PETE DONOHUE

the memory of rain upon this land

dragged from a cooler distance

called out several weeks beforehand

when times seemed somehow greener

squeezes a tear out onto my dehydrated face

barely enough to irrigate my feelings

at suppertime yesterday

a bold moon took issue with the sun

challenging its known ferocity

altering the skyline & silencing animals

to the general delight of most

albeit only temporarily

we will have longed-for water

upon this land once more

only how then we choose to use it

& how long it may this time last

becomes the burning question

for each & every one of us.

TIM BARLOW

One day I’ll climb the Empire State with you 

To fly a flag and go down on one knee 

But just for now our love is clandestine 

This new romance proceeds in secrecy 

Tonight I’ll scale the statue of Victoria 

At Warrior Square, where she stares out to sea 

I’ll crown her with an orange traffic cone 

And tell you it’s a sign to you from me 

And when you pass her by tomorrow morning 

Gazing from the top deck of your bus 

You’ll clock my late-night prank and shyly smile 

And wonder what the future holds for us 

For we are spies who prowl the house of love 

We cannot shout from rooves and window ledges 

So we will send these secret, sacred signals 

In place of bold and brazen public pledges 

We won’t yet tell the world about our passion 

We’ll act as if we’re friends who only chat 

But one day we will rise above Manhattan 

And reminisce about Victoria’s hat.

PETE DONOHUE

i’m writing my will

on the toilet

drinking strong coffee

laden with whiskey

waiting for that

familiar movement

of mind & bowels

when i’ll think about

what i might leave

behind

if anything

& who shall get

each part of me

or those parts that

haven’t already

wasted away

or gone down

the toilet

elvis died

like this

i hope i don’t

i haven’t yet finished

my will

or this shit.

PETE DONOHUE

gulls standing sentinel on net shop apex

queens & kings of black boarded jungle

charabancs rattle over pot-holed pathways

laden with freshly scooped silver sea fish

beach boats beached winched to their stations

seafarers boys ashore shingle-foot to bar

mingling on sun-shot smokers terrace with

awestruck visitors seafood aficionados

dodging slow-burning harsh summer rays

black-flagged from a powdery blue horizon

residue of rusty early morning supermoon

guiding boats over carousel waves

nets lowered raised & sorted for discards

dreams of a craft beer at slaking throat

rum & whiskey spicing the passage

slither of cockles at winkle island

pinted prawns with crunching crab claws

banter to haul away workaday aches

faithful dogs among scale-spattered feet

contraband baccy skunk at the lips

deckhands to feed us real fresh food

with organic growers for veggies too.

NEVER AGAIN

OLI SPLEEN

Overwhelmed by a world 

That will not hear the cries 

That twists the truth 

That lies

That gaslights and denies

Enables genocide 

In self-defence disguise 

Labelling us terrorists 

It is they who terrorise 

Demonise / dehumanise 

Deem us extremists and equate

Pleas for peace as cries of hate 

So much projection and distraction 

Orwellian refractions

To make us feel

That it is we

Who have lost our minds

We who daily bare witness

To manifold horrors 

Enacted without shame

The perpetrators / traitors 

Act the victim as they blame 

Those of us just crying out; 

“Please, not in our name”

all that we are saying is;

“Never again means never again”

WILLIAM BULLIN

Realpolitik – Sweet as Lemons

If Jesus had been crucified on Hastings’s seafront

outside a chip shop, they might have rubbed salt into his wounds

and offered him vinegar to drink.

But tell me, where would anyone have found salt and vinegar at

Golgotha?

There would have been no fish bars for miles around that town.

No. A soldier took the wine he had been swigging.

Lifted the skirt of his tunic with a twinkle in his eye.

Mixed water into wine

and took the piss while the others wet themselves laughing.

In Hastings, no one spat.

Just the seagulls shat on his head.

If you think that’s funny or blasphemy, remember,

Easter is the day when God has the last laugh

And Pilate demanded their report for Trump.

Molly The Bourne
BEN BRUGES

From some distance in time, Turner’s print

centres the stream, rushing down towards

the sea, a foot-bridge over this open sewer

links the impoverished fishing community

to the more affluently shod of the Old Town. 

