Neapolitan afternoons…

Here’s a poem from the lovely Lynsey Rose. Lynsey’s novel will be released through the Green Press very soon! If you want to hear Lynsey’s voice (well, you never know) and you like Big Brother, why not check out her podcast? (We can’t be serious poets and novelists all the time).


The duck egg sky

The sky is marshmallow blue,
yellow, pink
I want to peel it
like a sticker
wipe it like a board.

The sky is
a duck egg
an angel cake
an eye-shadow trio

An easel
a blanket
or a mistake.

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A poem for a lazy Sunday…

This one is from our ‘leader’, always the voice of reason in the trees of madness, the wonderful Anne Mullane…


As if forgetting were an option,
As if memory could hold you
We spent that night in a hushed, humid garden
When a summer storm broke, we ran,
Took temporary shelter in an alley,
Heat-held and safe we kissed under a sapling.
Its ceiling of luxuriant green a talisman
Against rain and time and loss.
You gazed up,
Caressed the slender trunk,
Contemplated the restless canopy.

€˜Look at this tree,
A fucking fine tree.€™
And a decision was reached.
€˜Before I leave, I have to climb this tree.€™
But drunken resolve is easily distracted
And as you swayed under its leaves,
Amazed by your future
I held you and prayed to whoever listens,
€˜May there be someone
In his bright new life
To gently dissuade him
From climbing trees
When drunk.€™

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With neither a whimper or a bang…

Evening all! Here’s a bit of verse from Steve… and let’s all spare a minute to think about what Chumbawamba might be doing now…


After “Tubthumping”

He drives the G.t.i., he drives the mini car,
He drives the hot hatch, he drives the 4 by 4,
He likes the country road, he likes the freeway,
He likes the autobahn, he likes the motorway,

He hates cars that drive too bloody close behind,
He hates cars that cut in every bloody time…

I ride the tricycle, I ride the bicycle,
I ride the moped, I ride the roller skates,
I ride the Honda Cub, I ride the Yamaha,
I walk the pavement, I walk the footpath…

I get knocked down but I get up again.

She walks the sidewalk, she walks the moonwalk,
She walks the catwalk, she walks the cakewalk,
She walks the walk that’s the talk of the walker’s talk,
She walks the walk that’s the talk of the stalker’s walk,

She sings songs that remind her of the early days
She sings songs that remind her of the pearly ways

She sings Oh Fannie May, Freddie Mac, Michele Bach-

I get knocked down but I get up again.

They write the free verse, they write the blank verse,
They write the nonce verse, they write the per-verse,
They write encomia, epithalamia,
They write dithyrambs to academia,

They sing lines that remind them of the half rhymes,
They sing rhymes that remind them of the rich rhymes

They sing Oh Hymenea, mater misericord-

I get knocked down, I don€™t get up again.

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Why, hello there!

We’ve been away for a little while, fighting Brent council who are trying to knock down the Mothership, Willesden Green Library, and after that we had a little lie down and a cry. But we’re back for the long haul with a poem from resident rapscallion Lynsey Rose. You can also read Lynsey’s rather excitable TV blog Exitainment here as well as her poetry blog Extol. We won’t feature any from Extol here, though, because we like to give you something a little different here at the Green Press. Now stop mucking about, Lynsey, writing is a serious business… the floor’s yours.


In the city
post five-thirty

young men in suits

loosen their ties and
their legs

In bars named after
chemical elements

where the drinks
cost a tenner a go.

And girls with
super-short skirts

and hair cut by
Japanese boys

in space age salons
with fish tanks for walls

buy high heels in
Covent Garden boutiques.

In Brent
my sliver of town

where a
one bedroom flat

costs the same as
a cottage in the country

diversity equals
an angry white face

and an angry black face
waiting for a bus.

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Live readings

Three writers from the Green Press will be appearing at the Poetry Cafe in the next few weeks.

On August 20, the Literature Lounge presents Pictures To Lean Into, an evening of poetry, music and head-to-head fiction featuring Jarred McGinnis and Samuel Taradash. £4 at the door, and the event kicks off at 8:00 PM.

Then on September 22, Lee Webber will be amongst the talents reading at Poetry Unplugged. Doors open at 7:00.

Both events will be at the Poetry Cafe, 22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX (map)

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