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.

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