He didn’t include mischievous Molly Hawkins,

chased with stolen skirt-full of apples over

the rickety bridge, the splash into muck, standing

around, watching her struggle, watching her drown. 

Forward to now, the black top tamps down

the stream, which growls and murmurs below, 

sometimes breaks free from privatised neglect,

before flowing past Christina Rosetti’s convalescence 

to the passageway where tiny Molly appears 

distressed, a struggling, filthy apparition,

sigil of cruelty, neglect, impoverishment,

held where the stall holders let her drown—

their theft of her life as a warning against theft.

PETE DONOHUE

the quietude takes willpower to abandon

so distant from the rush of morning soundscape

each movement drops the temperature with cruelty

& routine pain kicks off this newest day

with one flight gingerly concluded

the pulse of blood induces apprehension

when necessary functions are completed

i take position ‘midst the glass & tiles

the fountain from above comes hot & sturdy

with cleansing foam so soft & aromatic

until the panic waterboards my breath away

& i am done for with exhaustion.

Henry Normal, Janine Booth and Attila the Stockbroker are setting out on a tour of various Sussex seaside venues, bringing radical and left-inclined lines to the towns. The verso versifiers will be found at several cultural gathering spots along the coastline – including Shoreham, Seaford, Brighton and Arundel – but, in particular, at the Hot Tap Theatre in St Andrew’s Mews, Hastings on the evening of Valentine’s Day.

Each event will contain a plethora of subversive poetry with special guests on most nights. There will also be an anthology of the poetry available, featuring many diverse voices – both young and not so young – titled Class Lines and Red Rhymes. The book contains twenty five poems of change, absurdity and resistance. The proceeds from the book will go to a range of progressive causes.

STOCKBREAKING THE SYSTEM

Janine Booth is an extraordinary woman. Her sheer energy has made her many things. She is a marxist trade unionist, a socialist-feminist historian, a neurodivergent organiser and campaigner, a poet and a self-confessed ranting, angry middle-aged female human being.

At a slight angle to Janine is Attila the Stockbroker: an absolute legend of punk-poetry. He has been flinging poetic subversion at people for over forty years. He describes himself as “ranting rebel MC and Dean of the Socialist Surrealist University.” He is more than that. He is that increasingly rare thing today: someone shouting against the creeping moronicisation of our cultural life.

IMAGINE A NEW NORMAL

By slight contrast, Henry Normal is not only a poet but something of a comedy genius. Indeed, his poems, whilst being obviously calls for change, do so with a wit that lifts his work far above mere political rhetoric or pompous posturing. As Henry says, “touring with Attila and Janine is always fun but also energising.”

But there is obviously a serious side to all this. Times are fast lurching to the right. Those of us who want something different need to speak to each other. Or as Henry puts it, “thought is the mother of the deed, so to achieve a just and more equal society we need to examine where we are and imagine where we could be.” That is definitely a thought.

