Take Ten Issue 9

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Anyhow

Suddenly I’m old.
You never saw me like this:
the little wounded eyes,
the fleshy wrinkles
or the wayward wiry hair.
I’m not the woman you once loved.
Grief damaged me
but I survived,
the woman who loved you
and loves you still
but goes on, anyhow.

By Linda Goulden

Mechanical POV

The flower in a vase.—
You can see the petals,
but you can’t see that hungry bee
inside the corolla.—
I think your pov has become
mechanical.

By Ali Znaidi

Genealogy of Ash

Stories beget stories like eggs that hatch.
Like hatchets
stories compartmentalize our psyches.

Nothing remains but ash.
—I mean ache.

By Ali Znaidi

SUNDAY CHURCH

Mum lost her mind to the spirits
Scuttering up from behind the crowd
When the pastor blew air from his mouth
The spirits took over her
And became an operating wind
Gasping in honour of a certain horror

By Geosi Gyasi

 

BRAIN DRAIN

——after thirty years
of healing patients
he fled the country to
another country of wealth
and never returned——

By Geosi Gyasi

***
1.
jib-yoke
-idle,,,
— whop!

“tap”-“pat”-“tit”-“tat”:

PULL-
tow tree –
-…tasting fret of zeal;

“:..”pesky” springs:

-dear toot
.wrapped in reek
-sticks
the slack
cheek-
-slap:”CHAP-chap”!

(ample chortle
tucks
abaft).

***
2.
daub cloud drawn.

flush-fit:

sparse
spark-stretched-
-ray:
bobs-hops,
imbrues the dire pitch of eyes:

rag!-

totter-clout
,-gasp
ties:

withered “vex”-
tap-tap
….tug!..

tuck tOll.

By Volodymyr Bilyk

………………..Not out of the woods yet

…………………Left with this,
……………..I watch the scribble
…………………of your heart,
………………..its flashed beat.

…………………And I will you
……………….to hack through
……………….branches, dense
…………………undergrowth,

…………….to reach open ground,
…………….green and shadowless.

By Stephen Bone
This poem was first published in Londongrip Poetry

Believe

you’d like to spend your life in pouring rain
………Marlene dressed as a nun
celluloid of black and white clues
………with a velvet song slowly sung
a motel sign that flutters above the pane
………that kiss of Prussian blue

By Phil Wood

the moon is always more amazing

the moon is always more amazing
on nights when it’s not
supposed to be

on nights where no one
told you to look out
you realise it’s broken in

through thick black branches
through a tiny open window
to spill milk
By Laura McKee

postcard

from up here I like the way the rooftops cross each other at different angles

they are the greys and reds of squirrels
the trees are beyond them

wires array above them
voices carry up
they don’t really know I’m here
By Laura McKee