Subscriber Showcase #1
Jonty Pennington-Twist & Diana Hills
Jonty Pennington-Twist
Jonty Pennington-Twist’s work has been published in several anthologies. He has recently written a commissioned piece to mark the RNLI’s 200th anniversary.
Nine Mile Burn
At the North end
Of the watershed,
I stop
To watch the buzzard
Hold its course,
High up,
Against some ancient Westerly.
And I wonder,
Who it might have been
In a past life,
And I wonder,
Where along the way,
My own bird song
Turned to murmur.Permanent Marker
I’ve lived up here
For years,
In the attic of your life,
Amongst the things that you forgot
And the games
You no longer play.
Still life.
Stopped clocks.
Missing figures.
Now and then,
Your black mountain lilt
Rises through the boards
Like dope smoke,
And I try and catch it
Like I did butterflies
As a child.
But I never do,
Just like I never did.Diana Hills
Diana Hills is retired and started to write poetry recently. She performs poems at various East Sussex pubs, as short and funny as possible.
Checking in on mum.
How are you today Mum.
I’m fine, I’m bearing up.
What have we done today.
Nothing.
I looked at the lashing rain,
at leaves chased by scowling winds.
Your father looked at me,
at the grey, bleak winter.
Best not to go outside today I said,
let’s watch the football.
But he got up
before the game started.
Yes, dear son,
I was so, so bored,
but we make the best of it,
there’s worse off than us.
No, dear son,
he followed me round all day,
up, down, in, out,
Never settled, never still,
Tittle tattle, talk, talk, talk.
No, dear son,
don’t come.
He won’t know you.
You ask about me.
I’m fine,
leave me to dream, to sleep, to fade away.Sounds of a housing estate on a June morning.
The bass throb of a lawnmower,
taming lush, ever sprouting grass,
the squeak and chatter of toddlers,
as they jump into paddling pools of murky water,
the wood pigeons’ soft coo in the trees,
lord of the birds, plump and bossy.
The tica-taca of cheeky wrens
bagging their place on the wobbly birdfeeder,
the shutting of doors as dad walks the baby,
playful puppy by his side.
Dad’s got his hands full,
yet again, say the nosy neighbours.
The wheeze of the saw on the beech
that died years ago in the afternoon heat.
The swish of water on the muddy car,
washed by the boy on the phone to his mates,
The whine of the new hedge trimmer
used by the old man in fear of his hand.
A pastoral symphony of sounds,
Each with its rhythm and sprightly tune,
An earthly paradise, safe and secure,
at least for us, on this much derided island,
in this much maligned new town,
free from torment, disaster and strife.