The Poetry Society

The Lyre likes to think of poetry as a collective activity -- an '...arty wee boys' gang-hut', if you will, or even the ground of social life. As someone once said, a poem is between two persons, not two pages.

Recently, we enjoyed this collaboration between Chris McCabe and Tom Jenks. And we are sorry not to be able to attend this get together at the London Art Book Fair over the next couple of days (not to be confused with the equally attendable Poetry Book Fair, poster above):

Saturday 24th and Sunday 25th September, 3pm
 
Crossing the Painted

Readings of new work from poets in a collaboration between Painted, Spoken magazine and the Crossing the Line live poetry series. For two events only, six poets read individually, prefaced and 'afterworded' by a rules-based group work. Although representing a vast range of poetry practice the poets all come from modernist traditions with art practice selfconsciousness: hear how their work diverges and overlaps, creating a unique live event. Vahni Capildeo, Giles Goodland, Jeff Hilson, Francesca Lisette, Richard Price and Simon Smith.

But we are pleased to be able to publish, as a warm-up to the main event, new poems by some of the gang:

Richard Price

NAMESAKE


I always wanted.
At the age of sixteen I was born,
talented, dynamic, a glamour.

A tough industry to circuit –
few stand.

I’m frank, direct, bold.
(Concern me:
no-nonsense has earned.)

Me, the thinking-man’s realistic!
Icon and a family,
I suppose.

My future looks looking forward,
sharing my challenging,
my you.


(Katrina Amy Alexandria Alexis Infield Price, b.1978, “Jordan”, England).


Vahni Capildeo

DANCING BEAR SONNET (TRUNCATED)


You've lied through your teeth and it's not a pretty sight.
The fox pulls on his gloves, the poisoner says good night,
the drunk's wife grants him pardon, the drunk necks a drink,
something stirs to gentle life in the kitchen sink;
you say it is not so, no matter what I think,
the drunk's wife beats him up, the drunk's wife needs a drink,
your eyes pinned to my breast are jewelled with regret.

Hand me a stick to poke between the bars you've set.
Walk in the kind of wind that blows dogs inside out.
I too might need a drink. Your skull will do for that.
Always flying off. Nothing to write home about.


Simon Smith

AERODROME


The brimmed felt hat mouthing


Wings tangled with ivy


What is in the history of toothbrushes


About the corner your voice


Echoing at the angle


Song comes into my throat


‘I am breaking up before you’ – Zhivago


Still anchored in my spell check


A garden chair – a pencil stub.



Giles Goodland

PSEUDOSCORPION


Over the grey peneplain nothing moved

apart from god's hand

and then some stillness was hurtling towards me—

beetle-driver, custodian of dust

gatelegging its lapidicolous metalegend.

It forklifted its pedipalp

gleaning with smallarmed suckstance

to polish language’s mirror

and climb the last smeltal sentence.

Light in a junkbonded carapacet

metallurging its countermemory

to uneven the scopic crepuscule,

its clauses depend from trees.

Hold till you see the whites of their eggs.

The dark is under attack from more dark,

breeds inside the wreck of a fly.

The father and the man in robes let him do this

in its meetings with the hard stone floor.