Details of the tour can be found at janinebooth.com

TRUMP ‘DERANGEMENT’ SYNDROME

Henry Normal

I can’t come in today

I need to convalesce

I’m sick – so the doctors say

I’ve got TDS

Triggered by Trump on TV

And his nonsense in the press

I’ve OD’d on his absurdity

It’s a problem to process

The Diagnosis is – I hate him

Something I confess

And my need to berate him

Has become an excess

It’s not a Derangement

A Distaste – at a guess

More Disgust than Disorder

Disrespect at best

The D could stand for Dislike 

Disdain or Distress

He and It – may last full term

Hopefully less

ALAN PEPPER

Buying my clothes

Boots and togs —

Huckells Two plus one Underground

Get the latest sounds

That’s doing the rounds —

Record shop Stylus Disc Jockey

Meeting girls

Twists and twirls —

Aquarius Scallywags Bonitas

Friends with cars

Going to bars —

Escorts Minis and Vivas

Dressed up great

And out at Eight —

Brogues Levis Ben Sherman

Dancing to the music

All night long —

Disco Motown Reggae

D.J.’s playing

Our favourite hits —

Steve Maxted Terry James Johnny Francis

Buying rounds

And spending pounds —

Crypt Cutter Pumphouse

Drinking frothy coffee

Eating sticky toffee —

Fiesta Dimarcos Divitos

Meet the trouble and strife

For the rest of my life —

Enjoying Hastings Town together ⁄

town of poets

PETE DONOHUE

in the cobwebbed glow of our basement kitchen

where moths and wasps have given up the ghost

i perch on the edge of the autumn ercol

sunny studio couch and welcoming daybed

playing with my punnet of breakfast blueberries

celebrating quietly as each one is swallowed

down to a single bloom-dusty layer

& my breathing is almost completely at ease

i am reading poetry consideringly slowly

savouring the sweetest essential juices

line after line & verse after verses

emotions & images slip from the pages

at my swollen feet californian zinfandel

a bottle of old vine convenient screwtop

the effort to move & discover a wineglass

seems pointless & saves on the washing up

my fragile nerves are now shot to fragments

following a week of mystery bleeds & bloods

an ecg & a doppler flow test

& yesterday’s harrowing cruel ct scan

caught in the trauma of carrying a canula

fraught on a bed in its glidings & jerkings

frantic spins through the donut of life

breathe in hold your breath & then breathe again

when the radiologist had perfunctorily checked

those revealing images of my sliced-up self

the canula was free to flee from my vein

leaving me gasping in this cubicle world

were i not needle phobic to such extremes

i could’ve been one of my dead junkie friends

ironically those jiggling anxiety feet

probably helped with my pooling blood

this book i am reading is called poet town

the poetry of hastings & thereabouts

my hardback contributor’s copy feels warm

as i cradle the cover & stroke each page

many mates & acquaintances grace these leaves

also berries of strangers & fruits of the dead

we all come to rest in creative commune

sharing our stories our inspiration.

Boredom

ALISON YOUNG

My friends are always working

My boyfriend’s in the shop;

My cat is always sleeping –

I might as well get a job!

Imperial Leather

ALISON YOUNG

I think I smell of you;

Then I realise, through sharing baths,

I smell of your soap;

So I do smell of you –

And now you smell of me

HASTINGS WIND

SHARON LISA RHODES

Hastings wind whispers stories old

Of asylums closed and stories untold

A community woven frayed and strong

Where empathy’s thread runs life long

They came in the eighties lost and displaced

When Thatcher’s cold hand left futures erased

Hastings embraced them offered a home

A place to heal no longer to roam

Here I walk a known and loved face

My mind a kaleidoscope a unique space

The locals they smile they understand

The rhythm and rhyme of this seaside land

But newcomers arrive with London’s cold sheen

Seeking cheap houses a different scene

They see not the heart the history deep

But a “mad woman” label cruel words they keep

Last night the whispers turned to sharp knives

Gaslighting’s dark shadow cut through my life

They lied they twisted to shield their own wrong

Branding me “mad” where I’ve belonged so long

My heart breaks the pieces scattered and torn

By judgements so hasty with prejudice born

I fight for our minds for voices unheard

An activist’s spirit a passionate word

Hastings my haven my strength and my pain

Where kindness and cruelty reside in one lane

I’ll rise from the ashes my voice clear and bold

My story my truth will never grow old

(a poem for mental health awareness)

Jemia De Blondeville has been around on the Hastings poetry scene for a good few years and our paths have crossed at several events. HIP has published some of her work on this page’s Poetry Corner. Now she has gifted us this delightful collection of lyrical feel-good poems in her new chapbook Where Fairies Once Dwelt.

Her poems here are divided into three sections: The Fairy Moon, Dark Butterflies and The Girl and the Dragon. The overall feel of this collection is an ethereal one, as might be expected from the title and section headings, with themes of nature, fantasy, surrealism and a little philosophy thrown in. Jemia uses repeat words in different poems – zephyrs, butterflies, flowers, velvet, fairies – linking us into the optimistic and childlike (but not childish) view of her creative world. She also explores different styles of poetry from regular verse through to haikus, an acrostic, a poetic prose piece and an ‘A-Z of British Birds’.

