WELCOME TO VIRTUAL DODO TWO
Welcome to the second virtual show from Dodo Modern Poets. The success of the first has inspired more participants, with around 30 open mic poets supporting our featured performers..
:Later in the show I'm including a new poem that's literally out of this world but first we begin with our featured acts.
They are:
HEATHER MOULSON - wry accounts of adolescent angst are among the highlights of Heather's work. She won the Brian Dempsey Memorial competition in March and her pamphlet, Bunty I Miss You, is out now. More information: heathermoulsonpoet.com
PROJECT ADORNO - veterans of many an Edinburgh Festival the group present a one-off lockdown special featuring a selection of snap, crackle and pop songs. Themes include 8 bit computer games, Mark Twain, and the Eurovision Song Contest. Think of it as Top of The Pops, only with the same act on all the way through. .More information: http://www.projectadorno.net/
We hope you enjoy the show
All the best,
Patric Cunnane
PR Murry
DODO MODERN POETS
HEATHER MOULSON
url: https://youtu.be/LHGx5rtQo2U
PROJECT ADORNO
url:https://youtu.be/uqQ9-1K0X1U
OPEN MIC SPOTS - VIDEOS
Sue Johns
url: https://youtu.be/GydSx6Y9HlQ
Nicola Baker
url: https://youtu.be/awHQRzQ29W8
Nick Alldridge
url: https://youtu.be/evIpKJ-lXKQ
PR Murry
url:https://youtu.be/FdCgTDlEsys
Graham Buchan
url: https://youtu.be/0c9BfQNGnE8
Isabel Bermudez
url: https://youtu.be/jL5tUVSNkC8
Lantern Carrier
url: https://youtu.be/F18PUrPIGgc
Robert Drury
url:https://youtu.be/h2980fKzVE4
Max Fishel
url: https://youtu.be/olEgIgNpFvI
Eddie Forde
url: https://youtu.be/AhNW1hHXe5A
Sophia Bradner
url: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYo7kehUXyM
Paul Gander
url: https://youtu.be/HSfVDCehpX0
John Greatrex
url:https://youtu.be/mziKG1-Pjfs
Frank Crocker
url: https://youtu.be/7-s7MHEWILk
Joseph Healy
url: https://youtu.be/Ca7BqdI5QRQ
Christine Eales
url:https://youtu.be/VRdmTyI7U1Y
Mark Holihan
url:https://youtu.be/-NxoPKqKKAU
Julian Mann
url: https://youtu.be/F6e9V48lcZ4
Aidan Nutbrown
url:https://youtu.be/Qa1seIWpfLw
Kate B Hall
url: https://youtu.be/QB1NRkJdmwU
Pauline Sewards
url:https://youtu.be/Pj_x01CyrFU
Roger Stephenson
url:https://youtu.be/uSl8LoUQSmQ
Wendy Young
url: https://youtu.be/PMMzEciBhJ4
Emile Sercombe
url: https://youtu.be/iO7RqVMO-JA
Stuart Larner
url: https://youtu.be/6IrkB8qgjCo
POEMS ON THE PAGE Our show continues with poems on the page from 13 poets.
SEAGULL
Patric Cunnane
Hey sky, I am coming!
Valentina greeted
the heavens
As she roared into space
Call sign, Seagull
The first woman cosmonaut
Wedged in a
capsule with
Only confidence
for company
When navigation
failed
She fixed it
Sharp and funny,
Valentina
Blazed her own
trail to the stars
She landed in a
Kazakhstan field
Startling the
villagers
Emerging thirsty
and smiling
They loved her!
She married a
spaceman
Two gulls together
Became a
politician
Shrugged off the
past
But nothing would
match
The thrill of that
moment
Hey Sky, I am coming!
Years pass
The seagull has
yet to land
On 15th June 1963, 26-year-old Russian cosmonaut,
Valentina Tereshkova, became the first woman in space. Her mission lasted three days. Her call sign
was 'Seagull' and as she took off she declared, "Hey sky, I am
coming."
Stuck
Django Moon
Django Moon
I’m stuck
Where I want to be
But still I’m stuck
With me
I’m stuck
Self-insulating
No one here
But me, myself, and I
I’m stuck
In solitude
Alone?
Just the three of us
We’re stuck
Isolated
Together
Me, Ego, and Higher Self
We’re stuck
Fighting
The good fight
A war of peace
We’re stuck
Getting along
Going nowhere
Always ‘now here’
We’re stuck
All of us
In the moment
The only place... to be.
↭
Perspective
Ruth O’Callaghan
It is February. From the tracks beyond the cemetery the last train defies the dark, defies the dark
beyond the cemetery. It is February. Onto the tracks a body may fall, fall from the bridge
the bridge that springs over the tracks, the tracks on which a body may span, horizontal
east to west or west to east, never north to south south to north. Horizontal.
Too late, too late to grind the brakes, the brakes too late if a body breaks on the tracks.
