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The Fringe Poetry Festival Three












Published by SeaQuake Books

Copyright 2015. Individual contributors.

ISBN: 9781311706836

Shakespir Edition, License Notes





This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Publisher contact: [email protected] Contributors contact: www.facebook.com/writinginsouthport







Our Monument

Solicitor’s girl, pretty in black,

papers clutched, high-heels to bank.

Cabs stop. Pensioners bundle, back-seated,

with bags. Wardens prowl, note numbers,

photo cars. Drivers beg and threaten.

Buses nudge each other to bus stops.

Mavis, in purple scarf, feeds pigeons.

Community Police walk by in twos.

China Palace takes delivery. Cafe shutters

clatter open. Smokers sip coffee at outside tables.

Polish girls, slim blonde, rush kids to school,

then to work. Our guys, dishevelled, shuffle

to Boots, queue for methadone, sit for hours

with cardboard signs. Homeless and hungry.

Women, expensive hair, step past

in Emilio Pucci and Jimmy Choo’s.

We know the names. When it rains

we check the prices, sip cider in doorways

‘til moved on. When it’s dry we’re here,

At the War Memorial,

amongst the beer cans, the litter

and the smell of urine. They should tidy up.

Foreign students stop and stare,

mess about, unaware of the wars, the sacrifice.

They disrespect us.

But we live here. It’s our Monument.

(Phil McNulty)





A Year Ago

Was it just a year ago

The vicar said ‘do you?’

Faces lit with a loving glow

We both said “we do”

Was it just six months ago

We stepped from the migrant boat

Passports proclaiming man and wife

A new life and high hopes

Was it only a month ago

We sat on a fallen tree

Planning all our tomorrows

A dream couple you and me

Was it only a week ago

A car came through the rain

Putting you on the mortuary slab

Never to kiss me again

Was it only yesterday

The vicar spoke your name

Sending you away from me

Never to see you again

As I travel through the years

I’ll lock you in my heart

So no matter what becomes of me

We will never be apart.

(Joe Forshaw)





Smile, Smile, Smile

We don’t know if he ever used

a lucifer to light his fag

but we suspect he never packed

his troubles in his old kit bag –

he’d far too many.

We don’t know if he ever asked

what’s the use of worrying

but when we read the diary

they brought back in his old kit bag

we knew he worried

about his loved ones back at home;

about the boys who went over the top,

the comrades he knew would not return;

about the hissing mustard gas

that would one day find him, cause

his slow and agonising death.

Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq;

it never is worthwhile

but we still hold great grandad’s old kit bag

and try to smile.

(Bill Lythgoe)





Flesh of my flesh….

(a sentimental song)

A woman sat weeping under a greenwood tree.

Why woman, why? Why are you weeping?

‘From joy at this babe that my pain gave to me,

And from dread that I’ll lose him before he grows old,

But his bones, his bones will always be mine.’

A woman stood weeping beside an iron gate.

Why, woman, why? Why are you weeping?

‘My boy is conscripted, and this day is the date.

I’m giving his flesh for others to mould,

But his bones, his bones will always be mine’.

A woman stood weeping beside a church door.

Why, woman, why? Why are you weeping?

‘His flesh with her flesh shall be mine no more.

Those two, they are one, until they grow old.

But his bones, his bones will always be mine’.

A woman stood weeping by a windswept track.

Why, woman, why? Why are you weeping?

‘Torn in the battle, they’ve carried him back,

And his name on this granite will always be told.

But his bones, his bones, will always be mine’.

A woman knelt weeping amidst ice and snow.

Why woman, why? Why are you weeping?

‘For my son! My fine son who is sheltering below!

I am come here to join him, to shield him from cold,

For his bones, darling bones, will always be mine’.

(Mike Parsons)







Village Life


The village ladies venture out of doors

As morning dawns upon another day,

They gather round the pump, but do not stay

To gossip, just fill up their four by fours.

Down in old Smithy green no furnace roars,

A block of flats now towers where it lay,

The spreading Chestnut has been cleared away,

Light industry would breach town-planning laws.

There’s Ploughman’s lunches in the Farmers Arms,

No ploughman lunches there, there’s no more farms

And he has plodded on his weary way

To find another job with better pay.

He drives a digger now, through green meadows

And tills the earth to plant the redbrick rows.

(Mike Rathbone)




We hope that you enjoyed ‘The Fringe Poetry Festival 3’. For more information please go to www.facebook.com/writinginsouthport.






Other books from the same publisher include-


The Fringe Poetry Festival One.

The Fringe Poetry Festival Two

CQEC Journal, Inter-Agency Working

One True Thing

CQEC Journal, Regeneration in the North West

The Fringe Poetry on the Move Three

The Fringe Poetry on the Move Two

The Fringe Poetry on the Move One

Darren and George

The Fringe Poetry Festival Three

'The Fringe, Poetry Festival Three' is a pamphlet of poetry from poets based in the North West of England. It is distributed in pubs, cafes, libraries, shops, buses and trains. In fact, anywhere the public may have time to read some interesting pieces of writing. The pamphlets and ebooks are published by SeaQuake Books. The idea behind the initiative is to bring poetry to a wider audience. The poets included in this particular pamphlet are Phil McNulty, Joe Forshaw, Bill Lythgoe, Mike Parsons, Mike Rathbone.

  • ISBN: 9781311706836
  • Author: SeaQuake Books
  • Published: 2015-10-19 17:05:07
  • Words: 954
The Fringe Poetry Festival Three The Fringe Poetry Festival Three