Archive for August 2014

Mute The News

I haven't got the heart

to watch another head being removed,
so I'll mute the news
and respond to some emails instead,
at least then some good will come from this nothing.

Lower Ranked Clubs

Mum said, and Dad too,
that it's not what you know,
but who.
All I know is Heartbreak,
they're that empty lake and
dry reservoir ache of all
rock bottom feelings felt along the way.

Dad said, and Mum too,
that 10 years ago I liked football
(could name you all the favourite formations used by the lower ranked clubs)
so don't worry about the things to come:
take them one by one.

On The. Through The. Under The.

On the phone I said I felt like my Dad and
she said he was a good man to feel like
and it was then that I felt the air rip
from my lungs in a Euro Tunnel rush
of everything I wanted to say but never

Through the wall I heard someone throwing up
and I thought that sick sounds different
when being spat up into a toilet bowl;
after the splashes have subsided into something more delicate
comes the ceramic whisper of the drinks you should've
bought instead of the shots you downed in
an attempt to get with the other sex.

Under the door came the shadow of a waiting hand ready to knock, one that belonged to someone I knew but not well enough to let it, so I hung up the phone and took a deep breath, catching back the breath I had lost originally.

The Ingratiating Pain - Ananya Dhawan

In the midst of the storm
he stopped,
drank in realizations
then strode on.

The whirlwind
jarred his senses,
tore his soul
hammered his mind,
gnawed at his thoughts.
His mind froze,
his form quivered
he shrunk and shivered
with the ingratiating pain.

It won him over
He caught the plague
that palled him
and suffering that he was,
he succumbed to the distress.

Though his thoughts awakened
his chaotic self
refused to budge
pulling him back
bit by bit
wanting to swallow him
to drown him 
into the fog,
into the fire,
into the pool of blunt ichor.
- - -
Ananya Dhawan is an avid reader and writes poetry and stories in her spare time, which reflects her deep fascination for Literature. She has a cheerful disposition, believes in living each moment to the fullest and shows keen interest in the sensitive side of life.

Bring Me Sunflowers - Michael Brown

Wake up to sunrise
you put me in a vase
you’re my water

Usually I’m poppy seeds
probably crumbs
scattered for the birds

Bring me sunflowers
in hospital
to illuminate my plain room

A lover picks me sunflowers
we eat their seeds
count many petals

Painting sunflowers
my Van Gogh ear can’t hear
a bird free sky

- - -

Bring Me Sunflowers is a poem from Michael Brown’s new collection of poems entitled The Exhibit. Michaels’s collection puts humans emotions on display. It is a book between two cities- Cambridge and Manchester – with detours via wax museums and planetariums. It brings down the Berlin Wall and challenges censorship in Iran; reveals the love of gay marriage and has conversations with Alexander McQueen, Damien Hirst and Sylvia Plath.

Michael Brown’s poems seek to put our most intense feelings on display, sharing our common experiences and observing humanity standing on the outside looking in.

To find out more visit Michael’s website here.

With(out) Her - Ananya Dhawan

Wake up she’s gone
It might be forever
But don’t you reminisce, don’t weep
Oh don’t be woebegone…

Dazzling was the brilliance
Of her passion
Beyond measure was the depth of her love
She loved you till it hurt her
Impeccably losing her juvenile self
To you her man.

Oh, but, you were so occupied,
so self absorbed
to care
You shut yourself up
When she willingly bared herself…

Now don’t you fret
The relationship is Saturated
and no willfulness shall lure her
in your wretched direction once more.

- - -

Ananya Dhawan is an avid reader and writes poetry and stories in her spare time, which reflects her deep fascination for Literature. She has a cheerful disposition, believes in living each moment to the fullest and shows keen interest in the sensitive side of life.

The Spider and the Spray Can Man - Donal Mahoney

He's my buddy, this tiny spider
sitting in his web, not moving,
waiting for a fly that never comes.

The problem is, he spun his web
in a bathroom on the 30th floor
of an office building 

where in 20 years I've never
seen a fly  or other insect
never mind a spider.

The man from pest control 
comes after hours
and sprays in silence.

We call him Spray Can Man,
He has "Butch" on his shirt 
and creases in his pants 

pressed by a wife who packs 
hearty lunches, I suspect.
I've watched Spray Can Man 

twenty years and never heard 
him speak to anyone working 
overtime in a little cubicle. 

Years ago we'd say hello to him  
just like Trash Can Man and Mop Lady.
I said "Merry Christmas" to him once 

and Spray Can Man never looked up.
He kept looking down, like an anteater, 
spraying one baseboard after another.

When it comes to insects,
Spray Can Man is a serial killer. 
Yet the spider in the bathroom 

has escaped his gaze and lives on
despite the lack of any flies to eat.
The spider doesn't know death's

his destination even though 
I know some day soon
his life will be swept away,

perhaps by execution if 
one of my fellow workers
sees him waiting for a fly 

or if Spray Can Man spots him.
This spider will discover 
life is just a belch in time 

as I'll find out too some day.
If I'm wrong about what's to come, 

I'll have missed a lot of fun.

- - -

Nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, Donal Mahoney has had work published in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at