London Forum Poetry

Poetry Essex Poetry Festival

WHETHER you’re a verse virgin or a budding bard, the Essex Poetry Festival guarantees to give you something to wax lyrical about.

From Buckhurst Hill to Wivenhoe, and Harlow to Southend-On-Sea, melodic ditties will be ringing in ears as rhyme and rhapsody take over the county.

The festival kicks off at Poetrywivenhoe on Friday, September 19, with a reading from Peterloo poet Christine Webb and local writer Joan Taylor, before the colourful montage of spectacles and masterclasses get underway.

The Essex Poetry Festival will run until October 25. For more information visit: www.essex-poetry-festival.co.uk

Post reply -->London Poetry 11 Sep

Poetry poem

Dosgs & workmen.

She expresses her love of life
through the joys and friendships
that matter to her.

A life is not a mere accident,
although accidents can happen,
they touch and we move on.

She likes e.e.cummings
as his words playfully
drip off the page for her.

Out there dogs woof,
woof their lungs full
on splish-splashy streets,
their language farting fully…

street workmen dig holes
below my dirty window,

and with the dogs and workmen
I tipsily remain focused
on her joys expressed in the world,
that pseudobeast beating its brains
in sandy streets wet with redstuff.

She gave me flowers for love
easily, innocently, she gave me love.

Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 23 Aug

Poetry tipsily

tipsily

Post reply -->London Poetry ... 20 Jan

Poetry Ambit Magazine Poets & Uncle Rabbit

at Heathcote Pub, 344 Grove Green Road - 8.00 pm

Entry: £3

Leytonstone Festival presents an evening of music from Uncle Rabbit with poetry and prose readings from selected writers for Ambit Magazine. Donald Gardner & Naomi Foyle are among those appearing for Ambit.

Uncle Rabbit play a quirky mix of improvisation using rock & jazz riffs, and will be joined later in the evening by their special guest, John Ellis, formerly of The Stranglers.

Post reply -->London Poetry Noel Taylor 4 Jul

Poetry poem

this site seems to have become distinctly underused.

The battlefield is drawn.

Our artillery is mostly muffled
as we take aim in gentle ways,
the shells are filled with wit
sprinkled with sarcasm for fun.
We practice low-level conflict
and fire incendiaries at each other
that we easily dust ourselves off from.

Our warfare is an arena
of foolishness and stupidity,
we try to gain ground from
inert cannons and friendly fire.
We charge like fickle soldiers
who really don’t want a fight,
we say make love not war.

We find an armistice is agreed on
as I cook and you do the washing up.

Mail-me

Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 17 Aug

Poetry She swims in my mind.

She swims in my mind

She swims to the shores of my mind

gentle ripples of her sing a song

in the quiet whispers of tenderness

floating along my moments of solitude.

My wilder currents are animated

and gusts are blowing up a storm.

Along the water the stillness carries

her to me.

Her voice invades in heady silence

and her soul comes closer to me and mine.

Post reply -->London Poetry Vincent 10 May

Poetry 1973

Music man
Strumming life away
With blistered fingers,
poking out of black gloves.
And dirty nails,
making love to the guitar strings.
Like each touch is the first,
wishing the moment would last forever.

Those same half closed eyes
The same lost in a daydream smile,
that he had back in 1973

When he used to fill concert halls
And people sat in awe
His name in lights,
and on ticket stubs.
Back when someone cared
Even if it was for the wrong reasons

And now he plays here
As the world walks by
And I feel bad
Because his music touches me
But I never dropped anything in his hat
I pretended I didn’t see him
As I rushed by

2008

Mail-me

Post reply -->London Poetry Mark Taynton 3 May

Poetry The visit of a warlord.

The winged gods fly into our boats
with the agility of mountain goats
a hovering army with their leader
always talking to us about his reader
and his ideas and justifying death
and if you look carefully at the breath
they cast no hardy shadow now
they have travelled into the dust - pow!
and taken their soul into the abyss
I'm glad we've given them the miss.

Post reply -->London Poetry Roland Butter 18 Apr

Poetry De rire

J'ai pensé à la vie
Et j'ai vu que vous
Reviennent à l'attaque
L'autre avec talent Supérieur
Et, ce faisant,
Attaqué vous-même.

Post reply -->London Poetry Roger Mee-Slowlee 15 Apr

Poetry

Ah, Encule-moi doucement!

Post reply -->London Poetry S. Levene 12 Jan

Poetry

Bravo - en gros, s.v.p.

Post reply -->London Poetry Roger Mee-Slowley 12 Jan

Poetry lol

I thought of life
and saw only you
coming back to attack
other's with superior talent
and in doing so,
attacked yourself.

Post reply -->London Poetry Louise 14 Apr

Poetry Steganopoiiseos ocean space.

Now ocean space.

Space is the area around the country
Available at the end lost.
Palirroiaki strength and Marching
Holiday sand conceal dangerous
Flaques water, and less than short-term measures --
People are wrong.

Supply reduction
Klapei peoples lips,
In the short period between compassion
An empty sometimes kissing
It tracks Habib in the mouth.

Ocean has always cliché
Lost hope in people, is not it?

It is very easy to lose people in the world
What is the history of the illegality and facilities
Ploutos personenfreizügigkeit drowned in the floods.

Post reply -->London Poetry Roger Mee-Slowlee 12 Apr

Poetry The far ocean space.

The far ocean space.