At £3 for a collection of 30 (10p per poem!) this wonderful chapbook, which includes photos and illustrations, is a great tonic to uplift our spirits during times when the world may seem overcomplicated and less than harmonious. More good news is that all proceeds go straight back into our community, namely to Arts in the Park and its wellbeing groups.

Where Fairies Once Dwelt is currently available from Bookbuster, 39 Queens Road TN34 1RE, 1,200 Postcards at 80 Queens Road, and soon other outlets around the town.

BEN FAIRLIGHT

Now that our sun softens its glare

To smile among shape-shifting starling clouds

As jackdaws call in startled crowds

That gift a fifth dimension to the tainted air,

Our scraping footprints knead each leaf

To know its beauty unbonded,

While we cling to our dough, our booty bagged,

To save us all from winter grief;

We sidle the rim of this pan of clay

And mostly sniff the other way

To spite our black hole’s no escape

Wringing the abyss with an echo now hoarse:

How many seasons more of earth rape

Will those high-court judges grant us?

BEN FAIRLIGHT

A jolt, a dull clatter, and doors suck open

Raucous caws with cold-fronted air honed

High in the thin trees, where nine black frazzles

Squabble over six twiggy raggle-bags.

They’re not discussing the length of this year’s

Catkins or wriggling lambs’ tails reflected

In marshy waters and promises of frog

Spawn in time for their raw hatchlings’

Breakfast. Or the weather. Or, like, the train

Full of, like, thumb-gossiping youngsters’ fine

Appreciation of the black in the blue.

Maybe, like me and you, they’re deaf and blind

To what’s happening now. Or worse, they’re cursed

To never know. The next station will be Wadhurst.

OLI SPLEEN

The present I hold only in contempt

For it is now and now and always now 

Whereas the past embroiders on itself

With recollection’s corners worn by time

The future holds its openness unwrit’

It is a breath that has yet to be breathed

Or that of death, to suffocate diseased

When what was planned reveals the opposite 

Now’s sad stone certainty, I scrutinise 

Whereas the times of joy just seemed to fleet

Sit back on life, relax and close your eyes

Until nostalgia brings life back, complete

JUDE MONTAGUE

Old, old bones

What have you got to say?

Nothing, you can’t talk.

You’re old, old bones.

Maybe you’d say, ‘You’re stupid.’

Or ‘We’re not stupid,

why do they think we’re stupid?’

Maybe we shouldn’t have kept you,

Old, old bones.

But one time you were special

and you walked about in flesh and blood

then we couldn’t get over the fact

that you died.

Now you can’t walk, you can’t talk

and things have changed

so much we can’t deal with it.

Old, old bones

though you can’t see or smell it

the blossom and lambs are here again

we’re getting a glorious spring.

Old, old bones

don’t dance, don’t sing.

Do what you do best,

lie in your box

and make us think.

VERNON KEITH FOWLER

The tourists have gone but the sea is still here.

At the Goat Ledge Café you can still find some cheer:

A cup of hot choc with whipped cream and marshmallows

Will save any soul from the doldrums and shallows.

The gulls are still here, and the rain is sporadic

So in between showers you can still be nomadic.

It’s a wonderful season – you don’t have to queue

For the bar or the café, or even the loo.

Even the day-trippers no longer come

On weekends when homelife is making them glum.

They no longer throng the amusement arcades

Where a hush has now fallen and silence pervades.

The golf that was crazy has now become tame

As just a few locals indulge in the game.

The miniature train and the funfair as well

Have likewise succumbed to the off-season spell.

A few German students are still to be seen

In huddles and gaggles invading the scene,

But these are the tail-end and soon we’ll be sayin’

‘Guten Tag meine Kinder’ and ‘auf Wiedersehen.’

But when they’re all gone, let me make it quite clear:

The sea and the seagulls, and WE, are still here!

JUDE MONTAGUE

I went into the church, not to pray but to see.

The Icons hung themselves over wood paneling,

didn’t look at me. They were already a bit out of joint.

Not uneasy, but they weren’t talking

to the previous occupants who were as solid

as ghosts. Let me show you their concerns.

