New poetry anthology: Southernmost Point Guest House

Pretend Genius have just released a beautiful new collection of poetry, featuring some regular Willesden Green Writers Group writers.

Southernmost Point Guest House is a collection that brings together poetry by writers currently living in America, Britain, Ireland, Italy and New Zealand. They have little in common other than finding themselves here, in this book, and in the early part of the 21st century, with something to say. Contributors: Raewyn Alexander, Alex Barr, Lynn Blackadder, Sean Brijbasi, Susan Campbell, David Cooke, Tim Craven, Mikey Delgado, Vanessa Gebbie, Kim Göransson, James Browning Kepple, Charles Lambert, Laura Lee, Andrew Mayne, Geraldine Mills, Stephen Moran, Nuala Ní Chonchúir, Richard Peabody, Lynsey Rose, Judi Sutherland, Lee Webber. The title is taken from a poem by Alex Barr.

You can buy the book here on Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/SOUTHERNMOST-POINT-GUEST-HOUSE/dp/0985213396

Don’t forget, we’d love to see you at Bar on 16 January!
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More sex from The Green Press…

But, you know, literary sex. Intellectual. By Lee Webber.

 

Wilde’s Tomb

In vogue, with sodomite gait and a wink,
I kiss your grave and mouth your name, and then
imagine Savoy tables, amber drinks,
my buttocks tight like all your suppered men!
Just charm me Wilde. I€™m done with being coy.
I want a cigarette case made of gold.
I’€™ll let you feast on me, I’€™ll be your boy,
let scandal, infamy, pure love unfold!
Now lipstick covers you, your pigment shroud,
I hope you know the wonder that you give,
a homemade epitaph spells it out loud,
says €˜here lies the best man who ever lived€™.
I’€™ll leave you, cursing Victorian luck,
I’€™d sell my soul for one Wildean fuck.

 

It’s cold outside… fancy a poem about an affair?

Another unsatisfying sex session with Miss Lynsey Rose.

Aftermath

I knew it would be the end if we did it.
I imagined how it would be.
I pictured it like a bad film
The door slamming behind you
Me throwing myself on the crumpled bed
I even knew what I’€™d think:
€œWe€™’re damned€.
I compiled a play-list of music to sob to
All the hard stuff,
From weepy as hell
to unbridled anger.
I was really going to
relish it.
I was really looking forward to it.
As it was
It didn€’™t work out like that.
We did it on the couch
At lunchtime.
It took us 15 minutes to get home
And back
So time was against us.
Plus the conversation about
Shall we/ shan’€™t we?
took a few minutes more.
But we basically already had.
It wasn€’™t ideal
I wasn’€™t wearing my seamless knickers,
Or my decent skirt.
Afterwards,
the first thing you said was,
€˜We must never do that again.€™
Charming.
You looked shell-shocked.
And we couldn’€™t find the condom-wrapper
to hide.
I had to drive us back to work
And guilty songs came on the radio
One you knew
And one I knew.
I tried to keep your head together
When I just wanted to
Sellotape my own mind up.
This wasn’€™t how I planned it.
Back in the office
Emailing about the aftermath
Knowing it would
never happen again
I wished for one more chance
To fuck up in style.

 

A smoking break with Lee Webber…

We may be green but we like a fag and a snog from time to time.


Vigil

Nicotine drops you
headfirst. Thoughts kick and bruise you.
A year since she left
you’€™re scratching your head,
pulling on a cigarette,
sat on pale-brown grass.
Hard for her, you’€™d yield-
firm lips, Vaseline kisses
dancing cold on your neck.
Afterwards a fag,
warm beer and sunburn, silence,
her hand on your wrist.
You never said €˜stay€™.
Was it right to sweeten her
with doormat eyelids,
only to sit mute,
your yellow lungs like cowards
breathing back the words?
Now cold, shadow set,
you offer ash to darkness,
suck your cigarette.

What’s in a word?

This poem, by Anne Mullane, is a bit like ‘I’d do anything for love’ by Meatloaf.

The Word

We are mesmerised by the word.
That word
The one you just said.
In this brightly lit café
It lies between us
Acid sharp, it flays the table.
And the future lurches
And you are placed apart
Cut off from the herd.
You look at me, expectant,
Embarrassed.
But I cannot help you
I don’€™t know how,
I wasn’€™t expecting
That word.

