21st century poets

Musical Whorl | Jim Bellamy

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Still going, all of it, still crowing!
(Ears to speakers, that sound of
The sky when it meets the sea!)
Tamed by noise, enormous airs
Grasp at a strangled voce machine.
A final tune, rigidly bangs where
The pleasures of music burn.
Still going, all of it, still flowing-.

The groups, the skiffling hands!
I search for sand and find a
Seaside pearled with purple tones.
The clear water smooths pebbles
With proud tunes roving from
The tunes of a dune-moon. Is it
Sense to find a radio attuned
To the shriekings of jazz-rain?

Still going, all of it, still going!
(Ears to tweeters, the woofers
Of a sky which sings for clothing.)
Raised by tongue-fire, gigantic strains
Drum aside drakes and break
Opened opuses at fragrant drains
O the pleasure of musics storm
The buttons of pure pain. Ahh!!!

More at https://www.jamesbellamy.org/.

The Most Beautiful | Mónika Tóth

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dedicated my best Romanian friend Vasile

every morning
your name
is honey
on my lips

every afternoon
your name
is flower
on my lips

every night
your name
is beautiful melody
onmy lips

You are
the most
beautiful thing,
in my life

John Clare, Jimtom, Me as Well | Bruce Hodder

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John Clare sits, hat between his knees,
on a bench outside the local council building.
Night has come. It’s a little chilly now,
and Jimtom, Northampton’s greatest bard,
is behind me, reading from a well-inked book.
I can’t hear him because of passers-by
who look and wonder what we’re doing here.
We’ve come tonight to praise the peasant poet,
who’s cast in bronze to add a hint of culture
to a town that locked his body up in life.
There must be ten of us around John’s seat.
The others, genteel but slightly threadbare,
have read Clare poems that they brought or borrowed.
One shared an extract from his play on Clare.
He’s comfortable, like two cars on the drive.
But Jimtom’s got a big white worker’s van
with decals on it, and his accent’s strong.
He has a tone that speaks to me of earth and trees,
of ancient stones, and of the natural spaces
where the spirit breathes more easily.
I get that from him, though I can’t explain it
and I think Clare gets it just as keenly.
He sits, bronze hat between his knees,
looking pleased as Jimtom weaves his poem.
When the others leave, perhaps we’ll all hang out
in the gloom, Clare, Jimtom, me as well
and as a thickening fog makes ghosts of us,
we’ll smoke and tell each other Shoe Town stories.

More at http://bluefredpress.blogspot.com/.

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