Poetry Corner Part 3

Life’s Little Callings

When I stopped walking I was still able to walk. I could stride and stomp with willful indignation, run, even, if I had to catch a train or dodge a sudden catcall in a poorly lit part of my youth. I was vigorous and sure, even if my steps were rather tentative and wayward. I could walk. I was certain that picking up the pace was only a matter of time and decision and a less skittish inclination. Vim and visions of arcadian byways of unruly platelets in my brain – char or a sudden wormhole, or, I imagine a fffft – like stray hairs burnt and offered to undiscerning gods – a rent in my own bitty share of inner space/time. There is no need to mark time in footfalls. No need to step lively, to march to any drummers, indifferent or rhythmically pedestrian. My will is a rogue who insists no more on inviting me into the bushes after the too-slow dance

By Kate Falvey. Kate Falvey work has been fairly widely published in journals Review, published through City Tech/CUNY, where she teach Review.

Crumbling City

I walk the half-deserted streets past the few people risking contagion, most wearing masks few distancing, to take precautions, ignorantly believing the plague is over. The empty shops, restaurants chillingly remind me even when disease is over the shuttered businesses closed beyond reopening, lost enterprises that nurtured the city, no longer nourish those they maintained in a time-honoured system to allow different lives of all conditions to manage existence, education, comforts, subsisting, as people always have to provide for families, support the state, live the best life possible that interfere rudely with the hope for tomorrow.

By Gary Beck Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theatre director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theatre. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 32 poetry collections, 13 novels, three short story collections, one collection of essays and three books of plays. Gary lives in New York City.

I walk the half-deserted streets past the few people most wearing masks

to take precautions, ignorantly believing The empty shops, restaurants chillingly remind me even when disease is over the shuttered businesses closed beyond reopening, that nurtured the city, those they maintained in a time-honoured system to allow different lives

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theatre director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theatre. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 32 poetry collections, 13 novels, three short story collections, one collection of essays and three books of plays. Gary lives in New York City.

Bandages

Pink shadows on my hands; Old grazes from a fall. Cleaned with iodine and antiseptic That stung my skin but swiftly healed it. Next to one pink shadow Is a white one That shines when I stretch my hand. This one didn’t sting But Itched For days afterwards. I was told once that Cleaning wounds is unnatural. It’s mollycoddling To use plasters and chemicals. Was the only way, No matter how deep. Ignoring ancient skeletons that show Infections ate their bones. Just ignore the injuries. They won’t fester. They won’t scar you forever. Just ignore the fact that Even animals lick their wounds.

their time between wandering around the nearby woodland, writing poems, and taking their frustrations out on unsuspecting pillows. They’re looking forward to being free to avoid people on their own terms again. They are on Instagram.

edition

Public announcements on the TV tell us to Stay Safe, Stay Home, Protect the NHS. The irony of these new rules doesn’t escape us. We remember the original game pack where this great institution existed to safeguard us. But new cards are dealt, and gin-makers fret as bars close their doors, until the smart ones spot opportunity: the blossoming market for alcoholic sanitising gels for hands. Soap makers concoct funky mixes of fruity delights with trendy names to wash they send germs down the drain. Fashion designers race to take their turn, upping their game plan to earn a few quid, tempting us all to take on masked personas with highwayman black, Hello Kitty frivolity, or the reliable brand of a favourite sports team. Only the brave improvise with whatever’s to hand – seriously this is a mask, not my knickers. Meanwhile everyday life is about making the right choice; food still a weapon in this battle for health. But it’s a

confusion of options, from chicken-free dippers (please, just say veggie), to sugar-free, dairy-free, gluten-free, fat-free. Yet we still pile on the pounds, and promise ourselves that tomorrow

we’ll get out-of-doors for a walk. Round and round the board we travel, trying not to succumb to the loneliness of invisible bubbles that exclude more than include, or grief that Granny is trapped behind glass. Roll the dice, and keep swallowing box sets and movies, get up and zoom into work. This unwelcome game will eventually end, if we just keep playing our part.

By Sharon J Clark. Sharon J Clark is a poet and short story writer living in Milton Keynes, England. She has spent much of the pandemic writing poems and stories, but also took up running, much to her own surprise. Her writing has been published in a number of anthologies. She is active in the local writing scene, including Festival. Read more here.