Wednesday, 29 June 2022

VIRTUAL DODO 9

 WELCOME TO VIRTUAL DODO NINE - JULY 2022

 

Welcome to the ninth virtual show from Dodo Modern Poets. This event takes our tally to more than 230 performances and contributions since launching in April 2020. We thank all our poets for continuing to send in such stimulating and enjoyable work.


We are grateful to viewers who take time to enjoy the shows and send us their comments.  Your support is of great value.

The latest outing begins with two exceptional featured acts, Zolan Quobble and Julie Stevens,  followed by 14 open mic contributors.

We hope you enjoy the show and  welcome your feedback.



Zolan Quobble has been active in many creative and performance organisations including Worthless Words, Apples & Snakes and Goldsmiths PGDip Creative Writing. He was co-founder of Fordham Park Festival (You Can't Kill The Spirit), founder of Deptford Kite and secretary of Silo SE8 Musicians Collective. Bands include Chicken Sidecar, One True Dog and now LOFE. Publications include U-I Poems and the Tooth Agenda. He's now concentrating on solo music projects. He has read at Dodo Modern Poets.

https://zolanquobble.bandcamp.com/

https://lofe.bandcamp.com/



 

Julie Stevens writes poems that cover many themes but often engage with the problem of disability.
She is widely published in publications such as Ink Sweat & Tears (Pick of the Month, Oct 2021), Fly on the Wall Press, The Dawntreader and The Honest Ulsterman.

Her Stickleback pamphlet Balancing Act was published by the Hedgehog Poetry Press (June 2021) and her chapbook Quicksand by Dreich (Sept 2020). Her next collection of poems Step into the Dark will be published later this year by the Hedgehog Poetry Press.

Find out more about Julie’s work at: www.jumpingjulespoetry.com

 Best wishes

Patric Cunnane

PR Murry

DODO MODERN POETS

01303 243868





Wendy Young 





PR Murry 



Joseph Healy reads poem @ International Workers Memorial Day



 Dave Stone


Stuart Larner



Steve Tasane


Maggie MacLean


Roger Stephenson

TEXT















Patric Cunnane

BADGER RESISTANCE

In February 2022 stubborn badgers returned to their old setts on Princes Parade, site of a controversial building project at Hythe, Kent.


The builders are in

But badgers won’t go

They’re not leaving homes

Lived in for years

Through good times and bad

Overcoming all fears

 

The badgers believe

They belong to this site

Where grand badgers raised them

To fight for their rights

A housing estate can go somewhere else

As long as it goes, brock couldn’t care less

 

Badger lore was learned in these parts

Not to be torn from tender brock hearts

 

The builders are in

But badgers won’t go

They’re digging in tight

Watching little brocks grow

 

         The housing estate must find a new field

Brock won’t go, has no wish to yield

Take your bricks and mortar and shovels

You’ve come to the right place

If you’re looking for trouble


Loraine Saacks


WHEN  YOU  SAILED  FROM  GDANSK


When you sailed from Gdansk, in the early twentieth century, with your close kin,

you were but only eighteen –

an adventure, for sure – as yet, you felt no chagrin –

far back, Boleslaus III, born in eleven-zero-two, thought your ilk might just fit in,

though he didn’t see bumping off big brother, Wenceslas, as a sin,

for surrendering to German King Henry, and appearing quite keen.

Fast forward once more, to nineteen-zero-six, and your adventurous maritime cruise,

Dobrin on the Vistula was thrilled that some families cut themselves loose;

though John Maynard Keynes saw you all as ‘Fifth Column’ Bolsheviks,

ready to hide in a horse of wood on Ramsgate beach, aping the ancient Greeks!

You always knew how to create a home and you married in nineteen-zero-eight;

minding your mother, three younger sisters and two older brothers, was no feather weight, but two older sisters, their spouses and children never dreamed of their horrific fate, they elected to remain in the new Nazi domain, and any rescue was far too late.

You’d weathered the Great Strike, the following slump and saw your progeny swell in size;

they were industrious, in many a sphere, as their new motherland bid to compromise;

then came the sharp shudder and halt – everyone left in your homeland complies

the default in the Third Reich, meant it could never – or ever – humanize.

Emigrating and finding joy in a span of a staunch thirty-three years ended with grief and tears,

wholesale death to your near, promised a future of sorrow and fears

your grandchildren only know their forbear’s face is made of stone,

and your grandmother wants only to wail and moan all alone.



Yan Li 


Grenfell Tower

 

No fire alarm. 

No hose pipes. 

