Poetry 2

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    Poetry 2

    WE ALL NEED TO FLY

    by Edward Lee

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    Be careful of that last will and testament,
    keep it away from the candle;
    it belongs to Icarus,
    found in his father’s belongings,
    or it is his father’s,
    found in Icarus’ remains –
    I don’t think it matters,
    Not now.

     

    It is extremely flammable,
    just so you know.
    If it goes up in flames
    we’ll never discover who he left
    the blueprints too,
    and so many of us
    want them,

    despite what we know.

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    THE UNPROVEN POSSIBILITIES OF SPACE

    by Edward Lee

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    This space above me,
    endless, vast,
    which I will only ever know
    through books and T.V. programmes,
    comics and cinema screens,
    gives me more comfort
    than this earth I lie upon,
    this place that is my home
    for no other reason than pure chance
    and biological circumstance.

    This goldilocks warm planet chills me,
    while cold space
    generates a warmth in me
    as I pour all my sadness into it,
    my eyes losing themselves
    in its star-pierced darkness

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    MEMORY IS MEMORY

    by Edward Lee

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    How big our fathers seem
    when we are young,
    and how small they become
    as they melt into hospital beds,
    their frail hands barely strong enough
    to grip our adult hands with any force.

    How much we are
    willing to forget, forgive,
    as their memory fails
    and they no longer
    recall the fear
    they instilled
    in our small hearts
    and minds,
    how they spoke with their fists
    more than they ever did
    with their mouths;

    those wordless men then,
    these wordless men now,
    their harsh last breaths
    filling our world
    long after they’re gone,

    forever after.

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    BOTH SIDES DIFFERENT

    by Edward Lee

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    I do not fear
    the man in the cage,
    sitting on his cardboard bed,
    hands clasped before him,
    face facing the freshly swept floor.
    No, I do not fear him.

    The man outside the cage,
    charging night-time admission,
    his teeth showing,
    his laugh cruel,
    jangling keys loose in his dirty hands,
    him I fear,
    oh yes, him I truly fear;

    I refuse to meet his eyes
    when he drags his own
    from his caged brother
    (and they must be brothers,
    their faces cracked reflections
    of each other),
    his tongue scrapping decayed meat
    from between his dark teeth,
    his laughter deepening
    as my checks redden,
    studying my freshly polished shoes.

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    Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection “Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge” was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.

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    The Boats in Dingle Harbour

    by Chris Brauer

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    His bogman hands, leeched of youth,

    search for cigarettes and, finding none,

    dig deeper into empty pockets, stretching the wool

    to find warmth against the cutting wind.

     

    He is salt-crusted, like the boats

    in Dingle Harbour, and he looks out towards

    the thieving blue where the burning

    of weathered ropes against young hands

    reads like a dying language.

     

    As the ocean breathes long and slow,

    he too breathes long and slow,

    closing his eyes against the brightness

    of the sun, losing himself in memory.

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    Chris Brauer is a Canadian writer and teacher, based in southeastern British Columbia.  He has recently completed a travel memoir about living and teaching in the Sultanate of Oman, and is currently working on a book about his travels in Ireland.  He is also working on his first collection of poetry. Visit www.ChrisBrauerWriter.com or www.Facebook.com/ChrisBrauerWriter for more information.

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