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 Black and white line drawing of Percy Bysshe Shelly looking ight

Steven Kent: Unacknowledged

Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.’

The poets have been losing in the legislative game—
We’re unacknowledged still, now more than ever.
But surely Shelley knew our fate would likely stay the same;
Was he sincere or simply being clever?

Imagine if his observation went the other way;
How perfect this might be—the world will know it
If only we should live to see that bright and shining day
The statesman is an unacknowledged poet.

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Pat D’Amico: Cooked Up

You say that your site uses cookies.
One click and I’ll surely fall prey
And, of course, it is for my convenience
That you’ll send thirty emails a day;
So here’s what I think of your cookies:
You are really just in it for dough
And there is one hot destination
Where all of your bakers can go.

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Alexander Blustin: The Artistic Director

He knows the way that he wants it to go,
Until he’s convinced that he wants something else –
Don’t doubt him! The Master is just in the flow;
He knows the way that he wants it to go;
He vacillates, wavers and bluffs like a pro,
But how does he even believe it himself?
He knows the way that he wants it to go,
Until he’s convinced that he wants something else.

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Felicia Nimue Ackerman: A Student’s Advice

“Large majorities of college students believe
that anyone who says something considered
offensive should be reported”- Boston Globe website

If a scholar true you'd be
Listen carefully to me
Never, never let your joke
Risk offending any folk.
Never, never state a view
Breaching anyone’s taboo.
All the knowledge ever gained
Won't make up for students pained.

(With a nod to Mark Hanbury Beaufoy’s 1902
Never, never, let a gun /Pointed be at anyone.)

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GRaphic of black cat looking down and left with tail in air and standing on three books

Gail White: The Muezzin

My cat awakens me to say
(while giving me her nose to kiss)
That nothing else I do today
Will be as just as this.

To feed God’s creatures anywhere
(but chiefly those within my keep)
Is my sufficient morning prayer,
And better far than sleep.

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L. A. Mereoie: Clay Shooting Pain

His was a soul, to be polite,
The iron was quick to enter,
But, missing left, and missing right,
As well as in the centre,
He kept his head, against the grain,
Then murmured, ‘One last shot’ll . . .’
Fired, calm and cool, missed yet again,
Went home . . . and hit the bottle.

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Susan McLean: Knight Moves

Tranquilly (thankfully),
Arthur and Guinevere,
firm in their union, made
Camelot proud.

Lancelot, handsome and
joined the alliance. But
three was a crowd.

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Sally Festing: Mulberry

God in the whizzing of a pleasant wind
shall march upon the tops of mulberry trees.
— George Peel

She’s a pool of hearts each one
rippling towards the sun

She’s a fountain of tears
rubies clipped to her ears

Crone on crutches stoic her years
earn her fissures and burrs

Shaking laughing shit whizzing down
she shares God with doves on her twiggy throne

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Jean Syed: The Betrayed

From slope to slope loud sheep complain
Baa-ing over each windbreak wall
Now here, now there, a bleak refrain
But caught up like a volleyball.

What is the melancholy story
That stops their endless urge to munch?
From the valley, something gory
To tell them there is no free lunch?

 Herd of sheep in car=park of Game Cock Inn Yorkshie.