 2020

VIRTUAL DODO TWO JUNE 2020

JUNE 2020 

WELCOME TO VIRTUAL DODO TWO 

 Welcome to the second virtual show from Dodo Modern Poets. The success of the first has inspired more participants, with around 30 open mic poets supporting our featured performers..


:Later in the show I'm including a new poem that's literally out of this world but first we begin with our featured acts.


They are:


HEATHER MOULSON - wry accounts of adolescent angst are among the highlights of Heather's work. She won the Brian Dempsey Memorial competition in March and her pamphlet, Bunty I Miss You, is out now. More information: heathermoulsonpoet.com  


PROJECT ADORNO - veterans of many an Edinburgh Festival the group present a one-off lockdown special featuring a selection of snap, crackle and pop songs. Themes include 8 bit computer games, Mark Twain, and the Eurovision Song Contest. Think of it as Top of The Pops, only with the same act on all the way through. .More information: http://www.projectadorno.net/ 


 We hope you enjoy the show


 All the best,

 Patric Cunnane 
PR Murry 
DODO MODERN POETS

 

 HEATHER MOULSON 
url: https://youtu.be/LHGx5rtQo2U 



PROJECT ADORNO
 url:https://youtu.be/uqQ9-1K0X1U

OPEN MIC SPOTS - VIDEOS

 

 Sue Johns 
url: https://youtu.be/GydSx6Y9HlQ  





 Nicola Baker
 url: https://youtu.be/awHQRzQ29W8



 Nick Alldridge
 url: https://youtu.be/evIpKJ-lXKQ



 PR Murry
 url:https://youtu.be/FdCgTDlEsys  



 Graham Buchan
 url: https://youtu.be/0c9BfQNGnE8 



 Isabel Bermudez 
url: https://youtu.be/jL5tUVSNkC8



Lantern Carrier
 url: https://youtu.be/F18PUrPIGgc


 Robert Drury 
url:https://youtu.be/h2980fKzVE4 


 
Max Fishel 
url: https://youtu.be/olEgIgNpFvI  



 
  Eddie Forde 
url: https://youtu.be/AhNW1hHXe5A 



Sophia Bradner
 url: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYo7kehUXyM 



  Paul Gander 
url: https://youtu.be/HSfVDCehpX0  


John Greatrex
 url:https://youtu.be/mziKG1-Pjfs 



 Frank Crocker
 url: https://youtu.be/7-s7MHEWILk 



 Joseph Healy
 url:  https://youtu.be/Ca7BqdI5QRQ



  Christine Eales
 url:https://youtu.be/VRdmTyI7U1Y 


 Mark Holihan 
url:https://youtu.be/-NxoPKqKKAU  


 Julian Mann
 url: https://youtu.be/F6e9V48lcZ4


 Aidan Nutbrown
 url:https://youtu.be/Qa1seIWpfLw  


 Kate B Hall
 url: https://youtu.be/QB1NRkJdmwU 


 Pauline Sewards 
url:https://youtu.be/Pj_x01CyrFU 


 Roger Stephenson 
url:https://youtu.be/uSl8LoUQSmQ 


 Wendy Young 
url: https://youtu.be/PMMzEciBhJ4


 Emile Sercombe 
url: https://youtu.be/iO7RqVMO-JA


 Stuart Larner
 url: https://youtu.be/6IrkB8qgjCo  

POEMS ON THE PAGE Our show continues with poems on the page from 13 poets.


SEAGULL
 Patric Cunnane 


Hey sky, I am coming!
Valentina greeted the heavens
As she roared  into space

Call sign, Seagull
The first woman cosmonaut
Wedged in a capsule with
Only confidence for company

When navigation failed
She fixed it
Sharp and funny, Valentina
Blazed her own trail to the stars

She landed in a Kazakhstan  field
Startling the villagers
Emerging thirsty and smiling
They loved her!

She married a spaceman
Two gulls together
Became a politician
Shrugged off the past

But nothing would match
The thrill of that moment
Hey Sky, I am coming!
Years pass
The seagull has yet to land



On 15th June 1963, 26-year-old Russian cosmonaut, Valentina Tereshkova, became the first woman in space.  Her mission lasted three days. Her call sign was 'Seagull' and as she took off she declared, "Hey sky, I am coming."
































Stuck
Django Moon

I’m stuck
Where I want to be
But still I’m stuck
With me

I’m stuck
Self-insulating 
No one here
But me, myself, and I

I’m stuck 
In solitude 
Alone?
Just the three of us

We’re stuck
Isolated
Together
Me, Ego, and Higher Self

We’re stuck 
Fighting
The good fight
A war of peace 

We’re stuck
Getting along
Going nowhere
Always ‘now here’

We’re stuck
All of us
In the moment
The only place... to be.