There’s a window, with the light coming through

the stained red and green. In the glass, a blonde

is screaming to be rescued. She’s tied to a tree,

and a knight on a horse, with a lance to pierce

a red dragon is eternally about to deliver the fatal blow

Ignoring this Netflixy drama, the iconic saint’s hands 

bless all in holy stillness. His nose is so thin, it could be folded paper,

flat against a golden 2D sky. Peace be with you. 

My guide is the clever and hospitable Trevor,

from the Hastings Friendship Group.

‘They can’t officially say prayers for my late wife

as she wasn’t baptised into the orthodox faith,

but they might sneak her in somehow,’ he said,

scanning down the queue of the departed, 

ready to be remembered in the appropriate ceremony.

Is it okay to laugh a little at the sign that says,

‘Do not, ladies, wear lipstick, when kissing the icons

in case of damage.’ The divine lives on in clouds, tears 

and the wild wonder of holding my breath,

it returns, through changes that keep happening here on earth.

ALISON YOUNG

I started to write you a message but I couldn’t think what to say;

I wrote, “Hi,” your name, and pressed send by mistake

But you didn’t wait to see what I had to say –

You replied with a message of your own

And that was how it started – and how glad I am;

And all because you ignored a comma

OLI SPLEEN

Disorientation descends 

A confusion midst euphoria 

And when this haze-cloud ends 

My focus forms to flesh 

Absurdity of skin and sinew

Perceiving from a lens, organic

Specific to my mind’s own bias

Unable to encompass all

We deaden down to nothingness

Spreading ourselves thin

For nothing is closer to everything 

Than anything between

OLI SPLEEN

I gaze upon a hollow moon 

And doubt all I held dear 

A dark cloud is descending 

And this world is filled with fear 

We’re set adrift upon a sea 

Of everybody else 

And who of us knows how to play 

The cards that we’ve been dealt 

So could it be this is the flood 

These are the final days 

We dredge the remnants from the mud 

Of what hope may remain 

The failings of the fathers 

Soon will suffocate our sons 

Oh let the deluge wash and cleanse 

The earth of all we’ve done 

The hate and fears of all the years 

Spread like a blood disease 

Hate to divide and conquer 

Fear to bring us to our knees 

No end to this creeping terror 

People fighting fear with fear 

No finest hour, just gravest error 

All hope slowly disappears 

As we manifest this misery 

And make all hell break loose 

Oh lead me to the hanging tree 

And fasten round the noose 

OFELIA FERCH RHOS

I forget you, fy nghariad.

the slope of your shoulder 

becomes the hard line of your back:

mountains. snow.

I could forget your face now.

soft tide laps at your western border:

I will remember your skin

against my hand.

I forget how we talk, my love.

you lilt like birdsong. I cannot reply.

a rock is only so insular as the island it sits on.

we were always subject to change.

Harbour Trip Sequence

JOHN R PARSONS

humming

in underpass echoes off

paintings of whales

below Castle Hill

one legged gulls

on mast tops]

harbour walk

I sit on polystyrene for warmth

beside nylon nets

beach front

fleet of toddlers gathers

in yellow oilskins

sunlight on a gull’s

wings slides invisibly

into sea

looking back at

Old Town above black hulks

atmosphere from beyond

sea front mini golf

toddler stares into a giant

skull’s plastic sockets

above beach walk

man on the cliff top

does hand stands

The naked cyclist

VERNON KEITH FOWLER

The wind was whistling by the shore

And through the rowers’ rollocks

And as the naked cyclist passed

It whistled through his bollocks.

The wind was whistling through the boats,

It whistled through their futtocks

And as the naked cyclist passed

It whistled through his buttocks.

The wind was blowing out at sea

Displacing metres cubic

And through the naked cyclist’s hair

Both cranial and pubic.

I saw his dick approaching me,

I saw his arse retreating,

A view one seldom gets to see

Which really takes some beating.

For some he is a USP,

For others he’s disgraceful

But either way you’ll not forget

When you have had a faceful.

