Claire Ferchaud (fer-SHO) was a young French shepherdess and mystic who became a modern-day Joan of Arc during World War I, campaigning to add the image of the Sacred Heart to the French flag. Though her proposal was ultimately rejected as a merely symbolic gesture, it was taken seriously and honored by the distinguished General Ferdinand Foch, who became Supreme Commander of Allied Forces.
Fearlessly, peerlessly, Claire the clairvoyant one pushed a proposal that fizzled, although
Foch the preeminent generalissimo said, “Let’s all try it—and not just Ferchaud.”
*****
Alex Steelsmith writes: “I tend to read widely and randomly, but ‘Clairevoyance’ didn’t come about in the usual way. Another double dactyl I had written, about the French mystic Marthe Robin, appeared in the previous issue of Snakeskin. In an email exchange I had with Snakeskin editor George Simmers about that poem, he happened to mention Claire Ferchaud, another fascinating Frenchwoman that Marthe brought to mind. I thought it would be a fun challenge to see if I could come up with one about Claire. That’s when I looked into her story and the pun leaped out for the last line of the poem. It felt a bit irreverent to be lightly punning on the name of someone who presumably was very serious and wouldn’t have been especially amused. In any case, I have George to thank for giving me the idea for the subject of the poem.”
Alex Steelsmith’s writing has appeared in USA Today, The Washington Post, The Spectator, Light, Snakeskin, Lighten Up Online, and other venues. He has been a Light featured poet, and a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. More of his writing – and his artwork – is at http://www.alexsteelsmith.com/
I’ve always loved to sing an’ dance. I’m better at the first. An’ given even half a chance, I’m bound to do my worst. I’ve struggled sometimes with romance, succumbed to alcohol, but at least I had a ball.
I liked to smoke a lot of weed an’ hash while in my prime. I’d barely write an’ hardly read, just wasted space an’ time. I didn’t think that I’d succeed with anything at all, but at least I had a ball.
I did some LSD an’ coke, but didn’t dare touch smack. The people on it weren’t a joke. I’ve never sampled crack. I still enjoy a drink an’ smoke. Like everyone, I’ll fall, but at least I had a ball.
I wasn’t any good at jazz. I tried it on trombone. I’ve stayed away from razzmatazz. I’d rather be alone. I’ll never be as famous as that guy from Montreal, but at least I had a ball.
I found myself in poetry, then turned it into song. I see it as my destiny. It’s here that I belong. I may end up in poverty with nobody to call, but at least I had a ball.
*****
Duncan Gillies MacLaurin writes: “I’ve been wanting to do songs like Cohen and Dylan for years – ones that have a repetend at the end, and I’ve finally achieved that.” This poem was published in the current edition of Snakeskin.
Duncan Gillies MacLaurin is a Scottish poet who was born in Glasgow in 1962. He studied Classics at Oxford, left without a degree, and spent two years busking in the streets of Europe. He met a Danish writer, Ann Bilde, in Italy in 1986 and went to live in Denmark, where he teaches English and Latin. His collection of 51 sonnets, I Sing the Sonnet (2017), is online at Snakeskin. He blogs here. His experiences as an ex-pat poet are described in the first issue of the e-zine, The Chimaera.
In memory of Alexei Navalny, killed at the IK-3 penal colony, 16 February, 2024.
1. Rough and chivvying cold winds blow The helpless dead leaves to and fro. Leaves have no say in where they go But we’re alive so can say no – Let us praise those men who show Resistance to the easy flow.
2. Navalny, prisoner in the snow, In numbing twenty-eight below, Has paid the price for saying no; He’s gone the way we feared he’d go.
That’s Putin, making sure all know That retribution comes in tow For those who won’t go with the flow. ‘All dissidents will finish so,’ The message is: ‘Go with the flow, Or you too could end on Death Row.’
I imagine his warders: Did they know A twinge of guilt at this, or show Regret or shame? I doubt it. No – Why should men let a conscience grow When they can just go with the flow? When life is so much easier so, When every television show, The papers and the radio All radiate a conformist glow Incessantly, so all men know Life’s comfier with the status quo. It’s only awkward sods say no, Go their own way, not with the flow. Those have a dangerous row to hoe, And who can blame the average Joe For on the whole deciding: ‘No, That’s not for me. I’d rather toe The line, collect my wages, know I’m safe and needn’t undergo What brave men have to suffer. No, Go with the flow, go with the flow.’
3. In Moscow brave girls risk a blow By laying flowers in the snow To honour him for saying ‘No’. Brave girls. I admire them so.
