2 poems from Michael Igoe: “Intermittent” & “Cast in Another Life”

photo from pixabay


I'm sure the main distraction                                                                                                                           is the fan blades gentle whir.                                                                                                                       They always seem much faster                                                                                                                                                                if you stab your finger through.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Eventually in empty gray skies,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      it’s high time we show promise.                                                                                                                  At times we are warmer                                                                                                                other times in wet snow.                                                                                                                                                                         We were eating just a little,                                                                                                                                                                            but now we eat much more.                                                                                                                    The smells of cooked fish                                                                                                                    assaulting me after I wake.                                                                                                              It’s in the pan without a handle,                                                                                                                                assumed by a grip of her finger.                                                                                                              In the house like a cave                                                                                                                                              with a roof full of holes                                                                                                                                          time passes in a lullaby.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 We’re looking to regain                                                                                                                                                a mostly serious magic,                                                                                                                                          in all its sundry brands.    

Cast in Another Life

Things will never be better                                                                                                                                      than the way they are now.                                                                                                                      We’ll see no better                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 
dizzy from the sun,                                                                                                                                                 than it’s panoramas.                                                                                                                                   It has its impossible obligations,                                                                                                                               at high noon shirked and denied.                                        
                                                                                                                                                                            Because it’s unbearable,                                                                                                                              the wait for bright light,                                                                                                                               when you lose eyesight.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      As desperate compensation,                                                                                                                  there’s redness in both feet,                                                                                                                                  and more redness in hands.                                                                                                                                   More from frost,                                                                                                                                                    than warm coals.                                                                                                                                     Charred coals                                                                                                                                         like cat's eyes                                                                                                                                fiery to touch.                                                                                                                                        The touch like a gladhand                                                                                                                                  from estranged neighbors.                                                                                                                                             

Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor’s Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.

Poetry: “Swept Love” by Doryn Herbst

Swept Love

I really couldn’t bear
to look at it at all,

that piece of unrequited love,
that disregarded romance,
that unreciprocated 

I put his picture in a book,
so dull, so tepid,
I didn’t even bother
to finish it at all.

I put it high upon a shelf,
in a place I normally
couldn’t reach without a stool.

Then took a broom of
complete indifference
to sweep my love
under a rug of
I really did not mind at all.

Of wanting not to realise
the shredding of my inner lacing
under the guise of pretending
not to remember at all,
that piece of unrequited love.

Bio for Doryn Herbst

Doryn Herbst, a former water industry scientist in Wales, now lives in Germany and is a deputy local councillor. Her writing considers the natural world but also themes which address social issues.

Doryn has poetry in Fahmidan Journal, CERASUS Magazine, Fenland Poetry Journal, celestite poetry, Poems from the Heron Clan and more.

She is a reviewer at Consilience science poetry.