A Splash of Poetry
Poetry Photography Art
The Voice of the Grass Roots
Issue 1
The Grass Roots Poetry Group Welcome to our inaugural edition of A Splash of Poetry! This magazine is to showcase the talents of the Grass Roots Poetry Group who were founded in 2011 . It all started with some harmless, always well meaning and amusing banter on the twitter timeline. The conversations seemed to centre on food, art, music, poetry (of course) andLrandom silliness! We shared a common sense of humour and a passion for poetry. Every now and then our resident Grassland Scientist and Ecologist, Craig Morris, aka @grasscraig, will move the conversation in another direction and inject some form of poetic inspiration, or introduce us to the mysterious underworld of the rhizosphere. The result, in brief, was the coming together of creative minds and the proposal to produce a joint publication. Even though he is not a poet who writes poetry, Craig is a poet at heart and has been a constant inspiration and encouragement to us all. It may come as no surprise that the Grass Roots Poetry Group name arises in consequence of his primary interest. The addition of Anu, aka @anuwildantz, a designer, who rather unexpectedly came up with the rather amusing and clever montage of us all as our twitter avatars, presented us with the final piece of the jigsaw to move us forward in our creative endeavours. So, here we are at the start of an exciting new chapter, and we hope to pack our issues full of poetry, photography, art and interesting news of what we are all up to with our creativity. Now, sit back, relax and enjoy!
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Poetry
British Lips
Decline By John Anstie When you have given all, then lost, is this the colour of blame? The love that drips from your sweet lips and drowns someone in shame. When young, their hue was vestal white, their innocence on view. As you would vanquish suitors all, just one will conquer you. The age of love, engorged with red, this procreative flower would then attract them and their charm laid helpless in your bower. But summer’s heat and light turned blue in autumn’s lengthened shade and, as the scented bloom decays, a nation’s colours fade. When you have given all and lost, is this the colour of blame? The love that drips from your sweet lips and drowns someone in shame.
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Lips By Peter Wilkin nymphae, philtrum, flaps, rims, borders, procheilon, cherries, folds; sylph, aerofoils, grooves, felloe, protuberances, middles, prunus, creases; peaches, labia, margins, portals, perimeters, tips, pèrleche, pouters; centres, entrances, minora, beauties, pigeons, ends, inflammation, borders; flanges, smackers, erotica, flesh, corolla, tubercles, pudenda, mouths; kisses, appendages, openings, pussy, stimulators, calyces, collars, tissue; coronation drippings, glossy seduction, irresistible temptation, tearful ending
Lips By Marsha Berry Her lips drip drip drip patriotic orgasms from crossed flags dissolving into swirling blue and white in a red sea of Derrida’s differance all meaning slips slides squirms deliciously out of reach as soon as it is touched.
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British Pride by Abigail Baker It’s warm here in the pseudo darkness almost uncomfortably hot. Waking from this dreamless task list hovering between REM sleep state and the screaming sanity of awake. Sensation start with creeping steps sticky realisation crests into dawning dreadlocks of clinging certainty. Tentatively raising two fingers investigating blotted white sheets beneath the respectable blue cover. Moist blooms of blood red redress formed intricate crop circle patterns damnation in stain glass proportions. Cursed like a wet dream of Dracula colour bleeding from dripping lips oozing lies like the politician smiles.
Twll din y Cwin by Shan Ellis Our red ruined lost in labours of the land when colours ran and mixed in coalition. Blue and yellow became greenA confused shambles of vitriolic avarice. Symbolic blue braveheart went its own way pulling sympathies of the old fire breather who stood confused, waiting for Arthur to wake the fuck up. Somehow as the white parted, forgot how those hardy rose petals bled how they led to the bleeding kiss of the poison Jack. Bastardisation, totes amaze, that final suck of Americanisation on a leaderless land.
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Kiss by Louise Hastings If this country were my lips and this city stained with blood and money were my brain and bones, I would be the river flowing, my bloodstream thick with it, cells dividing, splitting into one more tortured poet stood helpless against the tides, against the process of decay. Fingers, brittle, cracking, cling like a fragile bird, a world away from the booted city girls, blushed and powdered faces striding past the glitter in the shops. I am my country, the distant hills the spine that holds me upright. I kiss the earth and sky, the love that lies beside me in the prism of the rainbow spray.
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Warped Reality by Jaqueline Dick And who are you, to condemn me because I choose not to reside in your world of reality. My mystical magic brings me solace, beauty a world in which only I choose who or what resides. It is gossamered, yet strong; vulnerable, loving and fun. There are no wars no bloodshed no barbs no jealousies. Take your reality and when you tire I am here to show you the way.