*****
George Simmers writes: “This poem began because our local Arts Festival announced its theme as ‘Flow’. Which made me grumble a bit: was I supposed to write stuff about how nice it was that rivers flowed? Not my style. But then I thought about people who go against the flow by saying ‘No!’ and that suggested a subject and a rhyme scheme. It was only after I’d scribbled a few possible lines that I came across a photo of young women in Moscow placing flowers in the snow as tributes to the murdered Russian dissident, Alexei Navalny. In some towns, such protestors had been arrested or beaten up by the police.
“It’s thirty-odd years since I visited Russia. That was at the time of perestroika and hopefulness. We had a contact in Moscow who took us to see the sights, including the Arbat, a popular meeting- place. He said: ‘Can we stop and talk here for a few minutes? I ask because a few years ago If I had been seen here in conversation with a foreigner, I should have been arrested.’ Freedom was precious then, but repression returned.
“Navalny was a lawyer who campaigned against the corruption endemic in Russian political life. In 2020 he was poisoned with Novichok (probably by the Federal Security Service) ; after hospital treatment in Berlin that saved his life, he returned to Russia, even though he knew of the dangers. He was immediately arrested, and ended up in an Arctic Circle corrective colony. The exact circumstances of his death still remain unclear, but while in prison he had suffered from malnourishment and mistreatment.
“Writing this poem I remember Auden’s words: ‘Poetry makes nothing happen.’ Auden pointed out that political poems make the writer feel better, but have no positive effect in the real world. He was right, as usual, which is why I mostly avoid writing poems about politics. But I don’t really see this as a poem about Navalny. I could have chosen to write about Alan Bates and his twenty-five year battle for justice for postmasters, or about Kathleen Stock and others, who opposed the dangerous ideology of the Tavistock clinic. Going against the flow matters everywhere, not just Russia. The form is monorhyme, mostly because that’s how the poem started, and it wasn’t too difficult to keep going. Monorhyme is easier than it looks, so long as you choose the right rhyme word to start with. Don’t try it with ‘month’ or ‘silver’.
“Nalvalny’s death made a news splash in February, but since then more recent horrors have displaced it on the news pages. So maybe this poem will do a little good as a reminder of a brave man. Thank you for re-blogging it.”
The poem will be part of the film ‘Wordflow’ (a film by John Coombes with a soundtrack of stories and poems by Holmfirth Writers’ Group in a continuous showing from 10am-4pm), presented at the Holmfirth Arts Festival in Yorkshire on Sunday,June 16th, upstairs at the ‘Nowhere’ bistro, Norridge Bottom, Holmfirth, HD9 7BB.
George Simmers used to be a teacher; now he spends much of his time researching literature written during and after the First World War. He has edited Snakeskin since 1995. It is probably the oldest-established poetry zine on the Internet. His work appears in several Potcake Chapbooks, and his recent diverse collection is ‘Old and Bookish’.
Cock a buggery doodle doo! I’m bending to lace up this buggery shoe! You’d be buggery bad-tempered too If the buggery cock Woke you buggery up At buggery, buggery five twenty two!
*****
Annie Fisher writes: “When our grandchildren were very small, we would sometimes visit to help with child care. The children would often burst into our bedroom early in the morning yelling ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo!’ (Probably encouraged by their parents). On one occasion my husband was staying with them for a few days without me. On the second day he sent me a text at the crack of dawn. The text read ‘Cockabuggerydoodledoo!’ and so I understood that his day had already begun! I thought ‘cockabuggerydoodledoo’ (a case of ‘expletive infixation’, Google tells me) had irresistible rhythmic force. My poem is, of course, based on the traditional nursery rhyme: Cock a doodle doo! My dame has lost her shoe, My master’s lost his fiddling stick And knows not what to do.“
Annie Fisher’s background is in primary education, initially as a teacher and later as an English adviser. Now semi-retired she writes poetry (this one appeared in Snakeskin) for both adults and children and sometimes works as a storyteller in schools. She has had two pamphlets published with HappenStance Press: (2016) and (2020), and is due to have another pamphlet published in the next couple of months with Mariscat Press. It will be called ‘Missing the Man Next Door’. She is a member of Fire River Poets in Taunton, Somerset and a regular contributor to The Friday Poem https://thefridaypoem.com/annie-fisher/
Why sing of the lives of the fortunate few whose gong-heavy entries weigh down Who’s Who ?