The wind it bloweth everywhere,

On land and over sea

Just like the naked cyclist

Untameable and free!

kim has a beach hut

PETE DONOHUE

in that tideturn brainspace shingle

thoughts revolve around the daystar

seagull children shriek excitement

men in hats & yoga women

stroke the surf on paddleboards

slumbering weaver fish lie deep &

blackheads glide with herringbones

someone spots a sinewave seal

my lover swirls around my head

she swims from sinking groyne to groyne

the clouds are barely cotton buds

with microlight & helicopter

scan this beach for memories

of cooler less polluted days

as dogs & owners chase each other

tossing balls or harness leads

electric bikes come creeping by

along the public pavement path

between the playground café carpark

garish beach huts rudely stand

open sesame double doorways

show aladdin caves of pattern

opium drapes or seaside stripes

ice cream pastels neon wetsuits

summer comes to west st leonards

kim has a beach hut.

OLI SPLEEN

If you were me 

And could see what I have seen 

Then you would know the longing

And the heartache 

And the listless lonely days 

I had a dream

I’d meet someone like you 

Someone who would not blame me 

Who’d save me 

Who’d let my soul renew 

Now you are here 

Unafraid to hold my heart 

In spite of all my failings

My feeling

That I am not enough 

And cannot be

You make me feel complete 

Oh lover let me hold you 

And behold you 

Tell me that you won’t leave 

But then if I could be you 

If I knew all that you knew 

If I could walk within your shoes

And wear your skin 

I taste your suffering

It mirrors mine 

Oh let our lives entwine 

And hold me lover, hold me

Unfold me

And wrap your heart in mine

Moving Stillness (at Rye Harbour Discovery Centre)

BEN FAIRLIGHT

Heron and Egret pin the in-flowing shallows,

Wait and watch for the right wiggle

In water and ripple.

Yellow-speared grey, black-spiked white,

Unruffled statues on shimmering swirls.

Water and ripple wait and watch Heron and Egret.

Minutes go by, gallons go by.

Minutes, gallons.

Heron stabs, misses, Egret stabs, catches

Silver – tosses and swills lithe silver.

Poise returns.

Minutes, gallons.

Heron jabs – at Egret. Egret 

Shifts one yellow-wellied leg, then stabs – 

And catches more silver. Heron

Has had enough; Egret’s sent flapping.

Two stilted quick-steps, a stab – and wriggling silver 

Dangles from Heron’s yellow scissors. A flip and a long 

Slow throaty swallow. A splash of water 

To help it down.

Statue reinstated.

So pass minutes, gallons,

A whole tide.

PETE DONOHUE

well there i was

happily dribbling

into my beard

when up i woke

in a sudden start

on a tired sofa

the tv volume

up too high

& a little man

behind a mask

with goofy grin

but tetchy eyes

telling me nothing

i wanted to hear

so switching over

to the taller man

with nasal voice

& watery message

here’s the choice

realistically

as only two channels

are available.

The title here is a line that sticks with me, especially as election time comes round, and don’t worry – the irony is not lost. When you’re struck dumb by the weight of madness that flushes down from our politics and permeates the essential fabric of daily life, arguments start to seem trivial, complaints become impossible. You enter the twilight zone where the only thing that can pierce the murk and mire to express how you’re actually feeling … is poetry. 

At least that’s how I feel (as much as I’d like to throw a Molotov from time to time). Hastings poet and now national treasure Salena Godden recently re-released a piece she wrote for Black Lives Matter and performed with the movement’s co-founder, Patrisse Cullors, in 2020. My title comes from that poem, While Justice Waits.

It feels like the horror and frustration expressed through social movements like Black Lives Matter and #MeToo are now drab, unremarkable, as though British citizens no longer have the luxury of sexism and racism. They’re losing water, home, health, education – we are all losing the essential ingredients of life while the politicians sit by and re-elect themselves time and time again, just as racist, just as sexist, better at hiding, better at manipulating. We are all part of the same festering grey soup the political parties have abandoned on the stove.

