Poetry on the Prowl

We had a cracking Stanza session with Caroline Hawkridge on 22nd September – and we’re convening again at 7.30pm on Tuesday 13th October for more reading and discussing of poems. All welcome, admission free. Please bring 15 copies of work you’d like to read and discuss – you can be assured of helpful and constructive feedback.

Here are some poems from the last session.

First up, Becky Sowray

image of factory


I breathe oceans,
soft-lit, hot landscapes of steam.
Forging raw substance,
into our joint creation,
something fine.

Tonight I power the moon,
my arc lights fill her;
making this hour’s ecstasy.
I draw each surface sharp,
diamond-tense, life-for-living.

Men built my lungs,
while a community gathered.
Every one rode on hope,
the price-less tide
of change.

I have appetite, a beast;
not to be denied.
You; you want my produce,
but not my filthy self; dirtier
than the earth.

You say you want me,
but I know your lies.
Selfishness is all you know;
comfort, want and this hour now.
You are rotten.

Faltering and blind
you try to bury me;
you’d see me dead.
Your chorus is a litany
of stupidity.

Your bleaching day denies me,
wraps me in grey,
it is the weight of your mind.
I exist here only, now,
in the dark.

It was Becky’s Leopard debut, we look forward to hearing more from her soon.

Malcolm McMinn considers what some have to do for a living:


Titan the bull, a magnificent beast,
Almost as tall as a man at the shoulder
And must weigh over a ton. Broad of head
On a thick short neck, his body is built
Like, —– well, he’s built like a bull. He has got
That macho charisma, his ego swollen
As big as a barn (and temper to match).
The cows all adore him, gaze with desire,
Cow-eyed, droolingly, but to no avail;
The cows and the bull are all badly cheated!
Titan’s the father of hundreds of offspring,
Many more are hoped for next year. You’d think
That a varied and vigorous sex life
Would keep him fully employed. Not a chance,
Nothing like that; Titan, I fear, is a
Virgin and may never know the real thing
For science, not nature, now rules supreme.
Men in white coats and surgical gloves come
Now and then just to extract Titan’s seed.
Gosh! What some men have to do for a living!

Karen Schofield brought an eerie poem with a sinister medical theme:


The moths came with a soft flutter
one night and buried into
the deepest recesses of cloth.

Their offspring had their fill, gnawed
the wool and cashmere mix of a coat
framed by a hanger, shaped like you.

They punched out tell-tale holes, some like stars
which later grew, coalesced into craters.
Silver dust littered the wardrobe carpet.

They were driven out, killed off a few times
but resistant reinforcements arrived,
attacked the arms, shoulders and back

until the coat was held together by threads.
Shrunken and spineless, its days were numbered
and it shed bits of blue wool like tears.

Steve Savage also brought a very evocative poem, this one based on a visit to an art-installation.

(After visiting a balloon art installation project at Tate, St Ives in summer 2011)

They gather overhead
Line up to cruise inland
Like great grey battleships

Remember when you were young
Finding faces and shapes
Amongst those massive marshmallows

Time would stand still for an afternoon
As the cowboys and indians of youth
Drifted across our child’s minds’ eye

Over time thoughts get clouded
By things not known as children
No string left to ravel ourselves up in

Yesterday we played amongst Tate’s balloons
Today there are battleships in the clouds

Leopard poetry logo


About theleopard66

I am a member of the Stoke Stanza of The Poetry Society and run a bi-monthly Poems & Pints event in Alsager.
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8 Responses to Poetry on the Prowl

  1. Pingback: Poetry on the Prowl | Rebecca Sowray

  2. mfuller810 says:

    Once Again The Evening Comforts Me

    Once again the evening comforts me in its restful solitude.
    Its calming influence overwhelms my mind.
    The light steadily dies but its death does not leave me subdued
    And I feel no remorse for the day to be left behind.

    In this dear state I find there is no shame
    To accept the days happiness is over and done,
    But I feel no sense of loneliness to be home again,
    And watch the evening turn to darkness as time goes on.

    Mike Fuller ( 2003 )

    Inspired by the 4th Movement of Mahler’s 9th Symphony.

  3. mfuller810 says:

    Sonnet To England

    Now upon English soil I soon shall stand,
    Homeward from climes that fancy deems more fair;
    And well I know that there will greet me there
    No soft foam fawning upon smiling strand,
    No scent of orange-groves, no zephyrs bland;
    But Amazonian March, with breast half bare
    And sleety arrows whistling through the air
    Will be my welcome from that burly land.
    Yet he who boasts his birth-place yonder lies,
    Owns in his heart a mood akin to scorn
    For sensuous slopes that bask ‘neath southern skies,
    Teeming with wine and prodigal of corn,
    And, gazing through the mist with misty eyes,
    Blesses the brave bleak land where he was born.

    From ‘3 Sonnets To England’
    Alfred Austin ( 1835 – 1913 )

    I am not patriotic in the slightest but I like this poem.

  4. mfuller810 says:

    Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall

    Through the corridors of sleep
    Past the shadows dark and deep
    My mind dances and leaps
    In confusion

    I don’t know what is real
    I can’t touch what I feel
    And I hide behind the shield
    Of my illusion

    So, I’ll continue to continue to pretend
    My life will never end
    And flowers never bend
    With the rainfall

    The mirror on my wall
    Casts an image dark and small
    But I’m not sure at all
    It’s my reflection

    I am blinded by the light
    Of God and truth and right
    And I wander in the night
    Without direction

    So, I’ll continue to continue to pretend
    My life will never end
    And flowers never bend
    With the rainfall

    It’s no matter if you born
    To play the King or pawn
    For the line is thinly drawn
    Between Joy and Sorrow

    So my fantasy
    Becomes reality
    And I must be what I must be
    And face tomorrow

    So, I’ll continue to continue to pretend
    My life will never end
    And flowers never bend
    With the rainfall

    Paul Simon ( 1965 )

  5. mfuller810 says:

    Pink Racing Car

    A pink racing car.
    A pink racing car.
    In my dreams I could go far
    In my beloved red racing car.

    Mike Fuller 10 / 10 / 2015

  6. mfuller810 says:

    SORRY! In the above poem I meant ‘Pink’ NOT ‘Red’!

    Cheers – Mike

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