They’re smug on their summits and on Footsie Boards, Permanent Secretaries or rotund Law Lords;
generals, merchant bankers, Top Brass at the Beeb, dons, doctors, bishops. . . You can spot the breed
by their ability blind obedience to claim from drudges and drivers and shy, single, tame
PAs who sacrifice lonely weekends to type bland speeches for skimpy stipends.
O don’t be deceived by the Great and the Good – you’re a rung on their ladder on their fire, wood,
grain for their harvest, a wheel on their car, corpse on their D-Day, night for their star.
*****
Tom Vaughan writes: I’ve long been fascinated by the phrase ‘the Great and the Good’, having reached the conclusion during long years of government service that the great cannot generally also be good, given the demands of the exercise of power. But I am also intrigued by the loyalty such people can inspire, and the longing for leaders that reflects, despite the advice given by my favourite political commentator, Bob Dylan, in Subterranean Homesick Blues – ‘Don’t follow leaders/Watch the parkin’ meters’.”
‘The Great and the Good’ was first published in Snakeskin 265, October 2019.
Tom Vaughan is not the real name of a poet whose previous publications include a novel and two poetry pamphlets (A Sampler, 2010, and Envoy, 2013, both published by HappenStance). His poems have been published in a range of poetry magazines, including several of the Potcake Chapbooks: Careers and Other Catastrophes Familes and Other Fiascoes Strip Down Houses and Homes Forever Travels and Travails. He currently lives in Brittany. https://tomvaughan.website
I’ll flow slug-slow, go naked (naked’s fine). My only mission is to glisten. Watch me shine.
*****
Annie Fisher writes: “I wrote the slug poem a year ago when I was on a writing retreat on the island of Iona in the Inner Hebrides. I was writing all sorts of other stuff on the retreat and that little poem popped into my head during a free-writing morning splurge. I guess the idea of slowing down, going with the flow, being true to oneself and letting one’s inner radiance shine is very much in keeping with the vibe of Iona, but it wasn’t a conscious thing. I do love short poems. I’ve had others published on Snakeskin, including:
SONG THRUSH, MAY MORNING
Bird at my window, early, early, Something to say, to say, to say, This morning will not come again, Make the most of today today.
That poem plays with the fact that the song thrush repeats its song. I sometimes sing it with some friends as a round using a tune we wrote. Here’s one other from the Snakeskin archive which I’m rather fond of:
GRANNY ON THE NAUGHTY STEP
Granny sits on the Naughty Step Thinks about what she has done Wishes she’d been a bit naughtier It might have been fun…”
Annie Fisher’s background is in primary education, initially as a teacher and later as an English adviser. Now semi-retired she writes poetry for both adults and children and sometimes works as a storyteller in schools. She has had two pamphlets published with HappenStance Press: (2016) and (2020), and is due to have another pamphlet published in the next couple of months with Mariscat Press. It will be called ‘Missing the Man Next Door’. She is a member of Fire River Poets in Taunton, Somerset and a regular contributor to The Friday Poem https://thefridaypoem.com/annie-fisher/
On the twilight mountains leopards change their spots distributing their cast-off coats to helpworthy have-nots –
lions and lambs and lynx lie down and tell each other tales of how at sea the seals now go for walks with killer whales –
lovers linger hand in hand promising to be truthful, faithful, thoughtful, kind, supportive company –
and peace seems deep and peace seems long until the morning sun wakes us from our ancient dream like a starter gun.
*****
Tom Vaughan writes: “The poem (published in Snakeskin 316, April 2024) is among several inspired by my current reading of Robert Alter’s magnificent – and magnificently thought-provoking – translation of the Hebrew Bible. However gloomy the concluding stanza, and however accurately that gloom may reflect the violence and slaughter always at the heart of the world, I hope the poem also catches some of the equally permanent and however illusory yearning for things to be otherwise.”
Tom Vaughan is not the real name of a poet whose previous publications include a novel and two poetry pamphlets (A Sampler, 2010, and Envoy, 2013, both published by HappenStance). His poems have been published in a range of poetry magazines, including several of the Potcake Chapbooks: Careers and Other Catastrophes Familes and Other Fiascoes Strip Down Houses and Homes Forever Travels and Travails. He currently lives in Brittany. https://tomvaughan.website
Illustration: ‘The Peaceable Kingdom’ by Edward Hicks, via Snakeskin
It should have gone to Oxfam years ago yet it clings on—through house moves, clearings-out, declutterings—while fashion’s dictats show just how unwearable it is. No doubt of that. It’s heavy: woollen cloth you’d never find these days, its tailoring too buttoned-up, too stiff. Even the moth finds food in something with more flavouring.
