A little bit of the South of France…. Post your poems below. In May selected poems from these prompts will be published on The Poetry Shed… happy writing…
Writing prompt 5: statue
A little bit of the South of France…. Post your poems below. In May selected poems from these prompts will be published on The Poetry Shed… happy writing…
London's only regular event for women writers of all genres.
creative therapeutic writing
Singing in the shallows
Artwork and exhibitions
Freelance writer back on the edge ready to jump!
Writing, Poetry & Creativity | Angela T Carr, Dublin, Ireland
by Jack Monroe, bestselling author of 'A Girl Called Jack'
E.E. Nobbs - poetry and the condition of our condition
Clare's Official Site
Lifesaving Poems
Poetry
"I wanted to read or hear the narrative of someone else – a woman and a poet – who has gone here and been there." (Eavan Boland 1944-2020) 🚫 #VAWG
Welcome to occasional reviews, comments and news from this Leicester, UK based writer of poems, stories and book reviews
for the earth and the animals
A selection of my comics, poetry comics, and other illustration work - All images copyright Julian Peters - contact: info@jpeterscomics.com - Follow me on instagram @julianpeterscomics
Abegail Morley 
An Artist’s Muse
I don’t wanna put you in a quandary,
I don’t want to lock you in a car,
I just want to place you on a pedestal
And praise you from afar.
If someone snapped you in a photograph
And placed that pic’ online,
No-one could enhance it using Photoshop
Because you’re absolutely fine.
If a fellow with an easel
Should make a portrait of your face,
Then big galleries would scramble
In a hostile bidding race.
Your features are spectacular
But no artist could improve ya,
So without a doubt your likeness
Would be hung inside The Louvre.
If I should take a chisel
My wrist would soon be sore,
As I carved your head in marble
So that your beauty might endure.
If my energy was flagging
Towards the middle of the week,
I’d place one palm behind your neck
And kiss you on the cheek.
I’d use a pair of compasses
To check on key dimensions.
The Arts Council would endorse it,
With very few abstentions.
When that bust was finished
Large crowds would congregate,
There’d be a queue from Vauxhall Bridge
To the turnstiles at The Tate.
I don’t wanna put you in a quandary,
Or even lock you in a car,
I just want to place you on a pedestal
And praise you from afar.
© Copyright John Davison 2018.
Thank you John.
THE SCOT STONE
a cold stone stands
monolith in a
whitening wind
a pictish whale
breaching surface
in his wintered field
pointing fossilled
a druid’s eyes to the
pathways of the moon
Beautiful. Thank you
The Fool has no number
You’ve walked the cushy walls,
now stone honey barely holds
one foot. Finally, you’ve reached
an understanding with air.
Stride is a word of daring, and in it
you’ll find another element.
Stretch is a word of longing.
Your toes test the cool of miracles.
In the small of your back,
momentum and stop
are jauntily locked.
Fingers splay, chin tucks.
The blue day nods, engulfs.
In tarot, the Fool has no number
though sometimes she’s assigned a zero.
Thank you Katherine.
Thanks for the inspiring prompt, Abegail, and for the very enjoyable content on The Poetry Shed.
Dive in
Kept in a tin trunk of memories so that
It may not disappear like sand in an hour glass
We left sediments of the past
The caravans of skeletons,
The geography of sorrow
Nebulous scars, on the shore, with
Timelessness stamped on them.
We harvest coral, pearls,
That swims above the surf, floating in the air
but beyond reach of well-said prayers.
The waves lashing on the rocks, that time has rounded
scored with names of the dead
in a life before this, the print of them
still in the waves, foaming white
Perhaps the waves can read our minds.
Statues
16.04.20
GWEN GRANT
PIT LANE
At the bottom of Pit lane
Stands the statue that isn’t there,
Glorious in its grace and dignity.
A catch of men coming off shift,
Sunlight piercing their helmets,
Pickaxes and tired faces.
All sculpted from black coal,
Bits of brass and coal dust.
In Spring, buttercups shine their steel toe-caps.
In Winter, snow warms their cold shoulders.
In any time, they forge their own strong
and living presence.
©2020 Gwen Grant.