Thursday, 24 November 2016

Bull!


There will be unicorns.
For everyone.
Wonderful unicorns. It will be great.
And my unicorns are better.
I’ve made them better.
Let me tell you – white gets in a state.
So my unicorns are black.
I’m not racist. No, not me.
Some of my best ideas are black.
Or gold.
And here’s another fact:
They don’t have just one horn.
One-horns are for Democrats.
Losers.
My unicorns have two horns.
They have two horns and they’re black.
They’re better.
I’ve made unicorns great again.



First published at 'I am not a silent poet' 9/11/16

https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2016/11/09/bull-by-marc-woodward/

Monday, 3 October 2016


Busy Autumn coming up!

I'm happy to be reading at the launch of The Broadsheet at Exeter Poetry Festival on Tuesday 4th October; then I'll be performing at Torbay Poetry Festival as part of 5 Amp Fuse on the 27th October at Torre Abbey.
Finally Professor Andy Brown and I will be reading from our forthcoming book at Plymouth Lit Festival on Friday 28th October at The Athenaeum, Plymouth.

If you're reading this and want to know more about gigs etc come to my Facebook page!

https://www.facebook.com/Marcwoodwardmandolin/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel

A couple of poems published last month on the US site Page & Spine



 
 
 
 




















http://pagespineficshowcase.com/poems/marc-woodward

Monday, 12 September 2016

Larry's View

He leaned forward in his chair:

"It's kinda like a favourite book.
One you pick up from the shelf,
look at the pretty pictures,
enjoy the charming end
and then put back
knowing it's not your story -
it's just a story.

Well, that's how it was for me.
Before the injunction.
I'd watch quietly from a parked car.
Take a photo or two.
Never trouble her.
Just took an interest;
liked to see a new outfit.
Or what she'd choose
if the weather changed.

Ok, I rang a few times
just to hear her say 'hello'.
Her voice is so sweet, you know?
Kinda trembly when she
answers the phone.
I didn't say anything,
just hung up -
figured she'd think it was a wrong number.

Of course it freaked her out.
Stupid of me really.
She called the police,
they traced the call to me,
and that's it: deep shit.

So now I keep away from that part of town.
Don't call, don't write.
She's got her Facebook set to super private.
La di da.
She thinks I can't see.
But I'm pretty smart, it's a game to me.
So I found a way. I knew her mum's email.
Guessed her Facebook password.
She's got two kids
and a black cat called Mr Tibbs.
Too easy really.

Her Christmas photos were sweet.
She looked so pretty in that jumper
- and she's always looked good in jeans.
I could imagine being there.
"Another scotch Larry? Don't mind if I do!
Chocolates? Well, why not?"
TV. Scrabble. Twister perhaps? Mmm...

So like I say, just a little voyeurism.
Doesn't really hurt. Remote viewing.
Ah, too remote sadly.

Still, there's a lot of darkness this time of year,
a lot of darkness..."



First published at 'I Am Not A Silent Poet' 22/4/2016

Thursday, 8 September 2016

The Bird Catcher




He chewed last year's mistletoe into paste
then, rolling it at length between his hands,
turned it to birdlime in long sticky strands.

He coated the wind strummed telephone wires
to catch the thieving swallows and martins
as they preened and readied for departing.

They were stuck there, like so many crotchets
on a sky-hung stave, twittering in vain
a woeful blues of frustration and pain.
 
Still the daylight hours grew shorter and cold.
Leaves fell as usual and Winter blew in.
The birds soon died from thirst and weathering.

If he could catch them all Summer would stay.
Birds, like madness, fly unexpected ways.




First published in Avis Magazine Spring 2016

Crisis

Parked up by a wringing wood
on a crack-backed country road,
I shut down the lights and from the boot
took out a wrench: unflinching, cold.

I placed my mobile on the damp tarmac,
glinting in the light from the open car,
and laid savage into the bastard thing.
I watched its stupid face fragment and fly,
numbers flicking out across the road.
I kicked the remnants to the side.

Lying down on the ground, I saw moonlight
reflecting in the oily chippings;
felt gravel grit into my wet cheek.

If I could drive blindfold I could go,
avoiding all the places that I know.
Like driving in some foreign land
where all the signs are free of symbols;
faces are those of strangers,
undemanding and bland.

I wouldn't just drive slowly home,
my trousers muddy, face oil stained,
to quietly explain how I'd been mugged
and someone stole my phone.  Again.