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Make Believe by Peter Wilkin It may have been a fluffball wafted by the draught from my open window, or a skittering mouse fazed by my awakening but the brand new colouring book positioned on the chimneypiece gaudy as splashed paint convinced me beyond all doubt. And though my father could find no trace of any ethereal creatures more proof (if proof were needed) jigged in my mother’s eyes behind those thin, gold rimmed glasses, her hands raised high in shock. This was not my imagination. This was real, real as the kettle singing on the iron stove, real as her wool-bobbled arm around my small shoulders as I coloured in the first picture.
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Reality by Abigail Baker Each cobalt morning I awake yawning the very birth light of this furious dying star. The liquid shudders, shakes, sliding in perpetual circles revealing a verdant patchwork. Billowing milky white mountains scatter giant marbles, rolling across this bubbling cauldron surface. colourless noise rises in rings cluttering a mythical atmosphere with a dirty laundry of smog. Gold and barter are swallowed vacuum packed in a terabyte red lights glow in standby night. Toxic plumes form in mushroom clouds divine obituaries written in invisible ink quietly the warm ice still drips. I close my eyelids seeking reprieve peace from this brash figment of reality and your smile welcomes me home.
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A Second take on reality by Marsha Berry Storm clouds gather in a cerulean sky glowering together, raining drops of discontent upon my head. I unfurl my umbrella, shivering inside, I smile at the sulky face behind the clouds, the rain drops stop awhile then a thought passes and the clouds darken once againL I run inside for shelter.
Figment by Joe Hesch My dreams never come true because I barely remember my sleeping dreams. My reality, though, sees me walk through a see-through dreamscape wherein I conjure all manner of spectral maybe. Does it matter whether I lead a life of imagined self in real battles and true loves, or the real life of imaginary foes and the touchless one who holds my spiritual heart? I can’t choose until that day when real meets real, warm touches warm. Until then, I am content to let my sleep-deprived imagination inform this forever-aching reality.
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(AN) Atomical by Shan Ellis An accumulation of particles meanders lazily past my little collection of Carbon, Hydrogen and Oxygen. There may be Nitrogen in there somewhere too. Perhaps in the bile. Free radicals change the constitution, Degenerating epithelial stuff Blow wind, gale force whatever you can’t catch me. (I’m spiritual man.) Dreaming in the daylight, walking in the darkenlightenment, inner search who am I? What are we? Someone upstairs having a laughespecially if I’m fantasising (these) dangly bits. Couldn’t I look like Nigella Lawson? Only for a few hours? 7 a.m. wake up call back to reality kids jump me, a reminder, albeit gentle that my bed is made.
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A parallel World by John Anstie My world is parallel to yours. I see what you see, I comprehend what you understand, but the pace of my soul, my mind’s chicanery, the pattern of my life, defeats you. It is perhaps the magic of the spectacles I wear you know, the ones that only a child can use Leffectively. The varying spectral sensitivity of which my eyes are capable, sometimes miss a step in your logic. It’s like a missed beat in the heart, that leads to moistened eyes, to anger or pain, or simple awe at sight of beauty, that makes me fear to show you how I feel, because of how you thinkL Like a garden full of vibrant colours, arranged according to their botany, not their beauty. Like lying in a field of grass watching a sky full of stars, defined by astrophysics and not by your dreams.
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When I am in a hypnopompic state, I tarry not with reason. I see why your reality is not what makes me tick. What turns me on is an alternative view of sights and sounds that sing to me, in harmony with Mother Nature’s Earth. That is, the earth, the other worldly earth, of which we are a part. Try to understand it, as I do you.
“Purple flowers, Settle.” Copyright © Peter Wilkin
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Carpe Nocturn by Quirina Roode-Gutzmer Darkness falls like a purple flower unfolding, while the shell of day breaks like glass, to the sound of birds’ trill and timbre tones. The shell-shard shrapnel glitter like diamonds on African skin. Know the stars, when and where they shine, watch them move across boundless black, catch a planet turn like a top on the ecliptic, and see the silent slow motion symphony. Listen earnestly, L to hear each thought note. Drink the night in cups, by day, not sweetened nor made murky with milk, but black and acrid, bitter and fathomless, where danger lurks in Cimmerian shade. Behold the night in a L different L light, until you see shimmer, the moist flanks of a black stallion, galloping with intent; merlot, coursing through its lavender veins. Seize the hot iron reins with both hands, forge by light of candles lit on all ends, under a banquet of stars and silver moon. Feast on the quiet hours that know no bound, and burn Earth’s oil beyond the midnight hours. Harvest the mind fields of passion’s flowers. Don’t stop. While others sleep, toil on. Sleep can wait, for in death, it is boundless. Shape with hammer, upon anvil, with will. There are no interruptions of mundane day. Polish with patience “The Great Work”. But the night is wild; like fire, like ocean. Honour this mighty beast, give him deservèd respect, and humbly learn the gentle art of whispering. Once on its bare back and holding his mane, L seize the night, carpe noctem, carpe noctem, before the darkness of day seizes you.