 

Neapolitan afternoons…

Here’s a poem from the lovely Lynsey Rose. Lynsey’s novel will be released through the Green Press very soon! If you want to hear Lynsey’s voice (well, you never know) and you like Big Brother, why not check out her podcast? (We can’t be serious poets and novelists all the time).

__________________________________

The duck egg sky

The sky is marshmallow blue,
yellow, pink
I want to peel it
like a sticker
wipe it like a board.

The sky is
a duck egg
an angel cake
an eye-shadow trio

An easel
a blanket
or a mistake.

A poem for a lazy Sunday…

This one is from our ‘leader’, always the voice of reason in the trees of madness, the wonderful Anne Mullane…

Tree

As if forgetting were an option,
As if memory could hold you
We spent that night in a hushed, humid garden
Remembering.
When a summer storm broke, we ran,
Took temporary shelter in an alley,
Heat-held and safe we kissed under a sapling.
Its ceiling of luxuriant green a talisman
Against rain and time and loss.
You gazed up,
Caressed the slender trunk,
Contemplated the restless canopy.

€˜Look at this tree,
A fucking fine tree.€™
And a decision was reached.
€˜Before I leave, I have to climb this tree.€™
But drunken resolve is easily distracted
And as you swayed under its leaves,
Amazed by your future
I held you and prayed to whoever listens,
€˜May there be someone
In his bright new life
To gently dissuade him
From climbing trees
When drunk.€™

____________________

With neither a whimper or a bang…

Evening all! Here’s a bit of verse from Steve… and let’s all spare a minute to think about what Chumbawamba might be doing now…

 

After “Tubthumping”

He drives the G.t.i., he drives the mini car,
He drives the hot hatch, he drives the 4 by 4,
He likes the country road, he likes the freeway,
He likes the autobahn, he likes the motorway,

He hates cars that drive too bloody close behind,
He hates cars that cut in every bloody time…

I ride the tricycle, I ride the bicycle,
I ride the moped, I ride the roller skates,
I ride the Honda Cub, I ride the Yamaha,
I walk the pavement, I walk the footpath…

I get knocked down but I get up again.

She walks the sidewalk, she walks the moonwalk,
She walks the catwalk, she walks the cakewalk,
She walks the walk that’s the talk of the walker’s talk,
She walks the walk that’s the talk of the stalker’s walk,

She sings songs that remind her of the early days
She sings songs that remind her of the pearly ways

She sings Oh Fannie May, Freddie Mac, Michele Bach-
mann,

I get knocked down but I get up again.

They write the free verse, they write the blank verse,
They write the nonce verse, they write the per-verse,
They write encomia, epithalamia,
They write dithyrambs to academia,

They sing lines that remind them of the half rhymes,
They sing rhymes that remind them of the rich rhymes

They sing Oh Hymenea, mater misericord-
ia…

I get knocked down, I don€™t get up again.

Why, hello there!

We’ve been away for a little while, fighting Brent council who are trying to knock down the Mothership, Willesden Green Library, and after that we had a little lie down and a cry. But we’re back for the long haul with a poem from resident rapscallion Lynsey Rose. You can also read Lynsey’s rather excitable TV blog Exitainment here as well as her poetry blog Extol. We won’t feature any from Extol here, though, because we like to give you something a little different here at the Green Press. Now stop mucking about, Lynsey, writing is a serious business… the floor’s yours.

London

In the city
post five-thirty

good-looking
young men in suits

loosen their ties and
their legs

In bars named after
chemical elements

where the drinks
cost a tenner a go.

And girls with
super-short skirts

and hair cut by
Japanese boys

in space age salons
with fish tanks for walls

buy high heels in
Covent Garden boutiques.

In Brent
my sliver of town

where a
one bedroom flat

costs the same as
a cottage in the country

diversity equals
an angry white face

and an angry black face
waiting for a bus.

Live readings

Three writers from the Green Press will be appearing at the Poetry Cafe in the next few weeks.

On August 20, the Literature Lounge presents Pictures To Lean Into, an evening of poetry, music and head-to-head fiction featuring Jarred McGinnis and Samuel Taradash. £4 at the door, and the event kicks off at 8:00 PM.

Then on September 22, Lee Webber will be amongst the talents reading at Poetry Unplugged. Doors open at 7:00.

Both events will be at the Poetry Cafe, 22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX (map)