New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

5 poems from David Subacchi

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has published four collections of his poetry in English and one in Welsh. He has also begun to write in Italian.



He has serious wounds
And she has running sores,
The generator is guarded
With an automatic gun;
Each day they choose
How long it will be run,
You see you just
Can’t treat everyone.

There’s cholera,
Civil war and misery,
Garbage strewn streets
In heat from a fierce sun;
Each day is harder
Than the previous one,
You see you just
Can’t help everyone.

Gunshots and explosions
Are never ending,
Each day in Yemen
Could be your final one
For it’s too far to escape
To the West for asylum;
You see you just
Can’t save everyone.


You will not accept rhyme. Or any kind
Of poetry in traditional style
Preferring that such works remain on file.
Submit free verse only, is underlined
On your web page or it will be declined.
This clear warning visible for a mile
Lacking tact, intimidating and vile,
Stems from some dark prejudice undefined.

But we’ll not comply with your restriction.
Our ancient forms provide encouragement,
Well balanced structure and inspiration.
For regular metre brings contentment.
Away then with your brutal instruction
We’ll write as we wish free of confinement.


A young woman is like
A spring flower trembling
In a gentle breeze
Warming to encouragement

An old woman withstands
Each wintry gale
With contempt
Whistling with contentment.


The students are back, jostling in used book shops,
Grabbing the best spots in my favourite bars;
They talk louder than I did at their age. They’re confident
But their conversation is full of angst.

Two women in leopard print join me with chilling eyes
And enormous white wines, ‘Bloody students’ they remark;
I shake my head, gaze at the Led Zepp picture on the wall,
Try to turn my mind back.

Out in the bay it’s a mill pond day, not much inspiration,
The heating and piped music have been turned on;
I scribble some notes. ‘Are you a student they ask?’
‘Wish I was’ I say.


Where is London tonight
In this place,
This Bloomsbury of Spanish,
American and Italian faces,
Rack of ribs, burgers, tapas,
Pizza, risotto, tagliatelle,
Clatter of knives on plates,
Fathers with sons in t-shirts,
Mothers dreaming of romance
Stowing shopping under chairs,
Tired musical instruments
Hung on the walls around us,
The charming teenage waiter
Playing hard for tips.

Where is London tonight
In this place
Amongst the glass topped tables;
Ten o’clock they have lit
The outside gas heater,
Hopeful to attract more diners,
Yet all huddle inside,
A cacophony of voices,
A tower of Babel.

Where is London tonight
In this place,
Is it in the souvenir shops
With their fridge magnets,
Plastic Big Bens and red buses,
Is it in the taxi cabs gliding by,
Is it deep underground
Lurking in the tube stations,
Is it high above
In the post office tower,
In the prosperous penthouses
Or on the damp floors of cheap hotels,
Is it walking the streets in headphones
Or on the bikes of dispatch riders.

Where is London tonight
In this place,
In this place.


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