And so Salena’s poem can now access another audience and give voice to fresh frustrations. The latest release is accompanied by video and music from filmmaker Wolfgang Dubieniec, which complements its stark portrayal of betrayal made commonplace. A hand floats and weaves from an arm stretched out of a car window, flying the slipstream – playful, childlike in another context. But as the poem progresses it becomes the obvious falsehood, the faceless operator, the politician, the policeman, feeding us all an infantile lie that we accept, that we are forced to swallow as the scene goes on. Cellos establish a sombre mood, and a chanting or droning becomes a wail:

The hand adopts a life of its own, its movements embodying the refrain “there they go again,” its gliding a mockery and a sideshow, its innocence subverted into the careless “theatre of performative cruelty”. And then, we glimpse a face, a body. The hand becomes once again part of a human, a puppet master. Perhaps, for a moment, the sense of naivety is restored. Perhaps we imagine a face on “them,” a humanity… which they don’t yet understand, which they might never understand.

Express your grief, feel some solidarity, find the poem and video @salena.godden on instagram. And check out @wolfgangdubieniec for his other excellent work.Salena’s own comments: salenagodden.substack.com. Her latest books: Springfield Road (about her childhood in the eponymous road here in St Leonards);With Love Grief and Fury, a new book of poetry befitting these times.

BEN FAIRLIGHT

Our sea front is all curvy lines and flowing smiles,

Rock-striped huts and hats that glint for miles

Along sand and shingle and rainbow-dot dresses.

And then, across a crowded prom, the Goddesses’

Goddess herself breezes ‘tween team skate-bladers,

Wafts her scarf stylish, while paraders and followers,

Bides her shades, basking strollers, panting dog walkers,

Flicks her head back, as three towel robe wallowers

Whistle her and each other and coasting cyclists

Together all sway, sculpting joy out ‘ the air

To ripple out the dance over cars, motorcyclists,

Shop windows, wan storerooms, streets in Ore village,

Through Old Roar jewellers after her own image

So sought after, so ever-young, so never there.

Seen her anywhere?

WILLIAM BULLIN

When Adam delved and Eve span

Who was then the gentleman?

When Eve named the flowers and Adam, the bears,

Who got the bonuses and who sold the shares?

When Adam drew water and Eve took the honey,

Who made the breakfast and who made the money?

When England was conquered and taxed through the years,

Who made the profits and who shed the tears?

When crusaders went killing, sword in the hand,

Who stole the water and bloodied the land?

When bottles of water were passed out for free,

Who flooded the Town and polluted the sea?

And when Israel bombed Gaza and Cain killed Abel,

Who sold the weaponry under the table?

John Ball (1338-1381 a Revolting Peasant) versus John Bull 

(10 Downing Street).

JEMIA DE BLONDEVILLE

Hastings has tings, oh yeah

Cliff railways, a castle ruin, and plenty of sea air

Great music, poetry, and a myriad of arts

Lots of twittens, and alleys, short cuts to other parts

Green men, mermaids, and pirates galore

Little boats a’bobbing, close to the shore

Seabirds aplenty, floating in the sky

Ponds in parks, wherein live the dragonfly

Behind the old bowling green in Alexander Park

Within the pond reeds, dragonflies sky lark

Hastings has tings, that tickle and tease

A shimmering moonlight, afloat on the seas

And skies at sunset, with a tapestry of shades

Beautiful colours, that seem to cascade

A myriad of spectacles, befall my eyes

As folks in costumes, wear their disguise

Hastings has tings, and things

I’ve even seen fairies, with beautiful wings

And metal sign posts stating “keep Hastings weird”

Some of the reason that I appeared!

Well I’m returning to my world, to the nearest cloud

To my ethereal birthplace, with a very similar crowd

Remembering to not throw a pebble into the sea

Otherwise I won’t return, for all eternity

Greenie

BEN FAIRLIGHT

As soon as we left it, the wild began.

Our plough-shares cut the umbilical,

Severed the song-lines, so the booming bane

Of guilt summoned the gulls, their gall

Mocking the plovers’ wit, the curlew

Calling for meadowy chaos to forgive you.