Perspective
 Ruth O’Callaghan

 It is February. From the tracks beyond the cemetery the last train defies the dark, defies the dark 

 beyond the cemetery. It is February. Onto the tracks a body may fall, fall from the bridge 

 the bridge that springs over the tracks, the tracks on which a body may span, horizontal

 east to west or west to east, never north to south south to north. Horizontal. 

 Too late, too late to grind the brakes, the brakes too late if a body breaks on the tracks. 

 The woman at the window sees the man on the bridge to the man on the bridge the woman at the window

 cries                                                                                                  Wait.

 Spanning the tracks that the driver can see but not a body spanning the tracks

 there is no body spanning the tracks as he moves on, moves on defying the dark

 beyond the cemetery. It is February. The rails are sharp the night is clear, he is on time.

 The driver’s on time. All is ordered in this dark. He’s taken advice. He can implement procedures. Procedures. 

 Vera climbs the stairs of the bridge, sees the man on the bridge hears the cry of the woman at the window but not the word. 

 She is alone.

 He cuts a swathe towards the tunnel. He is on time he is a man who defies the dark 

 he is a man moving on, moving on through the night the night is ordered, he is ordered 

 the driver’s on time. He’s taken advice. He keeps his hand he stays his hand, he can implement... 

 The boy asleep under the bridge hears shuffling on the bridge hears a woman’s cry. He doesn’t move. It could be a ploy. 

 Procedures. He knows procedures. He knows this track. He knows the exact, the exact point 

 to release, to release pressure. The driver’s taken advice. The air is clear. The rails are sharp. He is a man defying the dark.

 The man on the bridge hears the train on the track, hears a voice calling, footsteps dragging. He turns. She is cardigan-ed not white-coated. 

 Disguised.

 It is February. They are beyond the cemetery. Beyond fear. The fear on the face of the man in the train of the man in the air. 





I’ll Stay Home Now
By Yan Li

I know what I’m doing.
I’ll look after myself.
We just don’t’ have enough hands.
Nor enough gloves.

Make me another mask.
If you have to.
And a few gowns.
I’ll share them.

Sure, I’m scared.
I could bring it home.
I know you’re worried for me.
I’m also worried for you.

Patients are dying.
Some of us, too.
Alone. Loved ones aren’t allowed to come.
They say I love you on the phone.

Don’t cry.
This is what I do.
When it gets me,
Do not enter my room.

I’ll stay home now.
I’ll listen to you instead.
Don’t take me to hospital.
Don’t want to take up a bed.


Barry Coidan
Dog Rose

A white scented dog rose.
An  insignificant flower
five petals hanging limp.
An intruder.

 A mere bramble,
 uncalled for child of
 bastard stock opening
into  shocking whiteness.

In this period of
distancing I held it in
my hands; bringing it close
Inhaling its nectar droplets.

Bastard rose scent
so fragrant. I cup its endless
possibility lost in
a child like reverie.

A white scented dog rose
a perfect rejoinder to
this out of joint age. We need

such sweet smelling bastards.



BUTTERFLY NIGHT
Claire Booker

Still you do not wake,
though your back is a strait
all fleeted up with turquoise sails:
square-rigged, lace-fine grapplers
sunk in your brine.
Even now, when the wind lifts
and each fluttering vessel weighs anchor,
hauls you up
into night-drenched blue, swaying
on the hammock
of your own mortal weight,
a drunk ship
listing through constellations,
still, you do not wake -
pitching and plunging
in Cassiopeia's pleats, dazzled
by light from her bold moons,
distance, like air, keeling
around you.

(from 'Later There Will Be Postcards')


EXCHANGE (after Hans Tisdall, Fishermans Hut, 1946)
BRIAN DOCHERTY

They call me the Birdman of Hastings, but I never
set out to collect them, or offer them a home; after
the first few, I built them little houses from driftwood.

So they come, keep me company, and I am glad.
I spend my life taking fish from their element,
and never regret it, because that is my mission.

But seagulls are not welcome here, they are louder
and greedier than the Exciseman, and will rip open
every bag just to see what is there, and never stop.

My birds ask nothing of me, take nothing from me,
give me peace in return, the sort of exchange I like,
they bless my boat, never follow me out to sea.

They could, if they chose, live in a garden in town,
or try their luck with any other fisherman, but no,
here they are, all around my little hut, here to stay.

Yet how short our lives, between tides and moons,
so many friends I can never name aloud again,
empty chairs in the pub, obituaries I can never read.

If one day I am lost at sea, or fall asleep in my chair,
I hope my birds will stay here, and be welcomed
by whoever takes my boat, my hut, and my chair.






When This Virus War is Over
Lizzie Shirley

When this virus war is over,
Workers wave goodbye to food banks,
There will be no zero hour contracts
And everyone will earn a proper wack.

There will be no homeless people
No humans lying in the street.
All will have a lovely council home,
And healthy meals to eat.

Children won’t go to school hungry
On their work they will fully concentrate,
Teachers won’t be overworked and grumpy
And schools will open five days a week.