I haven’t worn it since the funeral, that time when death demanded decency of sober colours, darkness integral to paying one’s respects. The legacy hangs here, as though in waiting for some end I can’t foresee. Then someone else will face the final clearing, wondering where to send this coat, and why it takes up so much space.
*****
D.A. Prince writes: “This was my coat and very much as described in the poem. It had followed me around from house to house for over fifty years. It was bought for my father’s funeral, had been worn for a couple of winters afterwards and then consigned to the wardrobe. I imagine most people have some sort of item — not necessarily clothing, just something freighted with the past — that they hesitate to part with.” The poem was published in the February 2024 Snakeskin (issue 314).
D.A. Prince lives in Leicestershire and London. Her first appearances in print were in the weekly competitions in The Spectator and New Statesman (which ceased its competitions in 2016) along with other outlets that hosted light verse. Something closer to ‘proper’ poetry followed (but running in parallel), with three pamphlets, followed by a full-length collection, Nearly the Happy Hour, from HappenStance Press in 2008. A second collection, Common Ground, (from the same publisher) followed in 2014 and this won the East Midlands Book Award in 2015. HappenStance subsequently published her pamphlet Bookmarks in 2018, with a further full-length collection, The Bigger Picture, published in 2022.
Magazines courting raised circulation Decked with models they think most appealing Merely generate mild irritation When it’s clear what it is they’re revealing.
Whether languorous, muscular, ditzy, Strong and silent, demure, sentimental, Or suggestive, i.e. bum ‘n’ titsy, They display far too much that is dental.
Why this boom in bared teeth, all Macleany? Why the photo-shopped grins that afflict us? Why must faces, both time-touched and teeny, Get reduced to a glistening rictus?
Can it be that the image-controllers Assume none of us buy printed paper Without first seeing canines and molars Being flashed by some gloss-coated gaper?
On a panel the world flocks to honour, Who charms with her tight-lipped composure? Yes, it’s L. da V.’s Louvre-hung donna − Those cover-mouths too deserve closure.
*****
Jerome Betts writes: “I can’t remember whether anything particular sparked off this slowly evolving piece apart from my becoming increasingly aware of the displays of dazzling female dentition on consumer magazine covers, sometimes a dozen or so different titles in a row to bizarre effect. My impression was that the apparently mandatory flashing smile became the focus, drawing the attention away from the rest of the face.”
Jerome Betts lives in Devon, England, where he edits the quarterly Lighten Up Online. Pushcart-nominated twice, his verse has appeared in a wide variety of UK publications and in anthologies such as Love Affairs At The Villa Nelle, Limerick Nation, The Potcake Chapbooks 1, 2 and 12, and Beth Houston’s three Extreme collections. British, European, and North American web venues include Amsterdam Quarterly, Better Than Starbucks, Light, The Asses of Parnassus, The Hypertexts, The New Verse News, and Snakeskin (where this poem was first published).
I ache to take your hand. My head says no – You’ll sway me, play me, then you’ll let me go. My heart says take a chance. Dance long and slow.
Which one (my head or heart) is in the know? Fazed by your blaze, I melt like sun-soaked snow. I ache to take your hand. My head says no.
Your wish, it heats the breeze. I hear it blow. Your beat thrums though my veins. I feel the flow. My heart says take a chance. Dance long and slow
Through moon-licked hues of blue as night skies glow And gleam in scenes that steal the bright-star show. I ache to take your hand. My head says no.
In dreams neath cream silk sheets you are the beau Who draws my lips and hips to yours and oh… My heart says take a chance. Dance long and slow.
But still my thoughts are skipping to and fro. The dos and don’ts won’t stop. They grow and grow. I ache to take your hand. My head says no… My heart says take a chance. Dance long and slow.
*****
Susan Jarvis Bryant writes: “I like to set myself challenges when writing poetry. I’m fascinated by French lyric poetry and love a good villanelle. My Muse couldn’t resist this challenge… it was a little tricky, but I enjoyed every minute of composition.” The poem was published in this month’s Snakeskin.
Susan Jarvis Bryant is originally from the U.K., but now lives on the coastal plains of Texas. Susan has poetry published on The Society of Classical Poets, Lighten Up Online, Snakeskin , Light, Sparks of Calliope, and Expansive Poetry Online. She also has poetry published in The Lyric, Trinacria, and Beth Houston’s Extreme Formal Poems and Extreme Sonnets II anthologies. Susan is the winner of the 2020 International SCP Poetry Competition and has been nominated for the 2024 Pushcart Prize. She has just published her first two books, Elephants UnleashedandFern Feathered Edges.
Form in Formless Times 