No sprinklers.

No way out. 

 

I run on fire. 

My flat flames. 

Stairways fume. 

Highrise glows.

 

Cladding burns.

Walls bake.

Smoke squeezes through the door. 

Snake tongues sweep the floor. 

 

Mobile lights flash. 

Clenched fears punch.

Bang bang bang on the window. 

Voices break for help. 

 

Children scream shrill. 

Toxic gases choke. 

A mother drops her baby in prayer.

A man raises his arms. 

 

Who brings this horror?

I cannot breathe.

I seethe. I shout.

Firemen dash in - dash out.

 

Metals melt.

Up roars inferno.

Grill-roasted.

Men jump to the ground. 

 

No way to help.

No arms to save more. 

No way up or down. 

No more hope. 

 

Who brings this horror? 

I sear in anger.

In ash there are no tears.

What power sets us on fire? 

 

Don't cry, my love. 

Don't fear, my love. 

A mother walks across flames

In the air to save her child


Kevin Morris 

"Your a Joker" She Said

"Your a joker", she said,
Doubling over in laughter.
"If you didn't laugh
You would cry",
Said I.

And after
I felt proud
That I can still engage
With a girl, half my age
And make her laugh Out loud.

I hear Eliot's footman snicker.
The stage
Lights flicker
'Ere the curtain does fall
Covering all.


Barry Coidan 


Losing a pet

Bury them next to the shrub they 

sheltered under in  summer’s rains. 

Place a small cross, inscribe their name,

sigh when weeding the spreading catnip.

Embroider a quilt to spread on the bed 

where they slept. Pick up discarded toys to

pack away in a black box and hide 

in a secret place.


The man who tried to live forever

But didn’t...

Killed instantly crossing a busy road.

He had a backup plan.

A large cryogenic installation

in the grounds of his mansion

But scraped off the road

he was a mess.

There was the back up’s back up.

A few of his T cells in a petri dish.

First a toe, then an eye, two ears, a brain.

Frankenstein like he was re-created

but with no thoughts, memories, or emotions.

His earlier brain, kept in a jar its contents and

his life downloaded into the new brain.

The man who tried to live forever

was reborn a wiser man.

The next day he cautiously

crossed the street.


Oliver Nealy 

Who’d Have Thought  / This Time Last Year

 

Who’d have thought, this time last year.

That I’d be standing, before you here.

 

I’d hide at home this winter time.

Trying to escape the thoughts in my mind.

 

I’d run and run but get nowhere.

The feelings inside too much to bare.

 

Anxiety held it’s grip on me.

No matter how much I tried to flee.

 

The storm around me grew and grew.

Things were getting much worse, I knew.

 

It felt like I was missing.

From reality I was slipping.

 

I’d question if I was really there.

I’d look around me, and blankly stare.

 

Could I break free from this storm?

Could I ever return to some sort of norm?

 

The storm threw everything at me.

It seemed that there was nowhere to flee.

 

Finally I decided enough was enough.

I’d head towards this storm, no matter how tough.

 

I wouldn’t hide or run away.

I’d say to my thoughts, you can stay.

 

I’d make anxiety my friend, not my foe.

And to my new life I’d begin to say hello.

 

I sailed into the storm and not away.

And slowly I got better day by day.

 

I was knocked about from side-to-side.

It wasn’t easy when I didn’t hide.

 

But as I got closer to the centre,

I realised things were getting better.

 

Then it started to become clear.

That there wasn’t actually any storm here.

 

The waters here were smooth and calm

I was no longer afraid of constant harm.

 

So I sailed on into the sun.

And continued the new life that I had begun.


ANON

 





 










Wednesday, 9 March 2022

VIRTUAL DODO 8

 

WELCOME TO VIRTUAL DODO EIGHT – MARCH 2022

 Welcome to Virtual Dodo Eight. The latest edition takes our tally to more than 220 performances and contributions since launching in April 2020. A big thank you to contributors, both on video and page. 

We hope viewers will enjoy the show – your support remains of enormous value to us.

The latest show begins with two excellent featured acts, Isabel Bermudez and Lantern Carrier,  followed by 21 open mic contributions.

 

Isabel Bermudez has published two full collections of poetry: Sanctuary (2018)and Small Disturbances (2016),  both  with Rockingham Press. She has three pamphlets, Serenade, Paekakariki Press, (2020)  Extranjeros, Flarestack Poets (2015)  and the prize winning Madonna Moon, Coast to Coast to Coast (2019) . She has worked as a waitress, journalist, documentary film-maker, grape-picker, receptionist, schoolteacher and private tutor.  She lives in Orpington, Kent, with the artist Simon Turvey. 

