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Please visit ‘the zen space’ Spring 2017 Showcase

0169bTime out from my own poetry. I hope that my followers here will take the opportunity to step across to the zen space – the eZine of which I am editor – and take a look at the Spring 2017 Showcase. It features haiku, haiga, and other sort forms, along with artwork and news.

As editor, I’m always on the look-out for new ‘names’ to feature, with their words or images. Contact details are there on the site.

Back to my own poetry here soon.




A retreat from the lyric, yet not a retreat, more an advance in a different direction. Keep up! ©Marie Marshall.



We’re the fourth generation to recognise the blue sun, to run out into a night of seven moons and make mad maypoles to dance around, to have a year of two hundred days, a day of ten hours, an hour of one hundred minutes, a minute of one hundred seconds, to smile ourselves to sleep in our quantum hammocks with the gentle mourning of funnel-trees in our ears; we’ve made clans for ourselves named for mythical beasts (cougar/antelope) (leopard/ox) but for coupling and laughing games not for rivalry, and we feed our gentle, native cockatrices and chimeras by hand; we’ve refound God, and though there are gorges and mountaintops here where Mohammed or Buddha or Einstein might have walked, waited, counted stars, accepted plates of gold from an angel, we’ve rebound ourselves to Him, the wise-foolish-wise God and his gentle upstart Son and we marry in His peaceful kingdom; our songs show such tender passion, our language is new to the point of forgetting this old speech, we’re true women, men, others, who fly by our tongues, letting our vocabulary seek out infinite ideas and meanings; our waters flow and our tears taste sweet; our lives are poetic and seem forever; we’ve replaced our artificial lights with cunning mirrors that reflect the deep cyan sunlight and moonshine into our rooms. Come and rescue us, remind us who we are, intent atheists, bring us Kardashian, cosmetics, constitution, blonde highlights, the bonds of logic, replace our horizonward cooperation with democracy, remind us our happiness is delusional, tell us again how there is only one moon and the sun is yellow…


jupiterSomething totally different today, but still yours to apply meaning to. ©Marie Marshall.



“the sea had pulled its punches” the

old guy with his seamonkeys and the

young woman with her pash pad, her

ghosthunting app, he appropriating

an old seebackroscope, both washed

ashore on different strands but each


heading for the same city, he by the

folkwain she by maglev, he the raven

she the dove, he the genuine article

she the simulacrum, he the closing

of walls she the opening up of vistas,

this was their supposed intercourse:


Thou seest the scar by my scapula, it
is the testament of warfare long past

I see, and thou seest not, yonder turret
wherefrom the pyromachians descend

Thou seest, and I see not, the foam of
their major syphons to the conflagration


all day she reads the labels on his clothes

while the bijouterie hung from the curtain

rail makes a tiny rainbow track opposite

to the sun across the magnolia walls by

which sign she knows the hours, such is

their clime, their refuge, their querencia


all day he paces, traces, the booklines of

his knowledge, rearranging five hundred

plastic continental soldiers, corresponding

Hannoverian men and Mohawks,

setting his eyes tabletophigh, xrayspecs,

unseeing of that spectrum creep;


This cicatrice thou seest was battlewon
child of bastard canister, grape, sword

I see, and thou seest not, ’tis battlebegot
and that struggle was thy everyday

Thou seest, and I see not, how close is
our clime to the end, sleep takes the field


jupiter© Marie Marshall, all but 85% of one line.



The theory that every sixth building

on a city street used by law to be a

fish-and-chip shop can only be tested

by walking and observing smartphone in

hand to fix GPS and make photographic

record of the urban geological evidence;


(drawn down, the rules for making paper

cut-out animals could not be simpler;

each swan/hippo boar/bull goat/whale

is invested with a word in Times New

Roman, some italic, most not, all

making sense entering two-by two)


having success for three counts the fourth

fails, the building being derelict as are the

ones each side and impossible to identify

as (perhaps) a quondam chapel or firestation

tall, that tower being a campanile or for

drying hoses, cherrypick practice rescue


(chase down the sense of it all, raven/dove

deserting/returning to renew a narrative

of slow resistance serpent/ape dog/deer

build your own tower/pyre as the words

fall/burn and the testimony with them

that it will be a fire not a flood, hoc signo)


the fifth is a house but windows unglassed

and doorway naked where an African family

sleeps in beds spaced so narrowly they fill

the whole room; the sixth a bare plot filled

with beds of the elderly, some in three sides

of a container; the road steepens, hedged,


(no paper animals now but ad hoc signs to

encampments then a peaty track, “The moor

by Hanger Lane” curving round to a terrible

view in rainclouds; to use the smartphone,

cling to the hillside, embracing fear, no

bootgrip, gull/eagle, towerful, towerfire)


jupiter©Marie Marshall



A retreat from the lyric, an advance in any direction you choose. ©Marie Marshall

jupiterI hate all flowers.



the revolution will be streamed live,
wheels will burn and ghosts return,
the town will be jocked and jokers

shocked, heads will come up like
hellebore bracts as the last Dodge
rolls off the assembly line, the tail

of a silver train; all talked-out with
the risen sun, hipsters tricked out with
fake numbers on their wrists will sleeve

their way to the city in bumper-buses;
bells will ring; breakfast will be served
on the terrace as usual; maids who

dolled-up yesterday will dock their
good fortune and pound an alien maize
with the corn-ring piazzas for a pestle,

asking whose hand rocks the world,
while people on a walk-by will find a
way to make their own music; yet


the revolution will be streamed live
to those who have the appropriate
technology to receive it; street-kids

in Rio will wake and only feel the
aftershock, but it will be enough to
make them laugh, disguise themselves

in plumage, and sing in the tongues
of angels, though purists think to hear
arias as they parade the boulevards to

paint chirurgeon strips on signpoles;
beaded beanies will sell out; the avenues
will look strange but you’ll not know

why until later; people behind the wave
will see patterns in the water; new;
brooms; sweeping; clean; backlogged

gates and desks and locks and boards
and cards and marks and doors and
walkways will give merry way to


the revolution will be narrated, a day
later they’ll think to send someone
with a microphone to the scene, but

there’ll be no yellow tape and no
atmosphere, only daze in the strange
avenues (later, later!) where bosuns

link arms; you’ll be thinking “paradigm
shift” but the term will have redefined
itself; actual words will march; advance;

retreat; retrench; oh the coloured shirts
pushed back against breasts and arms
by the breeze, read meaning into the

curlicues, make dollarsigns empty,
cup hands, draw lots, make starts, build
bridges, birth children, make sure in

the blind times to come, sure as wheat,
plain daylight, crowsure the timestamped
revolution has thus been narrated

jupiterA retreat from the lyric, but not a retreat, more and advance in a different direction. ©Marie Marshall.



I deny that any of this is true. ©Marie Marshall




Never mind what I say – what do you say? ©Marie Marshall




You get the picture by now. ©Marie Marshall