Poet of the Month

January: Rebecca Lowe (Wales).
February: Jim Gronvold (USA). 
March: Carolyn Mary Kleefeld (USA).
April: Tozan Alkan (Turkey).
May: Byron Beynon (Wales).
June: Michelle Chung (USA). 
July: Jim Gwyn (USA).
August: Jonathan Taylor (England).
September: Beata Poźniak (USA).
October: Maria Taylor (England).
November: Stanley H. Barkan (USA).
December: John Dotson (USA).

January: Maria Mastrioti (Greece).

February: Gayl Teller (USA).
March: Mike Jenkins (Wales).
April: Cassian Maria Spiridon (Romania).
May: Simon Fletcher (England)
June: Sultan Catto (USA)
July: Vojislav Deric (Australia)
August: K. S. Moore (Ireland)
September: Kristine Doll (USA)
October: Tammy Nuzzo-Morgan (USA)
November: Christopher Norris (Wales)
December: Maria Mazziotti Gillan (USA)

2023: Poets featured as Poet of the Month 

January: Samuel Ezra (Wales)
February: Tôpher Mills (Wales)
March: Rob Cullen (Wales)
April: Mandira Ghosh (India)
May: John Greening (England)
June: Rosy Wood-Bevan (Wales)
July: David Hughes (Wales)

 

                                       Ann Flynn (c) Photo 2024 Ann Flynn

Ann Flynn was born and grew up in the west of Ireland, but moved to Birmingham as a young adult and has lived there ever since. She draws on her Irish heritage as inspiration for her writing but is also inspired by nature and people. Ann has had poems published in various magazines, including Orbis, The Eldon Tree and Under the Radar. She was shortlisted in the Aesthetica Poetry Competition and published in Aesthetica Annual that year. Ann also has had poems on The Poetry Library website.

In addition to writing poetry and reading, Ann is a keen gardener and keeps an allotment, where she enjoys feeding birds as well as growing food. In 2002, her bird box was exhibited in the Ikon Gallery in Birmingham as part of Vladimir Arkhipov’s Post Folk Archive. The Ikon Gallery also published a small collection of Ann’s poems and she read her poem, Bird Box, on Channel Four News.

 

Autumn Leaves Glow 2020

Leaves at my feet whisper hope,
I gather them into a pile,
they are like wild children
dancing a strange dance;
their alluring colours cheer
me as the light fades.
Sirens wail like banshees
leaving an icy trail,
everything is shifting at speed,
hidden faces, hidden smiles, hidden lives.
Muted tongues magnify an eerie ambience,
a space becomes a void.

The allotment shed is still the same,
homely beneath the trees,
the fork and spade are companions,
they never lament.
Familiar items have an added glow,
the beetroot crop tastes sweeter
as if their aim is to please.
The land transforms undercurrents,
daffodil bulbs are sleeping.
A full moon looks in my window
as it moves along.

(c) 2024 Ann Flynn



His Spirit Spoke in the Wind
A brawny wind blew him inland,
Far from the sound of a foghorn.
An allotment expanded before his eyes
Like a needy neglected child,
Snowflakes fell on his placid face.
The sky was as dark as a chimney sweep’s cap
As he struggled with stubborn clay;
His laugh made the air light,
He created endless waves with loam.
His homily speech had a soft centre,
Mellowed by many moons.
Bacons sizzled he shared his fare,
Relished the taste on his tongue.
His spirit was as broad as a ship.

(c) 2024 Ann Flynn


A Donkey’s Legacy

We had an uncanny connection,
I was half his height,
And a fraction of his weight.
Artful ears listened to secrets,
A lush tongue spoke,
His dusky fleece was the texture
Of a feathery quilt,
I nuzzled into musky skin
Gulped a mellow meadow.
He booted me in the belly,
A whirlwind in a paperweight
Ebbed in the wink of an eye.
He lodged in a field as fragrant
As the grain he chewed,
Charlie tolerated heavy tackle,
Like a knight going into battle,
Father coaxed him like a child.
Cartwheels wailed on the bog road,
His forte was ferrying turf
Onto a bridle path,
Unhurriedly the hills of turf disappeared,
On a rag and bone landscape,
Handsome figures were cast in clay.
Hoofs like giant seashells
Pranced on the noble peat.
I heard the bog’s watery lament,
Drank the dredges of tongues.

(c) 2024 Ann Flynn

I Listened to Radio Waves Sing

I pushed a dainty door high-up:
a beacon blinked, ‘Morning Ireland’ crowed,
lifted the cap off memory cells.
Speech hewed from stone, peat and pasture
blended like buttermilk in a churn;
hidden hands turned a long handle,
flutelike played a soulful tune.
I was carried on the shoulders of my forefather;
his knapsack swung towards the station.

Guests alighted from ghostly waves
rode on the lip of a catnapping afternoon
as if in horse-drawn carriages;
kinsfolk mingled like minstrels at my elbow.
Problems were pegged on an airy line
for breezy feedback,
the cheery voice behind the cherished box
hiked to a tub of hot-blooded words
hoisted a flag in a wasteland.
Visitors left sunbaked stories on beams;
I picked pearls like a jackdaw.

News flew into eardrums like wild geese,
childlike cows mooed into the mouth of guns,
farmers wept in speechless fields,
roars replayed on tongues on fire.
The tide of tourists ebbed on doorsteps.
I sampled a cocktail of sagas on ‘Rattlebag’.
‘The Mystery Train’ blew at 8.02,
I travelled on lyrical tracks,
grasped a pile of glowing notes.

(c) 2024 Ann Flynn

The Unappreciated Gardener

I watch her groom the lush land,
As wiry as a willow rod
Working tortured fingers to a theme.
Visitors roam the estate,
Logging sights and sounds;
I touch a handkerchief tree
A testimony to kinship.
The master of the manor
Speaks in stone and flint,
Giving orders as tall as the Eiffel tower;
No time to enjoy the green art
That makes the heart leap,
I ask the name of a flower,
Her pronunciation as precise as petals
In an instant she blooms.

(c) 2024 Ann Flynn

Walking on the Canal Towpath

I walk by water
As still as a sleeping child,
I glimpse the sky in its face;
Gazing at a bottle’s open mouth
Images rise and disperse.
Narrow boats near Frank’s boatyard
Toot their owners’ taste,
Names fired in a furnace
Dance on my tongue,
Colours glow like exotic birds
In February’s artic air.
A white cottage embodies lamplight.
A barge chuckles along
The skipper at the helm smiles,
We exchange greetings
As watertight as my boots.

(c) 2024 Ann Flynn