We’ll bring back bursaries for nurses
We’ll train new doctors galore,
We’ll do away with outsourcing
And hospital workers won’t be poor.
The NHS’s sill loved by everyone
We won’t sell it off stealthily
Back to being fully nationalised
No more stealing it by the wealthy.

The Tories have made this crisis worse
This tardy government is a con
We won’t have people dead by their mishandling
Profiteering for their mates is simply wrong.
For years they have been incompetent,
Not investing, but ripping us off,
The scales will tip in our favour
And nobody again will be a Toff.

Harrow and Eaton will both close down
Their privilege will all go down the drain
They will stop thinking they are superior
We’ll tax them, for Corona they will pay.

We owe them absolutely nothing
Their privilege is sick and out of date.
We will be working for each other,

Together we will all seize the day.



taxi driver
John Sephton

Lone rider haunting the darkness,
Roaming the underworld,
The crooked sidewalks,
The shadows at the edge,
The lost highways of life.

. Inspired by Martin Scorcese’s 1976 movie about a deranged former US Marine returned from Vietnam.




THE  DECALOGUE   [© LORAINE SAACKS]
If you’ve harkened to rumours and fairy tales –
            with the usual infusion of farfetched details –
                       one fable grew roots,
                                when some rambling recruits,
                                         who’d had failed to stockpile,
                                                       found they were trapped in a desert exile!
The chap at the lead bade them put down their tools,
            while he’d just scale Mount Sinai for some trendy new rules;
                       Moses climbed up and down six or seven times,
                                fearful his flock enjoyed some petty crimes,
                                         his suspected disgrace, was their sculpted gold calf,
                                                      at which his Supremo was loath to laugh!
He stayed at the helm while the herd sought their land,
            generations wandering – all still on remand –
                       they’d lived forty years on glucose molecules,
                                but manna alone is the nectar of fools;
                                         this food had a hint of Shipham’s fish paste,
                                                      but there was ne’er a call for defecating waste.
Aches and pains from the weight, saw him crack the concrete,
            so, once more, he staggered, to his apex retreat,
                       where exchange was conferred, without a receipt,
                                but there was added engraving his eyes did not meet;
                                         on the reverse of the covenant blue-print,
                                                      no-one bothered to turn it over and squint.

Thereon etched, in eight point Italic text,
            guaranteeing the nomads to be confused and vexed,
                       hieroglyphics confirmed milk and honey a-plenty,
                                but a rare shock would arrive in two thousand and twenty.



Hugh Shrapnel
Creation

Blank paper                                                                                                                                                               No hoper.                                                                                                                                                                      Inspiration nowt                                                                                                                                                                      What’s it all about?
Put it off                                                                                                                                                                           (Got a cough).                                                                                                                                                                      What’s the worry?                                                                                                                                                             There’s no hurry.                                                                                                                                                                    
Have an aim,                                                                                                                                                                     Make a name.                                                                                                                                                                   What the hell                                                                                                                                                            Damn it – tell!
Give it the most,                                                                                                                                                        Send in the post.                                                                                                                                                          Good reply?                                                                                                                                                                                      Huh, I would die!
What then, fake it?                                                                                                                                            Yes - if you’re to make it!                                                                                                                    Not a deep testament                                                                                                                                                                          But a good investment. 
Eureka, now I’ve got it!                                                                                                                                                               Hey, wow, could be a hit!                                                                                                                            Oh dear this is sub;                                                                                                                                                                         Never mind, off to the pub.
Will nothing work?                                                                                                                                                                               It’s all a bad joke.                                                                                                                                          Deep in trite -                                                                                                                                                                Is there no respite?   
‘Be original’ they cry;                                                                                                                                                             No, nothing new under the sky.                                                                                                                                     What style (they’re all old)?                                                                                                                                                                     Forge a new one – be bold!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 
No ‘isms’-                                                                                                                                            They’re all prisons;                                                                                                                                                                ‘Art for art’s sake’?                                                                                                                                                                   Such a mistake.
Now something new                                                                                                                                                                   For all the world and you.                                                                                                                        Never say die -                                                                                                                                                                                 ‘The New Music World’? Fie!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 




Kevin Morris


An Autumn Bird:


I heard

An autumn bird

Sing,

'Ere the sky

Grew Bright.

And I

Thought of spring,

And eternal night.




THE MORNING AFTER
Written in Marbella after the 2019 British general election
Greg Freeman


the last hope gone, we find ourselves in sunshine
with family in Marbella beside a fountain sculpture
of beauty and unity, reflecting civic pride,
what might have been, playing with our

Anglo-Spanish grandchild on the swings and slides.
She careers across the pavement on a little bike,
I struggle to keep up with her, and as I screw
my features into laughter-faces, she mimics every one.

She calls the motorway tunnels along the Costa del Sol
‘the big dark’.  That evening the people
of the barrio sing carols beneath our flat, with guitars,
harmonies, their brazier a beckoning beacon, bright.