September 30, 2015


Faeries are not fantasy, but a connection to reality. Faeries are irrational, poetic, absurd, and very, very wise. Faeries say there is nonsense in dogma, and sense in nonsense. Faeries express themselves with high seriousness and low humour. Faeries are resistant to all definitions.

Brian Froud
Brian Froud’s World of Faerie


When two people meet and fall in love, there’s a sudden rush of magic. Magic is just naturally present then. We tend to feed on that gratuitous magic without striving to make any more. One day we wake up and find that the magic is gone. We hustle to get it back, but by then it’s usually too late, we’ve used it up. What we have to do is work like hell at making additional magic right from the start. It’s hard work, but if we can remember to do it, we greatly improve our chances of making love stay.

Tom Robbins
Still Life with Woodpecker


September 29, 2015


She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun ‘tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

News to me…

September 29, 2015



Clearly no-one to blame but himself then?
All of those days he could have earned
a dirt under the nails, honest to goodness living,
spent instead lounging in an oversized blouse,
wine and laudanum at his elbow
and fingers black with ink.
He should have got out more –
a garret is no place for one’s health
but then nor are walks on the fells
trudged only in bad weather
in cloak and crotch chafing boots.
Presumably consumption – the least he could have expected.
And that, no doubt, coming so soon after the syphilis.
I expect they did right by him at the end:
snuffed out the candle, burnt the letters,
got out the winding sheet.
Better this inscription, I suppose, than chipping a line
of his verse on the headstone –
doubt anyone would have understood a word of it.

John Lindley

(John Lindley, poet, performer, creative writing tutor, appointed Cheshire Poet Laureate in 2004, whose latest collection is entitled “Cheshire Rising”)

Always keep a tally…

September 28, 2015



September 28, 2015

No Sex Please! (We're on antidepressants)

The Rain

September 28, 2015


The Rain, falling
is sensed
akin to the trauma
of a body
in a crime photograph.

Like a soul
that’s haemorrhaged
all it knew, it spreads
its grief through the pitiless
streets, their surface composure
in relief,
giving rise to other shapes.

The rain is a bruising
– shiner purple,
brilliant blue –
whose humiliated body
from the bottom of despair
without a word,


Rain Blood

September 28, 2015


the sound of rain
is so lonely

caressing the earth
purifying the masses
impure and polluted

burning down sand castles
hand-built sculptures
killing innocent inhabitants

rain speed ravage

blessing us with the mud
left behind
by rain and surge

weak kneel and pray
for nothing

i survive

make it rain blood

Jussi Jaakola


September 28, 2015


is not a concept I can embrace readily
having forgotten, somehow, to give and of course
not recalling my own,

unless I think of floating, not quite belly up,
shushed and lulled by the ocean – that
mother of all birthing pools – whose

saltsoup plasmas our channels, keeps
our cells, ourselves abreast; so that it
comes as no surprise when skinny-dipping infants

splash and thrash, then just as suddenly
stroke the cobalt with fluent limbs
that part ripples limpid as memory.

I have plunged through brine to the seabed –
that deeper earth – to shimmy through rock gardens,
coral forests and swirling, sandbottom valleys like any other

original fish dodging the poisongrass of anemones,
the ponderous flight of the shadowy ray,
the rasping handshake of basking lobsters

dark as deepsea sapphire, to be electrified by
lightening shoals of angels – teeming and familiar
waves of aquamarine –

until my hot lungs urged the kickpush upwards
to burst through to the gasping shock of surf, of dazzling sky,
back to the cradling arc of sand that reminds us

how near, how far we are from where we began.

Vicci Bentley

(Vicci Bentley is a journalist who, she claims, writes poetry to provide herself with a little light relief)