The woman at the window sees the man on the bridge to the man on the bridge the woman at the window
cries Wait.
Spanning the tracks that the driver can see but not a body spanning the tracks
there is no body spanning the tracks as he moves on, moves on defying the dark
beyond the cemetery. It is February. The rails are sharp the night is clear, he is on time.
The driver’s on time. All is ordered in this dark. He’s taken advice. He can implement procedures. Procedures.
Vera climbs the stairs of the bridge, sees the man on the bridge hears the cry of the woman at the window but not the word.
She is alone.
He cuts a swathe towards the tunnel. He is on time he is a man who defies the dark
he is a man moving on, moving on through the night the night is ordered, he is ordered
the driver’s on time. He’s taken advice. He keeps his hand he stays his hand, he can implement...
The boy asleep under the bridge hears shuffling on the bridge hears a woman’s cry. He doesn’t move. It could be a ploy.
Procedures. He knows procedures. He knows this track. He knows the exact, the exact point
to release, to release pressure. The driver’s taken advice. The air is clear. The rails are sharp. He is a man defying the dark.
The man on the bridge hears the train on the track, hears a voice calling, footsteps dragging. He turns. She is cardigan-ed not white-coated.
Disguised.
It is February. They are beyond the cemetery. Beyond fear. The fear on the face of the man in the train of the man in the air.
I’ll Stay Home Now
By Yan Li
I know what I’m doing.
I’ll look after myself.
We just don’t’ have enough hands.
Nor enough gloves.
Make me another mask.
If you have to.
And a few gowns.
I’ll share them.
Sure, I’m scared.
I could bring it home.
I know you’re worried for me.
I’m also worried for you.
Patients are dying.
Some of us, too.
Alone. Loved ones aren’t allowed to come.
They say I love you on the phone.
Don’t cry.
This is what I do.
When it gets me,
Do not enter my room.
I’ll stay home now.
I’ll listen to you instead.
Don’t take me to hospital.
Don’t want to take up a bed.
Barry Coidan
Dog Rose
A white
scented dog rose.
An insignificant flower
five petals
hanging limp.
An intruder.
A mere bramble,
uncalled for child of
bastard stock opening
into shocking whiteness.
In this
period of
distancing I
held it in
my hands; bringing
it close
Inhaling its
nectar droplets.
Bastard rose
scent
so fragrant.
I cup its endless
possibility lost
in
a child like
reverie.
A white scented
dog rose
a perfect
rejoinder to
this out of
joint age. We need
such sweet
smelling bastards.
BUTTERFLY NIGHT
Claire Booker
Claire Booker
Still you do not wake,
though your back is a strait
all fleeted up with turquoise sails:
square-rigged, lace-fine grapplers
sunk in your brine.
Even now, when the wind lifts
and each fluttering vessel weighs
anchor,
hauls you up
into night-drenched blue, swaying
on the hammock
of your own mortal weight,
a drunk ship
listing through constellations,
still, you do not wake -
pitching and plunging
in Cassiopeia's pleats, dazzled
by light from her bold moons,
distance, like air, keeling
around you.
(from 'Later There Will Be
Postcards')
EXCHANGE (after Hans Tisdall, Fisherman’s Hut, 1946)
BRIAN DOCHERTY
They call me the Birdman of Hastings, but I never
set out to collect them, or offer them a home; after
the first few, I built them little houses from driftwood.
So they come, keep me company, and I am glad.
I spend my life taking fish from their element,
and never regret it, because that is my mission.
But seagulls are not welcome here, they are louder
and greedier than the Exciseman, and will rip open
every bag just to see what is there, and never stop.
My birds ask nothing of me, take nothing from me,
give me peace in return, the sort of exchange I like,
they bless my boat, never follow me out to sea.
They could, if they chose, live in a garden in town,
or try their luck with any other fisherman, but no,
here they are, all around my little hut, here to stay.
Yet how short our lives, between tides and moons,
so many friends I can never name aloud again,
empty chairs in the pub, obituaries I can never read.
If one day I am lost at sea, or fall asleep in my chair,
I hope my birds will stay here, and be welcomed
by whoever takes my boat, my hut, and my chair.
When
This Virus War is Over
Lizzie Shirley
Lizzie Shirley
When this
virus war is over,
Workers wave
goodbye to food banks,
There will
be no zero hour contracts
And everyone
will earn a proper wack.
There will
be no homeless people
No humans
lying in the street.
All will
have a lovely council home,
And healthy
meals to eat.
Children
won’t go to school hungry
On their
work they will fully concentrate,
Teachers
won’t be overworked and grumpy
And schools
will open five days a week.
We’ll bring
back bursaries for nurses
We’ll train
new doctors galore,
We’ll do
away with outsourcing
And hospital
workers won’t be poor.
The NHS’s
sill loved by everyone
We won’t
sell it off stealthily
Back to
being fully nationalised
No more
stealing it by the wealthy.
