Neil Fawcett

 

Neil Fawcett

A photo of Neil Fawcett alongside the great L.S. Lowry.

 

(UK)

 

 

 

Farmers   المزارعين 

 

(We will not learn how to live together in peace by killing each other’s children. Jimmy Carter)

 

Arable land blows away in winds

when soil, weighed down with water, dries.

Crust crumbled to dust lifts to blind

eyes, mute suns, stain skies.

 

Heads taken from necks are cognisant.

Fifteen seconds is long enough to see

the red fountain, freed from resistance,

coagulate the sun with living screed.

 

Farmers watch plumes trail tyres,

and silent shadows race the air

with cargos that fuel sun sized pyres;

sowing seeds, growing smoke from despair.

 

A roof rips off and light brandishes death.

A father’s head sees his son’s arm in flight

his girl’s legs wheel, before his final breath;

her intestines trail like the tails of a kite.

 

(Between the steaming tangle heaven glints.)

 

 

 

Tumours

 

Hawks and Falcons shit

on high winds.

 

A boy on a bike squints

at a Colgate glint in the air

 

*

       *

 

              *

                     *

A pregnant woman sees

 

apples fall from a market stall

and the slow rotation of a warped wheel

 

womb on fire.

 

 

 

The Immortal Mosquito

 

When dust first rose to blind the fallow mass,

and Judas followed Jesus, I was there.

They crowned his head with thorns on bloodied hair

and dragged him through the streets beneath a cross.

I tried the blood that bloomed upon his face

and drank a drop of Jesus in despair,

but nothing in its essence could compare

to Judas blood so strong with thick distaste.

Since that time I feast Iscariot lines

their blood bulbs grapes that burst on stony ground

too full of juice to hang upon the vines.

It grows in yards with wire and barbs around

yet through the years they’ve fed me very well.

I dine on wine matured by infidels

 

 

 

Apple Song

 

Sitting on a bench beneath the apple tree…

a fresh little apple hanging there for me.

‘Hey little apple how can it be

that something so lovely that the earth conceived

can be plucked and eaten by a man like me.

 

Because little apple it’s plain to see…

some men on this earth are born ugly

and if you could speak you would agree

some men of this earth are born ugly.

 

They take you apples from your apple trees…

fresh and round with no disease.

They feed you to the folks and their families

who get you from the market on days like these

days like these where a family flees.

 

Because little apple it’s plain to see

some men on this earth are born ugly

and if you could speak you would agree

some men on this earth are born ugly.

 

They take you apples from your apple trees…

and shine you up for us to see.

You’re crunchy, crisp and good for teeth,

behind you little apple there are third degrees

of people burning in the lands they seized.

 

They took the wealth as their strength decreed

and transfused black blood through their veins to feed

arms, money, power and greed,

and in this way they planted seeds

that grew in hate that was quick to breed.

 

Because little apple it’s plain to see…

some men on this earth are born ugly

and if you could speak you would agree

some men on this earth are born ugly.

 

Some men on this earth are born ugly.

 

 

 
Reading at The International Antony Burgess centre:

 

 

 

The Suburbs:

 

 

 

Asylum Song: 

 

 

 

Bank Food (for Greece!)

 

They feed us the banquet of the dead.

Food rotten decades ago,

is fluffed with the downy hairs of mould.

 

They tell us to eat this shit or die,

so we eat this shit and still we die.

 

Let’s die with hunger’s rat eating our insides,

not by rotten food wrapped

in the mould of age old lies.

 

 

 

The Blinded

 

We are the blinded

white eyed in the light.

 

We are the deafened

mute in a noisy night.

 

Bombarded by bits of everything

lavished with lots of nothing.

 

When light leaks in

when voices rise through the din.

 

Let them in.

 

Now look.

Now listen.

Now know their lies.

 

They burst your drums.

They stab you eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________________________________________

 
Neil Fawcett2

 

Neil Fawcett was born in Stockport in 1962. His poetry and songs move freely from the political to the personal. Neil spent many years as a teacher and now spends his time writing in a damp shed, looking after his family or wandering around Greece.

His recent work is influenced by the great Greek communist poet Yiannis Ritsos, and he’s working on a collection that reflects this influence. Fawcett has been widely published in magazines, online and in poetry anthologies. He has also been well placed in and won a number of international poetry competitions. You will find samples of his work at

 

www.neilfawcettpoet.com.

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