 

LANTERN CARRIER

Manatita, a.k.a The Lantern Carrier, is a creative writer and author with 21 years on the poetry scene.  He grew up writing poetry from age four, but switched to inspirational and meta-physical poetry when he took up the meditative life.

Equally at home with performance pieces, Lantern Carrier has won a Hammer and Tongue (H&T) Slam, featured at Run Your Tongue, Spoken Word Online, Gestalt, Dodo Modern Poets, Global Fusion, Ooobehive, BYOB and several other venues. He has been runner-up in slams, as well as making the finals in the H&T National Final (Brighton).

  He has read at the famous Nuyorican Cafe and also in Nairobi, Kenya.

Lantern Carrier is a poet who tries to serve, to bring light through his pieces, to elevate and enlighten understanding. He endeavours to reach the heart and is a specialist in imagery, music, light, colour and dance in their kaleidoscope of different forms.

His poetry addresses the varying moods of the soul and the human condition, either in mystical harmony or in separation from its source.

 

 

We hope you enjoy the show and welcome your feedback.

 

Springtime wishes,

 

Patric Cunnane

PR Murry

DODO MODERN POETS

01303 243868

 

 
Sue Johns at Virtual Dodo 8 
 
Max Fishel at Virtual Dodo 8  
PR Murry at Virtual Dodo 8
 
Graham Buchan at Virtual Dodo 8
   
Christine Eales at Virtual Dodo 8
   
Zolan Quobble at Virtual Dodo 8

 

Aidan Nutbrown at Virtual Dodo 8
   
Stuart Larner at Virtual Dodo 8 Julie Stevens at Virtual Dodo 8
  Paul Gander at Virtual Dodo 8
  Roger Stephenson at Virtual Dodo 8
  Emile Sercombe at Virtual Dodo 8

POEMS ON THE PAGE

Our show continues with poems on the page


Patric Cunnane


BLOODY SUNDAY

  

Where bullets tore

You could see their lunch

Meat, potatoes, peas

 

Unarmed youth

Felled by troops

 

A priest’s white handkerchief

Waved a victim through

An image that grew in power

 

Fourteen dead in Derry

Decades pass

Before the guns fall silent

 

Fourteen souls

Cheated of the moment

When hope and history rhymed

As a president left his throne

And peace replaced the stone

  

On 30 January 1972 British paratroopers shot 26 unarmed civilians taking part in a civil rights march in Derry, Northern Ireland. Thirteen died on the day and another man later died of his injuries.



Loraine Saacks

DON’T  SWALLOW  SNAILS’  SHELLS

[
© LORAINE SAACKS]



Yyou’ve fought on every front, downed each panacea;
                   the internet’s of no help – it’s fake medics’ propaganda

                               one site promotes carrots
there’s no need to fear
                                           another stresses shallots are poison, so be sure to steer clear;
                                                    so reject and don’t follow the spells,
                                                              and decline to swallow snails’ shells;
                                                                         resist a king’s ransom, it’s a fortune you’ll pay
                                                                                     for those website Gods all have feet of clay!

GGPs and clinics aren’t easy to access;
                   since the virus attacks left GB in a mess;
                               waiting rooms don’t exist anymore
who wants to infect, or contract, a flaw?
                                                    it should’ve been set in stone, years ago as a law,
                                                              seeing such a crowd of folk’s diverse ills ‘en tout’
                                                                         was a hell of a job for GPs, to wade through the queue.

LLike an illusion, the new routine arrives like a mirage:
                   you’re drawn out of the medics’ ‘raffle barrel, to form a triage,
                               it’s no vis-a-vis, outdated, ‘appointment’ – it’s now on the ‘phone

                                           the GP’s been anointed, from high, to listen to your moan!
                                                    thus His or Her Excellency, will then give you hope,
                                                              as long as you ask for an ‘Audience’ from the Medical Pope!


