Monday, 12 October 2015

Poetry Hallway - Harvest Festival

If there's one thing that characterises rural England in Autumn, it's the timeless sight of sweaty, burly locals stalking the fields, scything away at anything and everything that moves. The remains are occasionally interred in unmarked graves, but more likely cooked up into tasty dishes to be served up during the traditional harvest celebrations. With this in mind, Beware! tasked its resident poets to whittle down some suitable verses on the subject of autumn. These are the pitiful responses we received.

Wiccan harvest queen. (Andy Brain)
Kerbside Aspiration by Andy Brain

Islington harvest?
Premature mortality.
Every breath you take.

They get everywhere.
Soot soup ferments in the lungs.
Great work, this. Medals?

Cold now on a slab.
Malignant neoplasm.
Airway sabotage.

Diesel: Death's plan B.
"Make something better" ad spot -
Too good to be true.

Particulate trap.
Pulmonary pinpricking.
Pomp. Promises. Phlegm.

Culpable smooth suits.
Statistics swallowed, suppressed.
Countless needless deaths.

Years that should have been;
Lifetimes just miles on the clock.
Empty still the dock.

One in October by Archibald Oulipo

Soft mist and propagation;
Other God-given goods too.
He created the earth, yet
he will destroy the wine and
lotus-thatched women's teams;
Apple retorts, doubtless mossed
Summer fruits, ornamental
Oyster fat and forecast oil.
Organization of tools; 
Other promises installed.
Flowers for Maya; the day 
may not be able to stop
a summer full and hanging.

Sometimes, this feeling is right for you?
Sometimes, look elsewhere, other time-zones.
Results obtained are of negligence
to the hair-soft spiritual life;
Sierra ship stats, sure, or have a nap.
Groom-calm the prices your way; they say
Interest no more holds the whole country;
Always clean, always - burn the excess,
particularly the upsetting;
Patients' destination has cedar: 
A missed call will remain ever missed.

It started in the spring? In fact, what? 
Because music - narrow corridor,
Wide orange vista of light - marries
for him though, dead flowers, rats, horseflies,
The game went slightly pink, ragged, dry.
Infected mosquitoes' pain and song -
Willow Stream, live and dead, air and light,
New Year installation already?
The Hajj makes even Frasier dance;
Now craft regret with red breast pulsing;
Twitter and soft collected volumes.

Just Rewards for Hard Workers by Limpit Smike

Laying back or sprawling forward,
Upon my precious country sword,
The hard, bold land I've seen betimes,
On photos whilst in richer climes.
Those less fortunate than myself,
Those without the gifts of verse.
They surely have it so much worse.
They scratch a living from the land.
Britons, can we not understand?

What of the farmer, does he care?
Of his riches does he share?
No. No. No.
Daft and wrong, daft and wrong.
Force those workers to sell their bodies?
Sell them like whores for mere pennies?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Proud and strong, proud and strong.

If I could employ them all I would.
I would shelter them inside my hood.
I would scrub their nails to cleanse from dirt.
I would mop their brows to ease their hurt.

Own the land, own the man.
Cherish the land, cherish the man.

It is my duty to share in my good fortune,
So many forthright thoughts I must importune,
Must press and push to enter into their minds,
And make sure nothing bad is left in the behinds.

How to Do a Harvest by Bobby Robert

Sneak into the farmer's field,
Drop your drawers and drop your yield,
Wait til the crime is revealed,
Send a selfie shitty smirk.

No comments:

Post a Comment