And the wind blasts open our door, wilder

Now than my screen-saver crags, wilder

Still than smart Alec the AI scarecrow,

Who exhumes gold from the GM rainbow,

Whipping it up to some stray satellite

And, wildest of all, weeding that starry night

For our space-junk selfie

falling

PETE DONOHUE

there’s a drone in my ear

firing bullets at me

if it does drop a bombshell

i’ll die like a bee

my legs in the air

my head on the ground

the rest of me floating

through space & through time

in a soup of confusion

with war crime spice

when loved ones go mourning

to fall on my grave

the death toll at dawn

calls thousands the same

all over ukraine…

The Belfry in Winter

VERNON KEITH FOWLER

The belfry tower in winter is very cold.

The paraffin heater has little or no effect.

Those who would ring here must be brave and bold

Or unconcerned about their health being wrecked.

Recklessly we climb the spiral steps.

Valiantly we pull upon the ropes.

We exercise our arms with many reps

And with a bulldog spirit each one copes.

The treble’s going. Yes, the treble’s gone.

The other bells ring out in hot pursuit.

How orderly each ringer follows on.

Let not the tenor or the bass be mute!

The rounds are rung, once more the ropes are tied.

We’ve borne the battle, bloody but unbowed.

The cold is not a thing from which we hide

For we are English. We will not be cowed.

Ode to a Seagull

MATTHEW ALEXANDER GIBB

Hate crime and chips rail against you

Like the moon in the sea you see me

Do what you want, just take it. 

All heaven’s enraged if not free. 

Kick, scratch, scream, survivor. 

Sirens and shouts, smack, the sea

Come back, go up-down, sideways

Salty lardons and whelks for your tea. 

Cold killer eyed-up from a distance

Misunderstood, on the edge of a dream. 

You do what I can’t – god I love you

Live raw and soar for ice cream.

ANON

(Inspired by article on John Logie Baird in HIP 234)

Transmitting motion

direct in another space

in time.

Magic man

Barefoot inventor

Denying physical needs

in pursuit of miracles

made out of wood, buss bars and

biscuit tins.

The inventor, the

man we didn’t quite grasp

till he was gun from

the circus of life

that we are still on T.V.

DANNY GORING

On telly they’re selling us holidays

But we haven’t got enough cash

The end of the month’s still a fortnight away

And the thought brings us out in a rash

The leccy bill’s shocking, taxes are rising

Our money has gone down the drain

We splashed out for Christmas, it’s hardly surprising

The new year’s a financial pain

Priory Meadow is under grey water

Eels are shopping in Boots

Southern Water dump more crap than they oughta

In the sea, and don’t give two hoots

We’d like to escape into self-isolation

And wait for the spring to arrive

A whole population in warm hibernation

Having a bloody good skive

When summer comes round we’ll be sipping a beer

In sunshine and heatwaves unbroken

On the prom we’ll parade, or perhaps on the pier

Provided the bloomin’ thing’s open

We’ll laugh and we’ll cry, feel the lows and the highs

The smiles alternating with frowns

And perhaps realise, as the years pass us by,

That the ups can’t come round without downs

BRIDGET GRIFFIN

Tiles mosaic 

Stomach archaic

Sprightly glistening territorial eyes

A tongue that laps up. All the noise

Very scaled. Many pigments of brown

This artful dodger has a frown

Dancing jiving. Back and to

Like a Pokemon card.

He resembles you

Whipping his tail

Almost 15 cm long

No clothes needed in a metallic throng

Eddie is his name

Two years old

These eyes can sift pots of gold

Meal worms and rocket salad. 

A little water is his pallet

This chap doesn’t use his hands to eat

Only his tongue is there to greet

‘I’m not in the body don’t you see

Just up in the heavens of family tree’

But I understand humans.

Whatever you may say

I’m fighting a battle to devour my prey

My teeth are razor sharp.

No need to forget

I’ll never be in need of your local vet.

VICTOR TIMMONS

Nocturnal birds in sibilant causerie

Forest creatures in distant revelry

While nature’s blanket dims their rivalry

And stills the air to peaceful reverie

How brief is this tranquillity

As hostile meetings in darkened shrubbery

Remind, if only momentarily

That man alone enjoys in camaraderie