4

Seeing is Believing Blind Owls Competition Winner

I was punched in the face When I was a boy -

In my sight‟s a white dot But I‟m fine with my lot

Because I‟ve got a blind spot For you

Asked Charlie to lens us a tenner

My virtuous humour denied I risked my eyes

And got a scleraprise So now I‟ve got a blind spot for you

I felt a fist sandwich – The simplest language

It made me reel Now you‟ve made me kneel

I‟ve got a blind spot For you

That blurring of the vision

Meant playground wide derision I was a pupil

But I didn‟t stoop till I got a blind spot for you

My love it couldn‟t be cornier

You might say that I‟ve got a nerve Optically challenged

With retina damage

Which means that I‟ve got a blind spot for you

- Robbie Griffiths

Tufnell Park Blind Owls Competition Runner-up

Station, misty streets and that deep black line: Suburbs. I remember the red wine

that we drank too late at night together, bagels and jam, tea. Snatches of french prose:

ce fut un plaisir Two moons since we were strangers, now I greet

them with an embrace, a smile: we meet

warmly, as old friends.

- Joe Nicholson

You Wanted to Know

I can‟t explain how I feel, it‟s too hard

To describe. I‟m trying, I am but – My words don‟t work. If I use someone else‟s

Do you mind? Only, I heard a story once That fits, please – let me.

The marbled floors lay far outspread

And the setting sun soaked the stone. Languid air cloaked the men

As they reclined in Agathon‟s home. Required of each was an encomium,

A praise in Eros‟ name.

And dear old Aristophanes Was fourth to play their game.

“You see,” said he, “in times gone by Humans didn‟t look quite like this.

We had four arms, four legs as well, And spun about like a disc.

But Zeus our arrogance did not well like So split each one in two.

Our bodies, our very souls, were riven And this caused „love‟, in my view.

Because what can function With just one half,

Who or what can really live? So everyone‟s life follows this same path

In yearning for our other half.

That‟s how I feel, that‟s what I‟ve been

Trying to say all along.

People ask “Do you like him? Do you love him?” and I do but that‟s

Not all. People seem to think I had a choice, that I preferred you.

But I never had any preference for You any more than for breathing.

We‟re two but we‟re one And I need you.

Was that explanation enough?

- Madeleine Stottor

1

the owlet issue 2, hilary 2011

email: theblindowls@live.co.uk

2

The canal, and other stories The sky looked nice that night, you said,

As we sat in the cold, on the stone. The smoke curled soft above our heads

Until, numb, it was time to go home.

Black as ash but studded with lights, And pink clouds smudging the edge.

We wanted to stay in the safe of the night

Swapping cigarettes, laughing on the ledge.

The lamp glowed hard, a bright white scar Weighted down with wishes and words

As the smoke lazed up towards the stars That we couldn‟t quite see, when they

blurred.

'Donnish' Flat capped and mackintoshed he'd arrive,

With the brittle shuffle and dry cough Of a man brimful of fag-smoke.

(His room was poorly ventilated, he'd explain, And he mused too long at night,

By open fires, Destroying the letters,

Or toasting ).

Residual marks were what were left Of wide minds meeting. Coffee'd paper and desk, elbowed

As contention and revision took pen across paper.

A gesticulative structuralist was responsible For the winey darkness near the cabinet.

The sofa sagged No longer struggling against

The bulky Levisite from Emmanuel.

Their papers, as requested, were burnt.

- Michael Kalisch

The Stars I look at the stars

Distant. So cold They remind me of hope-

I breathe in the chill,

Hope. So small, the feathered thing.

Last out of the box.

I looked at the stars, I felt Hope come,

embrace my heart.

- Joe Nicholson

Across the road Across the road a dreary church

Gathers round the square That it‟s next door to the strip club is

The cross it has to bear

The children ride their little toys Under an elm spaced lawn

Their parents watch benignly Mostly mother‟s with newborns

The doors that close the playing in

On weekdays form a cage.

But now the gate stands open As the words upon the page.

Through walks a man who stumbles in

Bedraggled and he‟s tired Berates himself then gets upset,

Unaware that he‟s inspired

From this warm seat its hard to say What the morning‟s like for him

The leaves whipping around the grass As unfeeling as sin.

- Robbie Griffiths

3

Unfinished/Untitled

This is my body,

Made out of clay. It isn‟t quite finished,

Wouldn‟t you say?

The angles of the bones, Too hard, too sharp,

The casing of my ribs Barely holds my heart.

- Madeleine Stottor

Disillusionment Straining, striving,

Attaining, arriving, You've reached the top

The only way left is

Down

But was the summit worth the climb? The journey worth the while?

Why did we want to reach the end? And what did we hope to find

There?

Only

Questions And the

Emptiness of

Silence

- Claire Cocks

Friday Four glasses of white wine stain my smile

and you pull my arm over the cobbles

I pivot, I turn

behind- four smiles reach me- laughter,

My breast lifts, uplifting, like the stars, upwards-

those cars rushing forwards-

I run, brush your side,

clasp your hand.

- Joe Nicholson

My thoughts are grey My thoughts are grey, rushed, blurred, newpaper

headlines, folded pages and the scratch scratch scratch

of the pen. Some chaos has erupted, radio operators yell, distant alarms ring

fire! FIRE! Lists extend, miles of dreams lost

in delirium, noise, STOP! wait, WAIT!

I do. I turn, leave through the door.

one step, one breath, in, out.

in, out. I‟m running now

sun on stone, icy air: every breath chills, freezes me,

I open my eyes. It‟s alright.

- Joe Nicholson

Silly money.

Let us take a promenade around the dreaming spires And think of all who‟ve passed through here that history admires

There‟s many more around us who will surely make their name Me and you or you and I, will we be the same? All around the city poets call like chapel choirs

And intertextual tidbits light the intellectual fires Ah watch the time, it‟s getting late, the essay‟s due again

We‟ll ponder and procrastinate through the hours that remain

- Robbie Griffiths

In Summer The gale wind shudders the big wood through,

Beneath the sun that blazes. But the fire at the back of the eyes that brew,

The stir in the boy who gazes, Can match the force of the wind and sun,

And more with summer thunder, And I‟m left weary when the storm is done,

And the hill of my heart asunder.

- William Bond