Christopher John Eggett is a writer from Cambridgeshire trying to live close to water. His work has appeared in Bone & Ink, Visual Verse and Burning House Press. He writes a literary newsletter, Etch To Their Own, every Friday and he’d love you to sign up to it. He tweets as @CJEggett – mostly about nice books he has bumped into on his doorstep.
At Heaven’s Gate: This is The Story We Harvest.
my mother’s eyes are not hers
i’m told they belong to babel
she’s holding her tears in an hour glass
she is wondering if this was the hour
the lord said he was going to come
a man set before the fusillade
a man brought before the law court
he says his palms are clean
if they cannot see through his heart
he says his eyes are watery
if they cannot read its blissfield
/& many of these stories
/wrestle their tears out
/as headlines to the guilt
/we harvest in our homelands
This Was How Your Mother too Traveled.
This was how we made it to the
moon. Bearing a dead rose
In our shivering palms// holding
Another body in the sheen of tears
We do not ask for mundane
inscriptions on muted walls;
A cluster of God’s benediction
In a Crimsoned Rosary . . .
My mother would die soon
/& how soon her name too shall depart
From these lips troubles my soul
A prayer said at sunset
in an olive garden,
A wild whisper left roaming at twilight —
/& Yet, this body too aches . . .
Abeiku Arhin Tsiwah is a Ghanaian Smartphone Enthusiast //& Content Critic. He’s the Poetry Editor at Lunaris Review (a Journal of Arts & the Literary, Nigeria) & the Creative Director at The Village Thinkers (a Creative Writing & Performing Arts Society, Ghana). The 2018 Shortlisted Poet for African Writers Awards has had his works anthologized/&[or] publicized in reputed literary volumes: EXPOUND, Whispers, NovelMasters, Kreative Diadem, Anansekrom, Gnosis Magazine, Tuck Magazine, The Liberian Literary Magazine, et cetera.
I’m at my daughter’s university
in the crime capital of the country,
dressed like Jimmy Cagney
in a brown pin-striped suit
and black trilby hat, sitting
on top of the world.
Vertiginously, I seek her out
amongst the assembled subjects.
I’m in the gods, she’s with the insects
beetling with self-interest,
blazoned epaulettes and edges –
at £45 for afternoon hire
my uneducated guess is.
Shoulders rub, antennae touch,
the curtain slowly struggles up.
Here comes The Sheriff of Nottingham
preceding Michael Parkinson
drawling their way to the podium
to joke of football and cricket.
Wielding a spade which is wholly symbolic,
Parkinson quotes an obscure poet.
We paid £30 each a ticket.
of the Chinese population
in the Business and Management section.
A homily of ho- hum names –
someday we’ll all look and sound the same.
A posthumous award dispels the monotony.
Nobody else is wearing a hat like me.
Hands are raised to the sound of shots,
caps rise into the air then drop:
insignia seem to mean a lot.
She’ll be stabled in bright livery
with her Masters in Psychology.
I only ever got the third degree
from the local constabulary.
I wore two-tone and danced to Al Capone.
I’m still living in gangster time.
Ray Miller is a Socialist, Aston Villa supporter and faithful husband. Life’s been a disappointment.