Pamphlet release

In February 2012, four poets unwittingly embarked upon a challenge: to write 28 sonnets, one every day for the entire month of February. Unfortunately, they forgot that it was a leap year. But, they persevered, and what started out as a strange and exciting odyssey quickly blossomed into something bigger. Better. More shiny.

Last night a pamphlet including all 29 sonnets was launched in Norwich at the Birdcage in Pottersgate. It was a great night, with all four poets performing a selection of their sonnets, in front of a select and appreciative audience.

Released with deadbeat press, the pamphlet is now available to buy and own. Copies of the pamphlet can be purchased now from http://deadbeatpress.bigcartel.com/

SecretBonusByronFrankenSonnet

14 discrete lines from Don Juan, rearranged into a sonnet.


This goes out to my three fellow sonneteers, 
and to Luke and his newest baby.

As true as Truth has ever been of late,

If not in Poetry, at least in fact –

For too much truth, at first sight, ne’er attracts;

Perhaps it may be follow’d by the great?

An Art on which the artists greatly vary

Is Poesy, according as the mind glows,

But even this is difficult, Heaven knows,

Unless it were to be a moment merry.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink

And feeling, in a poet, is the source;

But great things spring from little:- Would you think

‘Kiss’ rhymes to ‘Bliss’ in fact as well as verse –

But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem

Just now, – but by and by the Truth will show ‘em…

AB (& LB)

The Mermaid and the Sailor

We love in stony dwellings on the shore,

By painted fishing boats almost submerged

And broken nets. This is the island’s verge

Where thought is silenced by the ocean’s roar,

The fish are thin and skinny, mostly scales,

The scrounging gulls are made of shingle, salt;

Around a driftwood fire we still exalt,

Although our skin is rough with scars and wales,

We still exalt like creatures of the deep

From underwater caves, there in the gloom

They cling to life where ought to be a tomb.

At night beneath a bloody moon we sleep,

Both wrapped in grubby blankets, damp debris,

Like paper lanterns floating out to sea.

AW

One-Eyed Witness

Marie Colvin 1956 – 2012. There are two sides to every story...

A rat-faced creature, very often pissed,
Who hacks his way into our private calls
And brings contempt upon our ‘hallowed’ halls:
Perfidious, deceitful columnist;
Untrustworthy and faithless journalist.
The fourth estate has got us by the balls,
As back under his slimy rock he crawls
To itemise the lovers we have kissed.
By motorbike, by stealth, she creeps across
The border, to a place few dare to go.
Until she dies we cannot know our loss -
Nor comprehend the gratitude we owe –
As thousands perish in a foreign land,
The one-eyed witness sleeps beneath the sand.

RJT

The Killing of an Endangered Species Leads to Some very Troubling Questions about Man's Relationship with Animals

That beamish boy, who'd slain the beast,

Was remanded, then, in custody.

(Though there were those that trusted he

Would soon be, from his cell, released.)

The Jabberwock: species deceased.

The activists spoke out disgustedly.

The original tale now viewed mistrustedly

And rumours of foul play increased.

The trial loomed, the boy was fined.

The jury yelped 'Callooh! Callay!'

Animal cruelty lists were signed,

His vorpal sword was wrenched away.

And to this day, no Jabberwock roams

Among the mimsy borogoves.

Lines In Haste, Somewhere In East Anglia

This train will shortly be arriving in…

If this is Thursday, this has got to be…

I’ve no i-fucking-dea – don’t ask me:

I don’t know what I am, or where I’ve been.

I wonder what bizarre or venal sin

That I committed in some drunken spree,

Could warrant this? What penance sets me free?

This carbon-copy carriage-cage I’m in,

The windows mirroring the scene within,

Is branded with the legend: this is b –

the quiet coach, so I can’t scream my plea:

O Fates preserve me from the train to Lynn!

If you could save me, quick, ‘fore we arrive,

I swear that someday soon I’ll learn to drive…

AB

The Reverend Perkins

A stir of doubt comes halfway through the psalm,

What if it’s all… and then my reading falters,

I shake and tremble, cold with sweaty palms

And look around the church, the nave and altar,

The prayer books, the faces bright or bored,

Old Mrs Higgins snoring in her pew,

The Taylors looking pious. Thank the Lord

The rural congregation is too few

To notice that my preaching’s insincere.

I ought to quit. I envy bolder men

Who change their lives while I just fret and fear;

What if it’s much too late to start again?

I’ll pray, I'll pray, I hope He understands,

For faith to guide me gently by the hand.

AW