A far ocean space is no place
to find each other lost.
Tidal tensions and creeping
holiday sands hide dangerous
puddles, smaller than short steps
between which people are misplaced.

Within the narrowing width
of peoples stolen lips,
in between short kindnesses
of empty paper kisses sometimes
no imprint is left on the lover’s mouth.

An ocean has always been a cliché
of lost hope and lost people has it not?

It is too easy to lose someone in the world
which conceals bodies and histories
drowned in the filled tidal stream of people.

Mail-me

Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 11 Apr

Poetry Original Poetry and comedy workshop meet up

Interested in writing comedy or peotry or doing it already and feeling ratehr alone...Want support, friendly constructive criticism and a laugh....Come along to the original comedy and poetry writing group..

We meet every 2nd and 4th Wednesday of the Month at 7pm at Garfield Community Centre, Garfield Road, London, SW11. Nearest tube is Clapham Common...Nearest overhead train is Clapham Junction or Queenstown Road.

Email Mail-me

Post reply -->London Poetry Rachel 9 Apr

Poetry In each others sun.

In each other’s sun

She and I staggered
thoughtfully,
without fight time,
thinking thoughts together.

She and I affirm
and move obstacles,
invisible obstacles serenely.

She is established, sleeps
when I am still awake.

My bed is warm,
a flower of warmth,
the petals of which
have wandered often
but now are still.

She is my garden
growing with ease.

I think I am her soil
sometimes
but she slowly radiates me
and I am cultivated.

We are each other’s sun.

Post reply -->London Poetry Vincent 29 Mar

Poetry An Ode To “What strange hours travelers keep” by

What if?
The internal seeker’s
Quest from beneath.
Infiltrated, porous , free,
Suckling on its fragments of ether
Stichomancy, reality
an acquired taste.

What if?..
I asked 63336..
Define the desirable.
Cut out the cryogenics.
Soul so bountiful,
Pliable like the perception
of freedom.

What if?
Does
she truly seek?
Or perhaps just strange .
Like her sister’s Bestfriend
De noted.
Loquacious, salubrious,
Unbounded,
Engaging they cry,

What if? this is how
Ones Aries
energy must cascade,
Down their own,
Down trodden and
Lively walls
Forever too fast for infinity.

Post reply -->London Poetry Holly 27 Mar

Poetry A heartshaped stone

A heart-shaped stone.

On my pillow rests
a heart-shaped stone

The rolling waters,
strong piercing waters
pulling and pushing
Lady moon’s desires
and Father Earth’s
noisy quarrels
gave slow accident
to the complex body line
you’d placed carefully here.

The much of nature-time
swirls without complaints,
wrestled chattering stones,
the slate and the flint,
the shingle and shell
in blended shimmering beauty.

The life and death
of the fisherman’s catch
ploughing the darkness
for an abundant one
when the form
was being sculpted.

You worked the beach
and picked up this form,
which indent’s my pillow,
poised and peaceful.

Sinking into the feathers
its lies peacefully, like
a tranquil afternoon at rest.

Mail-me

Post reply -->London Poetry Vincent 11 Mar

Poetry and Prose Writing Group central London

If you are a creative writer, whether as a hobby or a more serious pursuit, and regardless of the genre in which you write, our creative writing group may appeal to you.

Our meetings act as a platform for the sharing of ideas in a comfortable environment with supportive people.

Everyone is encouraged to bring some of their own creative work to read aloud to the group. People will then have an opportunity to share their ideas on what they have heard, providing constructive feedback the writer can take with them in order to further develop their writing and the inspiration with which to do so.

We have exclusive hire of a comfortable and private pub dining room in central London and next meeting is in the evening of Monday April 7th.

If you'd like to join us, please Mail-me

Post reply -->London Poetry Ali 2 Mar

Poetry London Voices

A small but perfectly formed poetry group meet to read their latest offering, to discuss and enjoy each other's company. This is a group of mature adults who enjoy the company of other's and have a passion for verse of all kinds. We invite you to come along and share your poetic thoughts and musings. The next meeting is on 29 Feb at the Lamb public house, Lambs Conduit Street, London WC1 on the 1st floor. If you have any friendly questions please email...

Mail-me

Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 28 Feb

Poetry Carol

Hi Carol, tell me more about what you are doing. Mail-me

Post reply -->London Poetry Vincent 8 Feb

Poetry The art...

The art of my age.

The art has transitioned enough.

The narrative has broken up enough.

The wit has cascaded into ideology.

The tradition has become lost.

The irony has become bloated.

The modern has become conventional.

The important voice is incarcerated.

The display is style.

The magpie is traditional.

The art is stolen.

The now is not original.

It has all become a verbal opera.

The epiphany is a lost cause.

The artist has returned to the cave.

Post reply -->London Poetry Vincent 2 Feb

Poetry The Art fan

Hello, I practise art, though I am not an artist. Your poetry really touched me, I found it really struck a chord with me. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind letting me quote it perhaps to go on a website that I am making? If so, who should I attribute it to?

Thanks for sharing

Carol

Post reply -->London Poetry 4 Feb

Poetry What is left

I think about life.
and also of death.
of the times that have gone.
and the time i have left.

And as each day passes.
and another day dawns.
ive come to realise.
i must grab that day by the horns.

For i am old.
and my life almost through.
and have done so little.
with much left to do.

I have wasted my years
by living to work.
and now its to late
to work at living.

For to work was to live.
but now the work has gone.
now ive nothing to give.
how did i manage to get it so wrong.

Post reply -->London Poetry John 31 Jan