By Anita Foxall.
It’s time to bring you more poets and poetry, and on this occasion, I’ll be sharing some of my own work as well.
Writing has always been a part of me. I first immersed myself in the depths of short stories, only to find, almost unknowingly, that I was navigating the seas of poetry. Since moving to Southampton, poetry has become an even stronger presence in my life. I’ve taken to reading my poems at open mics, participated in events, and connected with many incredible writers and poets. From there, I progressed to hosting my own open mic nights, organizing spoken word events, crafting my poetry pamphlet, Shapes and Forms from Outer Space, and writing for In Common. Through my work, I strive to amplify the remarkable talent that thrives within open mics and local events, hidden gems I’ve been fortunate to encounter along the way.
Here are two of my poems:
Vegetating
I’m vegetating
staring at my soup.
The soup’s gone cold now.
It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon
and I’m having soup.
I only realize I’m staring at soup
when she comes in and asks:
“Why are you eating soup at 4pm?”
I’m glad she decided to come vegetate with me.
Not that I mind vegetating on my own
with my soup.
A half-empty glass of water stands between us,
she looks at it, sighs
she looks at me, smiles.
“Soup at 4pm?!” she repeats,
though she’s seen this routine
she still perplexes every day.
Why shouldn’t I have soup at 4 in the afternoon?
Why shouldn’t I have soup anytime I like?
We vegetate together
as her cup of coffee goes as cold as my soup.
The Café is quite full now.
Heckling,
hot cups of coffee,
hot bowls of soup.
The couple sitting next to us
stare at the air between them,
oblivious to the steam dancing before their eyes.
We vegetate,
they don’t.
She looks at them, sneers
she looks at me, sincere.
We vegetate in silence.
Cold cup of coffee,
cold bowl of soup.
I fill up the glass of water still standing between us.
Poet
Our voices speak in unison.
Too loud for mere average ears,
too high pitched for the deaf,
too striking for the brave.
It is all real what we speak of?
If you’re real,
it’s all real.
Our words are what you feel,
we understand your ideal.
Thus, we speak in unison,
we are prophets,
we are clowns,
we are Shakespeare.
We make dreams real,
we make sorrow disappear.
Is it real what we speak of?
It is all as real and unreal,
as what is inside and outside us.
Believe in what you trust.
Trust us!
Because we make our world readjust,
so that we can capture your vision
and reflect them in words
with honesty and precision.
We speak in unison,
too loud, if you’re too sensitive,
too intense, if you’re too defensive,
too striking if you live in fear.
So be aware,
because
we make sorrow real,
we make dreams disappear.
Anita Foxall (@anitafoxallpoetry) • Instagram photos and videos
Shapes and Forms from Outer Space
Chris Davie
Chris Davie is an author, poet, chef, and fixer of things. His writing tends towards the dark but looks back at the light, seeking hope. His first novel, A Green and Pleasant Land, is available to buy as paperback or e-book. His latest novel, Debris, will be available as soon as he finds someone to publish it… Chris has poetry published in several compilations and has performed with the Tongue Fu band. He trawls open mics, searching for slots. Chris lives in Hampshire with his wife and two little turtles.
Hierarchy of Wants
The perfect nut cracker, pink ripples and rounded.
Stashed from the troop, jealously guarded.
A white spiral shell with tight tiger stripes.
A knife knapped from flint, handle wove tight.
A deer carved from bone, an axe, and a bow.
A javelin sharpened, and ready to throw.
An urn and a pot, and a hearth, and an ox.
A field of genetically modified crops.
A sword and a spear and a shield and a mace,
some pulleys and rope and cathedrals to raise,
a compass a quill a map and a boat.
A ruby clad amulet torn from a throat.
Ledgers of legends, and transactions made.
Declaration of freedom, enslaved hands engraved.
Steam engines looms and fossil fuel fumes.
A fresh minted penny laid on a tomb.
A trilby a gun a smoke and a train.
A photo of a leader on a wall in a frame.
A haircut a wardrobe a suit and some vinyl,
a hundred objects we now need for survival.
A pager a Gameboy a red ghetto blaster.
A liberalised marketplace courting disaster.
An iphone a laptop a passport a suitcase
a dawning awareness life hangs on a shoelace
a Tesla, a yacht and a ticket to space.
A grim sinking feeling we’ve run the wrong race.
Leftovers
There’s a half jar of decaff going solid in the cupboard.
The penny machines stutter and recover,
unmined seams of copper gleam.
A kite circles, dipped wing, might be him, screeching to be seen,
and below, the splinters of stages we strutted on, slowly transcend to soil.
We were smooth skin and wild grins. Gesticulating hands, amplified gestures, dilated pupils.
The versions of us we’d come to be, gestating in pupal state, diamante chrysalis, slung over
the shoulder of a skanking drag queen.
Shots, drops, and lines in kitchens and dawn yawned awaiting the climax of slurred sermons,
screamed at jaw swing Gods impatient to reply.
Snores and sunshine, rosé and rage, sweetness and appetite.
Stiletto as a tongue, abundance tears and loss.
Part prince part wasp.
A storm of straight down rain on a still, hot day.
Staccato screeches in the stillest night.
You were the last light that rolled like a lazy eye on the surface of the horizon sea.
You were shelter and joy and spilt drinks on car seats.
A roaring furnace spitting sparks, burnt down to its coals.
They glowed for show so no one felt the fire growing cold.
We’ll hold you tight, but something lost will never be recovered.
There’s a half jar of decaff going solid in the cupboard.
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