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Photography
iphonography by PeterWilkin @ instacanv.as/peterwilkin1
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News This week saw the release of Phases of the Moon, a 1st collection of poetry by Louise Hastings!
Sacramento, CA – Effortless in her flow, Louise Hastings gives tremendous heart in her debut poetry collection. This is poetry that you don’t have to dig deep to relate to. Her smooth execution always leaves you wanting more. Phases of the Moon, is a 94 page poetry volume. Available on paperback with a retail price of $1 3.99, and eBook with a retail price of $5.99. The ISBN is: 978-0-9851 548-9-9. Published through Winter Goose Publishing and available now through all major retailers. For more information or to request a review copy, contact Winter Goose Publishing at info@wintergoosepublishing. Now available at Amazon.com Amazon UK and Barnes & Noble
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The Grass Roots Poetry Group Abigail Baker @The_Linnet Abigail Baker adores using words! Mostly they tumble endlessly from mind to mouth and beyond but when they pause she catches them as poetry. A wordsmith by epiphany is how she describes herself since waking on the dawn of 2011 with an irrepressible urge to share her poetry. She is now a published poet with a hectic life dodging raindrops in North Somerset and slaving after her beloved horse and husband. Raised in rural Mid Sussex, her inspirations include the natural world, the relationship to the soul and the tangential wanderings of her mind. This is her blog at Phoenix of the Linnet Peter Wilkin @peterwilkin1 Peter Wilkin is a retired psychotherapist who lives in West Yorkshire. Having been widely published in various books & journals during his professional life he has already had competition successes with his poetry. He has also co-written an as yet unpublished children’s novel with Marsha Berry and is currently working on his first adult novel. Peter has a keen interest in photography, developing his own unique style of iphoneography. His poetry & other writings can be found at Peter Wilkin’s BLOG and his iphoneography at Webstagram. Louise Hastings @LouiseJHastings Louise Hastings is a lyrical poet. Already published in various forms, she has a new collection out, Phases of the Moon published by Winter Goose Publishing. Her focus on natural elements elevates her poetry to fantastical heights, which allows you to see things in a unique and different way; the true mark of a poet. The rhythms and language she uses are so often completely in tune with her subject as she weaves her stories; unveiling a quality of poetic expression, which is difficult to find, but will endure. You can read her poetry at Wings Over Waters Shan Ellis-Williams @Awdures Shan Ellis-Williams is a Welsh poet, journalist and published writer of fantasy fiction with a depth of experience that belies her youth. She is not in the least reticent about expressing views on all the subjects she tackles, which are many and varied; sometimes gritty and controversial. To catch some of this you should visit her Musings and Smatterings weblog. Those with a more adventurous spirit should visit: After Darkness Falls.
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Quirina Rude-Gutzmer @denfemte Quirina is a Dutch born, one time resident of South Africa and German speaking linguist, working on her first novel, and a very fine poet. She is a scientist and mathematician, which brings a subtly different perspective to her writing, but also reveals that scientists are not boring pedants; they do have strong feelings, in abundance, about any subject. Her poems can be found at In The Write Mind and The Minds Sky Marsha Berry @marousia Known on Twitter as Marousia, Marsha lives in Australia. She describes herself as an artist, a poet and a writer interested in all things connected to new media. She is already published. Amongst her talents she is also a very fine artist and her video works and photographs have been exhibited in curated group shows in Berlin, Karachi, Valencia, Brisbane, Perth and Melbourne. You can find her work at her blog Musings: Poetry, Art and Beauty. Joseph A Hesch @JAHesch Joe Hesch lives in upstate New York. A former journalist, he’s been writing for more 35 years. Five years ago a brush with mortality informed him that each day is a blessing not to be wasted, and he needed to express his emotions and impressions of life as only poetry could. Since then his work has been published in journals from Boston to Los Angeles. Joe likes to say every day he squeezes the contents of his heart over whatever expression he’s wearing and imprints it onto the page of a notebook---his version of St. Veronica's veil. He can be found on his web blog at A Thing for Words Jacqueline Dick @fumanchucat Jacqie is a teacher, published poet and writer living in New York City. She is a poet with a very good sense of rhythm and a keen eye for her subject matter. She also has a talent for spotting the unusual, the unexpected, especially when it’s not in her back yard, but yours! Above all she is a passionate of advocate of disadvantaged people. You can find her poetry at 1 emeraldcity. John Anstie @poetjanstie John trained as a scientist and engineer. He has been variously farm worker, ice cream salesman, security guard, metallurgist, export sales manager, IT and ATM engineer and project manager. He rediscovered his inner poet around three years ago. It is possible that his thirty-five years spent in a creative desert may have enabled and enobled his poetic spirit. He maintains two blogs, writing prose on almost any subject in the universe at his appropriately named blog, Forty Two, and poetry at My Poetry Library. 17
Friends of the Forest 足 Designed by Anuwildantz
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