The Tories
have made this crisis worse
This tardy
government is a con
We won’t
have people dead by their mishandling
Profiteering
for their mates is simply wrong.
For years
they have been incompetent,
Not
investing, but ripping us off,
The scales
will tip in our favour
And nobody again
will be a Toff.
Harrow and
Eaton will both close down
Their
privilege will all go down the drain
They will
stop thinking they are superior
We’ll tax
them, for Corona they will pay.
We owe them
absolutely nothing
Their
privilege is sick and out of date.
We will be
working for each other,
Together we
will all seize the day.
taxi driver
John Sephton
John Sephton
Lone rider haunting the darkness,
Roaming the underworld,
The crooked sidewalks,
The shadows at the edge,
The lost highways of life.
. Inspired by Martin Scorcese’s 1976 movie about a deranged former US Marine returned from Vietnam.
THE DECALOGUE [© LORAINE SAACKS]
THE DECALOGUE [© LORAINE SAACKS]
If you’ve harkened to rumours and fairy tales –
with the usual infusion of farfetched details –
one fable grew roots,
when some rambling recruits,
who’d had failed to stockpile,
found they were trapped in a desert exile!
with the usual infusion of farfetched details –
one fable grew roots,
when some rambling recruits,
who’d had failed to stockpile,
found they were trapped in a desert exile!
The chap at the lead bade them put down their tools,
while he’d just scale Mount Sinai for some trendy new rules;
Moses climbed up and down six or seven times,
fearful his flock enjoyed some petty crimes,
his suspected disgrace, was their sculpted gold calf,
at which his Supremo was loath to laugh!
while he’d just scale Mount Sinai for some trendy new rules;
Moses climbed up and down six or seven times,
fearful his flock enjoyed some petty crimes,
his suspected disgrace, was their sculpted gold calf,
at which his Supremo was loath to laugh!
He stayed at the helm while the herd sought their land,
generations wandering – all still on remand –
they’d lived forty years on glucose molecules,
but manna alone is the nectar of fools;
this food had a hint of Shipham’s fish paste,
but there was ne’er a call for defecating waste.
generations wandering – all still on remand –
they’d lived forty years on glucose molecules,
but manna alone is the nectar of fools;
this food had a hint of Shipham’s fish paste,
but there was ne’er a call for defecating waste.
Aches and pains from the weight, saw him crack the concrete,
so, once more, he staggered, to his apex retreat,
where exchange was conferred, without a receipt,
but there was added engraving his eyes did not meet;
on the reverse of the covenant blue-print,
no-one bothered to turn it over and squint.
so, once more, he staggered, to his apex retreat,
where exchange was conferred, without a receipt,
but there was added engraving his eyes did not meet;
on the reverse of the covenant blue-print,
no-one bothered to turn it over and squint.
Thereon etched, in eight point Italic text,
guaranteeing the nomads to be confused and vexed,
hieroglyphics confirmed milk and honey a-plenty,
but a rare shock would arrive in two thousand and twenty.
guaranteeing the nomads to be confused and vexed,
hieroglyphics confirmed milk and honey a-plenty,
but a rare shock would arrive in two thousand and twenty.
Hugh Shrapnel
Creation
Blank paper
No hoper.
Inspiration nowt
What’s
it all about?
Put it off
(Got a
cough).
What’s
the worry?
There’s
no hurry.
Have an aim,
Make a name.
What
the hell
Damn it – tell!
Give it the most,
Send in the post.
Good reply?
Huh,
I would die!
What then, fake it?
Yes - if you’re to
make it!
Not a deep testament
But
a good investment.
Eureka, now I’ve got it!
Hey,
wow, could be a hit! Oh dear this is sub; Never
mind, off to the pub.
Will nothing work?
It’s
all a bad joke.
Deep in trite -
Is there no respite?
‘Be original’ they cry; No,
nothing new under the sky. What style (they’re all
old)?
Forge a new one – be bold!
No ‘isms’-
They’re all prisons;
‘Art for art’s sake’?
Such a mistake.
Now something new
For all the world and you.
Never say die -
‘The
New Music World’? Fie!
Kevin Morris
An Autumn Bird:
I heard
An autumn bird
Sing,
'Ere the sky
Grew Bright.
And I
Thought of spring,
And eternal night.
I heard
An autumn bird
Sing,
'Ere the sky
Grew Bright.
And I
Thought of spring,
And eternal night.
THE MORNING AFTER
Written in Marbella after the 2019 British general election
Greg Freeman
the last hope gone, we find ourselves in sunshine
with family in Marbella beside a fountain sculpture
of beauty and unity, reflecting civic pride,
what might have been, playing with our
Anglo-Spanish grandchild on the swings and slides.
She careers across the pavement on a little bike,
I struggle to keep up with her, and as I screw
my features into laughter-faces, she mimics every one.
She calls the motorway tunnels along the Costa del Sol
‘the big dark’. That evening the people
of the barrio sing carols beneath our flat, with
guitars,
harmonies, their brazier a beckoning beacon, bright.
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