John Hurley

PEAT

I WISH I COULD RETURN TO MY CHILDHOOD

ONCE MORE TO WALK THE BOGLAND AND THE MOOR

SEE AROMATIC SMOKE RISE UP FROM THE CHIMNEYS

THE CHOSEN FUEL AND INCENSE OF THE POOR

WATCH THE CEANNABAN SPREAD ROOTS IN PROFUSION

THEN SEEK POOLS AS IF TO WASH ITS FEET

SPREAD  ITS  TINY BUDS LIKE FALLING SNOWFLAKES

AND STAND UP TALL WITH ITS WORK COMPLETE

I WOULD FEEL THE SATIN SKIN OF LUSH GREEN RUSHES

REST AND TAKE MY EASE ON SUN KISSED ROCKS

HEAR THE SOUND OF BEES AS THEY SEEK NECTAR

DRINK TEA FROM A BOTTLE WRAPPED IN SOCKS

GAZE AT STRONG MEN IN HOB NAILED BOOTS

DRIVE SLEANS THROUGH YIELDING PEAT

STAYING AHEAD OF QUICKLY RISING WATER

NO STOPPING HERE FOR SUN OR RAIN OR SLEET

SLURPING SOUNDS AS SODDEN SODS SURRENDER

DARK INGOTS HEAVED ON TO THE MOSSY BANKS

PUT IN CREELS BY THEIR WIVES AND CHILDREN

LAID TO DRY IN TIDY ORDERED RANKS

A GRATING SOUND AS SLEAN ENCOUNTERS TIMBER

THEN BOG OAK IS EXTRACTED FROM THE SOIL

BY THESE BRAWNY MEN WITH MUSCLES RIPPLING

FOR MANY DECADES NOW INURED TO TOIL


Yan Li  


 Wherever

An eagle on a pole.

A rooster on a willow.

Wherever we roost, at dawn we call.


A goose on a dock.

A swallow around a roof.

Wherever we stay, in Spring we miss home.


A daffodil on a track.

A lotus in the mud.

Wherever we grow, wait till we bloom.

( audio  https://drive.google.com/file/d/1yY_12cG7zE3gxcLLZ-9G9kgj6ENjABrv/view?usp=sharing)
 

Eddie Forde

The East Wind Doth Blow


There's an East Wind
Which literally
could cut you in half
Blowing across the Patio
Which reminds me
Of the East Wind
Which used to blow in nineteen sixty three
When I lived in condemned rooms
Let by a church going Irish man

Up in Crouch End
He had an agreement
With the Council
Giiving them backhanders
To let the condemned properties to his fellow countrymen their wives and children
Who had nowhere else to love
I was setting out on my great adventure
At the age of twenty-three
After failing abysmally at school

Intent upon becoming a writer
By attending night school
And sitting in warm libraries
For hour upon hour studying
Trying to
Catch up
On my neglected Education
With millions on the dole
Because of the cold and the East Wind which still Doth blow
Not that I am
Still at the mercy
Of the East Wind
As my life is heading towards its end
Never knowing then
That I was going to end up a poet
Which in retrospect
Is due to the East Wind
Which has shaped and changed my life.



Joseph Healy

Covid – In Memoriam

 

 

Along the dark waters of the Thames stands the memorial

Long it stretches along the wall bordering the hospital

Where many it commemorates spent last hours

Alone terrified struggling for life with every breath

 

Thousands of hearts adorn its surface

Some once bright red now a pale shade of pink

Others gone so faint

Like memories of the lives spent in safer times

 

Names given meaning by messages of love

A dear father, taken too soon, missed by all

Taken by a visit to the shop, a drink in the pub

A chat in a neighbour’s house a queue in the post office

 

Everyday acts innocent before

now poisoned with death’s sharp arrow

Nurses bus drivers shop assistants laboured through the lockdowns

Could not escape the locking down of life of breath

 

On the opposite bank of the Styx sits the grand palace

Site of endless talk and lies

Whose masters watched indifferent as wretches struggled

Gasping desperately for air clutching at the straw

 

For them the dollar and the pound the sandwich shops

The heaving pubs the cut and thrust of commerce and commute

The centre of a universe of Moloch which suffering and loss do not touch

Nor tears nor entreaties move from its predetermined axis

 

The graves stand silent the mourners gone

Accusingly the monument stares across

Waiting the moment of truth when accounts will be settled

And murderers names writ large in blood upon its tragic surface


Barry Coidan

the earth tilts / winter follows

 

the earth tilts 23 degrees out of the vertical

its orbit round our sun gives us the seasons

 

in summer we lean towards the sun

in winter we turn away nights lengthen

 frosted country lanes and fallow fields follow

 

you turned away unaware a whole

hemisphere chilled leaving me out in the cold.


Kevin Morris



There Is No Light:

There is no light
To brighten the night
As I pass
Along the churchyard path.
Just gusting wind
Eternal as the rain.


John Sephton


weeping dove

 

White angel soaring

 

in the darkening sky, the

 

weeping dove of peace.