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  November 2013
volume 10 number 2
-table of contents-
 
  home   (archived)
 
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  Lynn Albanese
  Jonathan Beale
  Michael Caylo-Baradi
  Charles Claymore
  Christiane Conésa-Bostock
  Flavia Cosma
  Gareth Davies
  Diane Dehler
  Maurice Devitt
  Tyler Dupuis
  Sabrina Edwards
  Neil Ellman
  R.M. Engelhardt
  Rebecca Gimblett
  Jeffrey Graessley
  John Grey
  James Hall
  A J Huffman
  Lee Mason
  Deborah McCreath-Akbar
  Tom O'Reilly
  Angel Uriel Perales
  Frank Praeger
  Kevin Ridgeway
  Walter Ruhlmann
  Howard Sage
  John Saunders
  Allen Taylor
  Sarah Thursday
  Philomena van Rijswijk
  Daniela Voicu
 
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Jonathan Beale
November 2013
   

 

bio


photo by mauricio alejandro ramos

    Jonathan Beale has had his work published in over sixty journals including Danse Macabre, Bluepepper, Mad Swirl, Ygdrasil, Red Wolf Editions, Sheepshead Review, Poetry 24, Penwood Review, et al. He is also published in two anthologies Drowning and The Poet as Sociopath (Scar publications). And one to be published Do not be afraid a small anthology dedicated to Seamus Heaney. His first book of poetry The Destinations of Raxiera (Hammer and Anvil) in November 2015
    He lives in Surrey U.K.

The Destinations of Raxiera

   

 

Life on the Fens After Robert Lowell

Before the dawn: no demands, except existence in a form
       He beat a life from the dry biblical dust with his boots and hands
        He was as invisible as the air and fleeting as the morning mist

        His life: structured around the seasons tongue-and-grove
        Upon the division of his realm within its mitred parts
        An unimaginable alchemy of dust, soil, air, water and sweat

        The need of his stomach tursury to his children’s, and his nation's
        Drove the thankless task ever onwards to him a - nil
        I wondered what thought or dream or manifestations could be?

        Were the makings of the man I could never be
        Nor would I be. Nor would I be able to fill the boots
        As I stood and stared in awe. I could never be he

        The infant I see sat on the tractor playing out his future
        Will never know his actual pain but shall feel his torture

The wind is soulless unforgiving, and remorseless
        As a banshee howls or some female classical legend in angst
Salt can be tasted ‘so they say’ in the wind tears of sailors past
        The turquoise sunset dreams the birds away

An evening star with Hesperus breeze
The soil sleeps now the drains flow by
The time like everywhere takes on its own mantle
    and can still be heard in the breeze

My father once said “stop” his hand on my little shoulder
“Don’t say a thing just listen to wind” the silence is huge
I heard his voice decades on cascading through the years

‘You don’t listen, do ‘ya boy, no not never to me’
I turned my head it was silence. Then an owl broke the sunset.


copyright 2013 Jonathan Beale