Poetry- Maxine Rose Munro

The wild time 


It took me years to find others didn’t see
music like me – as a space to enter, in which
to move between/with colours and shapes;
a place to drop off the edge and explore
with your fingers, hips, shoulders, moving
around sounds, reaching out to embrace
fizz-violet snare, swivel-hips encased
in treacle-dark base, spine snake-snapping
fuzz-twitch electronic chaos, acid-squelch
staining skin neon, tasting feel-good pastel
bubble-pops or heavenly gospel brights;
feet attacking the floor causing cracks
to crash across to meet in the middle, drop
you into smoke filled depths, so easy
to be lost in the wild time. And the mix begins
over, builds bridges that take you further,
to die and be reborn, faster, harder, better,
a million ways again and again, stretching
through all lifetimes, all chances there are,
to be taken, to know you’ve surfed waves
of potential, you’ve touched the intangible.
And when it ends,
to know you have been alive.


The behaviour of sheep 


I remember a heatwave, and when
the rains came, sheep in brittle yellow
fields stood with heads raised, miles
and miles of them, saluting the flood,
holding their parched faces up, stock
still in bleached grass patches, until
the deluge passed.
Stuck inside my ailing car, too hot
to breathe, too wet to open a window
for fear of soaking ancient upholstery,
I felt an envy of sheep I have never felt
before, nor since, and more, I saw that
sheep had secrets they keep
hidden from me.


We will cover your expenses


Please, if you have a heart – take a poet
to the disco. These poor people, ignored
so often, derided, even, for lack of rhythm –
love to dance. Each to their own beat.
Some poets pay particular attention
to their feet, intricate patterns flashing
over disco-lit floors. Others love to strut
or strike a juxtapose – placement
is all. Or nothing. It varies really
what your poet will be like though
many have obsessive-compulsive fixations
and might, embarrassingly, take notes.
I’m afraid your poet could dance all night
striving for that perfect move/tune combo.
Best leave him/her to it. It’s probable
she/he knows what he/she is doing.
But maybe not. Poets are a rare breed
and should be protected. So please – support
our cause, take a poet to the disco.

(we will cover your expenses)

About the contributor

Maxine Rose Munro is a Shetlander adrift on the outskirts of Glasgow. After spending the first eighteen years of her life exclusively on the islands, without even a small break for the holidays, the culture shock experienced on eventually seeing the wider world rocked her to her core and is still rocking some decades later.

Related Articles

Unmasking. Rebecca Darcy

Rebecca D’Arcy received a PhD in English from Dublin City University in 2016. She has published essays in Postcolonial Text and Irish Studies Review. She writes poetry and children’s stories in her spare time. She currently resides in Spiddal, Co. Galway.

The Sheathing. William Conelly

THE SHEATHING An angel robed in stainless steel  loomed piously above his bed.  It proffered neither rapturous death nor life eternally supposed....

Waterperry By Richard Waterperry

WATERPERRY A little Garden, grateful to the Eye; And a cool Rivulet run murm’ring by: On whose delicious Banks a...

More Like This

After The Holidays. Poetry by Pesach Rotem

AFTER THE HOLIDAYS Sukkot Has come and gone. The autumn rains are here. The winter rains will soon bestow Their gifts. Pesach Rotem...

Poems by- Chapbook winners & commended poets

Guest Judge Helen Mort comments on the entries to Chapbook Contest 4.

Poetry- Caron Freeborn

Red plums I bit into the unnoted plum, expecting sharp disappointment or at best, tolerable near-sweetness.  My thumb left an indent which gave me some hope - bruised fruit...

Poetry- Dana St Mary

the flag keeper he walks slowly to the place with that solemnity that cadavers bring, and leans the heavy ladder on the mast-like pole. a tilted head and gooseflesh show that today...

Proof of Life – Betsy Mars

Three intensely personal and engaging poems by poet, educator and traveller, Betsy Mars.