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