Published in 'Making Contact', poetry anthology, Ravenshead Press, 12/ 2012
and included in 'A Fright Of Jays' from Maquette Press  7/15




Thursday, 25 August 2016

Naledi


His first go at splicing Ape and Angel
was less than successful. Although smarter
the mutant lacked the Angel's wings and grace
and showed  more aggression and avarice.
He culled the lot, dumped the bones in a cave.

The second go was better. Still no wings
but at least they showed reduced body hair
and the females, especially, had increased
angelic traits of beauty and compassion.

He thought he might still have another try
but left them to it when distracted by
supernova bursts in far galaxies.
Adrift in the stars these ape-angels learned
to slaughter and skin, to speak and raise fire.



From: BBC News, 10 September 2015
Scientists have discovered a new human-like species in the Rising Star Cave system in South Africa.
The discovery of 15 partial skeletons is the largest ever discovery of primitive human remains in Africa.
The individuals are part human and part ape and researchers say that the species, called Homo Naledi 
(Naledi means Star in the local Sotho language), could be a "bridge" between the two.

First published in Prole no 19 April 2016


Monday, 14 March 2016

A Fright of Jays review

Delighted with this review by Simon Zonenblick at Sabotage Reviews.

Excerpt:

Poems about suicide, liberation, the bizarre destruction of a mobile phone in an apparently pre-meditated, insular revolution against technology, and the impact of humanity on the natural world, are somehow packaged neatly into this short, succinct, high quality chapbook, whose author achieves a level of observational exactitude, empathy, and at times, quite frankly, psychological menace, which many would fail to muster in a full-length collection.

The full review is here:

Tuesday, 9 February 2016

The farmer always thought she had too many dresses.


Stunted thorns slump east.
Three red calves stand on the ridge
rumps to the west wind.

Rabbit weary grass
faints at the clump of his boots.
In the house below

she's folding dresses.
A thin surrender of smoke
waves like a torn flag.

By the time she leaves
he's sodden to his white chest
and the hearth is cold.





First published at Clear Poetry 21/1/2016
https://clearpoetry.wordpress.com/2016/01/21/marc-woodward-two-poems/

Monday, 8 February 2016

Pretzl




















I will believe the Lord is good.
I will believe the land is kind.
I do believe the fruit will fall
if not picked first and where it falls
must be controlled for fallen fruit will
surely rot and rotten fruit will sour the lawns.

My husband knows the hand of God
and God himself has made it known
that we should pick the ripening fruit
and love and keep the seeds we've sown,
we've sown. The precious seeds we've sown.

The cellar doors have sturdy locks
the windows open just enough.
Enough to let His spirit blow
and keep the darkness holy, holy,
and clean the shade that breathes in there.
Our precious seed that breathes in there.


Published at  http://visualverse.org/submissions/pretzl/ 5.2/16


Monday, 21 December 2015

When Joe went out late



to shut away the poultry
after weeks of rain
he knew where the pony was
by the sound of its hooves
sucking in the mud.

Foxes still kill in downpours.
Maybe they keep closer
to the bones of the hedge
or loiter below hollies,
but they're always watching.
Hungry as December dark.

The hens were in and roosting,
dry enough in their houses.
He let the hatches drop
and turned towards the paddock.

Four days before Christmas
and he'd have preferred ice
to this unceasing rain.
The track would be flooded
down by the bridge,
the damp wall in the hall
coughing salt from flaking plaster.

He found the pony and together
the two squelched back to the stable.

If there were still stars
he hadn't seen them for many nights.
He'd laid off his shepherd
and couldn't think of
a wise man in those parts.

Should the Angel of the Lord come down
Glad tidings! Glad tidings!
he'd tell the twinkle to fuck right off.
And take the bloody weather with it.


First published at Your One Phone Call 6/6/2016







Sunday, 13 December 2015

The Dusts


These dust motes, so gently pirouetting,
can, from certain angles in slanted light,
reform to embody the departed.

Libraries are full of such airborne ghosts
moving quietly between sleeping shelves,
attending to their liminal business.

Open a forgotten book, a fat tome
on Greek history say, and out they come,
liberated to scintillate in beams

sloping from tall windows; to dance in gusts
from the actions of automatic doors.
Closing the pages renders them homeless,

left to circle in whispering limbo
until one day like summoned saints, they sail
up, up, up, to peace on high picture rails.




First published in The Jawline Review 17/3/16




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