Cirencester Scene

Somewhere Else Writers now have a slot in Cirencester Scene, a monthly magazine delivered to 12,000 homes in the Cirencester area.

FEBRUARY 2018

Poetry by Frank McMahon

 

TO THE RIVER

This is where we came, here, to the river

for the first time, along the rutted path,

cowslips, bluebells jostling at the edge; past

the dandelion meadow, its pale-white

sheet of puffballs waiting to be blown and cast.

Together to the river to explore

the glistening flow of water, vigorous

and sinuous, limpid rills and ripples

beneath the cobalt sky and canopy

of iridescent green. Each moment

folding into itself the heat, intense

upon our face, the stones’ cool splash and spray,

shouts and birdsong; each uplifted stone setting

free the grains of memory, when we were

also held, entranced, imagination’s

captives in the bubble of our dreams.

 

EVOLUTION

It takes a big leap of the imagination

to see the line of descent from dinosaur to

blackbird, until you view the fossil record. But

you still can’t quite collapse fifty million years into

an hour’s time-frame. Think then instead about falling

in love and being in love. Falling, but  more

crucially, being caught in passion’s net, held or trapped

depending. Two tyros learning their moves on high-wire

or trapeze, diving earthwards, hands outstretched. Maybe

love really begins when they both discard the net.

 

 

 

EXCEPT

Five, irregular hypotenuse, small

to tall, two seconds still until they burst

upon the playground, all whirl, heat and noise,

riding the iron steeds as if lift-off

could be conjured, hooves dragging chariots,

sweat slathering the straining flanks, the crowd

tip-toe, bets made and lost, fervour, fever.

Except one, the sixth, beyond us all, should

be running towards us, arms out, headlong.

 

NEW HOME

Our new home sits on a tilting hill, peals

of bells hung from the passing clouds; night-time

music, notes filling the space between the stars,

rubato nudging the rings of Saturn.

 

JANUARY 2018

Two Poems by Bridget Arregger

 

WHICH DIAGNOSIS?

or

CLARITY BEGINS AT HOME

 

If my house strikes you as dirty

Pity me

For I am lonely and depressed

And don’t know what to do

 

If my house strikes you as clean

Pity me

For I am lonely and depressed

And don’t know what else to do

 

If my house strikes you as dirty

Envy me

For I am happy and fulfilled

And have other things to do

 

If my house strikes you as clean

Envy me

For I am happy and fulfilled

And have someone in to ‘do’.

 

If my house strikes you as dirty

Rouse me

For I am dull and slow

And can’t get into a routine

 

If my house strikes you as clean

Rouse me

For I am dull and slow

And can’t get out of my routine

 

If my house strikes you as dirty

Soothe me

For I am tense and agitated

Running round in useless circles

 

If my house strikes you as clean

Soothe me

For I am tense and agitated

Running round in needless circles

 

If my home strikes you as friendly

Come on in.

 

THINGS TO DO EVERY DAY (first published in Graffiti 2012)

Every day I shall paint a picture

Composition, contrast, colour, impact

Head, hand, heart

 

Every day I shall read a poem

For love of sounds

Hidden meanings, lasting thoughts

 

Every day I shall dance

Pounding my feet, whirling, leaping

Stretching my muscles

Lifting my soul

 

Every day I shall sing a song

Practise scales and arpeggios

For sheer joy

Knowing I will annoy my neighbours

And my cats will try to comfort me

 

Every day I shall walk in the garden

Talk to flowers

Plant something new

Move weeds to better places

Train over enthusiastic climbers

Where they suffocate slow shy shoots

 

Every day I will write

A story, poem, play

With words, people, places, plots,

Secrets.

They wait inside my head

Like an angel in stone

For this sculptor to find them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All the short stories and poems from earlier this year and before can be found at Cirencester Scene Archive 2017