Wednesday, 21 August 2019

On A Sunny Sunday
It was a sunny Sunday,
a perfect day.
So he dressed them in their
Sunday best
and they went to the park
to play on the swings
and roundabouts.
My father.
My half brother and sister
on a sunny Sunday.
They were surprised
to meet her
as they walked home.
They were surprised
to see that
she was carrying a suitcase.
They were surprised
when she said goodbye.
They didn’t believe it
so they went home
to their new council house
to wait.
She never came back.
It had not been a happy home.
She could be violent.
But it was their home.
She never came back.
So they moved to his parents
where they were
only grudgingly accepted.
It was not a happy move
but it was the best he could do.
Sometimes on a sunny Sunday
she would leave the hospital,
escape in search of her family.
But they never found each other
About This Website
Nightingale & Sparrow Literary Magazine is proud to present their third issue, heat. This volume features the poetry, creative nonfiction, fiction, and photography of more than 70 amazing creators from around the world. For this themed issue, Nightingale & Sparrow asked contributors to send "suns...

Tuesday, 20 August 2019

“Come for a swim,” they said
and I thought “why not?”
It would be a new experience for me.
I’d looked over from my field and seen the pool,
seen the children laughing and splashing
and moving through the water so easily.
What an adventure it would be!
I pushed through a gap in the fence,
ran right up to the edge
and jumped!
I hadn’t expected to sink.
The children hadn't sunk.
What will happen if I go lower?
Already my feet don’t touch the ground,
if there is any ground under this water.
“Come for a swim,” they said,
I should have tried to fly
I’m sure pigs can fly.

Sunday, 18 August 2019

Eye Contact
Look at me.
Hey, look at me.
I’m here
I’m real,
a real person
and I like you a lot.
You’re really special.
Hey look at me,
look into my eyes.
Look at me!
How the fuck
can I look at you
when you keep
kissing my eyes closed!

Friday, 16 August 2019

This Time
Before my time,
they used to line the streets
with the heads 
of the defeated stuck on pikes,
which rotted away in time
leaving only the pikes
standing empty.
This time
too little remains to separate
heads from bodies,
there’s too little left
to identify the defeated.
Winners and losers are all
in the rubble of the city.
If there are survivors
they could take empty helmets
and set them on pikes
The pikes would
rot away first
this time.
But there’s too little left
and there’s no one
to do it
no one
to see it
this time.

Thursday, 15 August 2019

A Change of Focus
They were being herded now
bleating pleas
like the blind sheep
of past times.
by those they’d lionised
those they’d cultivated
as heroes
or victims
now metamorphosed
into triffids in khaki
and all it took was a change
of focus.
Triffids in khaki
and prodding.
They could see them now
in focus
as they stumbled
their pleas
to the deafened.
They could see now
see themselves
see that they’re victims of
them and
their old blind sheep
all it took was a change of focus
and in a flash
by the light.
A Change of Focus by Lynn White They were being herded now bleating pleas like the blind sheep of past times. Herded by those they’d lionised....READ MORE

Tuesday, 13 August 2019

Last night at the theatre I saw you again,
Your smile in a face so much younger.
My confusion, my thoughts, my stares made him turn
and your warm smile chilled me
with ice melting now from the long frozen lock,
the key turning freely to let out our past.
And my past, and it’s future all came flooding back,
the shock of sensations long gone.
The dance and the music, the books that we read,
the memories that we must both have
of the pain and the pleasures,
that were part of our love
such a long time ago.
So I ask myself now, can anything stay
to give pleasure to us in remembering those days?
For my remnants now seem to be only pain,
and their sadness engulfs me
and halts my return.
So I left, in the end, as I left you, my love,
Saying nothing, taking nothing,
leaving nothing behind.
Without saying goodbye.
Saying nothing, taking nothing, leaving nothing behind. Without saying goodbye.

Sunday, 11 August 2019

This Is Not An Egg
The egg box was so sculptural with it’s peaks and troughs
like a metaphor, a mirror of life in textured paper,
I thought a giant version could easily become
an acclaimed art installation
and I thought I could make it.
And then I remembered the glasses
left behind in a museum of modern art
by error or intent,
real glasses,
not the “ne sont pas les lunettes”
Magrittean sort,
I could feel some guerrilla art hatching inside me.
I fetched the pot egg from under the broody hen
and pondered the possibilities on the way to the gallery.
There, I placed the egg box on a table,
sneaked it in
between the other exhibits
then I placed the Magrittean egg inside.
Just the one egg seemed most fitting
especially since one was all I had.
I had already written the title card.
Such a work deserved two titles
one above and one below the artist’s name,
my name, of course.
First came: “THIS IS NOT AN EGG”
and underneath:
It was perfectly placed
and looked magnificently subversively ironic.
I think Magritte would be proud of my effort.
And now I must wait
to see if anyone notices.
An international biannual online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.

Friday, 9 August 2019

can you hear them?
The sounds that went before
the wall was built.
I can hear them.
Not the wall builders,
no, not them,
but others who also
don’t want to see
what lies beyond.
What lies on the other side.
Others who will build walls
in the future.
But listen,
we can hear them.
Listen for when the cracks appear,
then push.

Thursday, 8 August 2019

A Not So Still Life
What a strange tableau,
a still life
in a dream.
The birds flew over
and looked down on it,
but there was no place for them
to hang out,
to roost,
to dream.
So they didn’t care about the dust motes
escaping into the sunlight
floating like fairy dust
getting themselves organised
to follow their dream.
Did they escape
from the jar?
the bull is wondering
if they were ever inside
and the birds don’t care as usual,
hardly notice her dog emerging
from the mist to inspect them.
Unmistakably her dog
just more amorphous than usual.
It doesn’t look inclined to chase the motes
or stick it’s head inside the loop they’re making.
But the birds don’t care as usual.

Tuesday, 6 August 2019

The Hedgerow Fairies
Where have they gone,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats?
I used to see them sitting
under their leafy roofs
stitching their summer dresses
of poppy and mallow petals
with long silk threads
catching the summer sunlight
as the smiling spiders spun.
I miss them so,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats.
I used to see them collecting
armfuls of meadow sweet
to stuff their nighttime mattresses,
making doorways in their new
toadstool homes with sharp stones.
Maybe they’ve gone underground
to escape the passing cars and tractors.
Maybe they only come out at night now
and stitch and stuff under the moonlight.
I don’t know.
But I miss them so,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats.
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