No matter how many times I try
to wear tshirts, no coat,
it’s useless.
The leaves are brown,
crunching underfoot.

But as days pass
and my infatuation grows,
remembering ice cream,
suntans,
sweating profusely,

there is no escape
from the turning of the earth,
her rotation on her axis.
The density of the sun
getting less, less.

My tune thickens
and quickens,
my throat aching,
my nose running,
my voice cracking.

The last song I will sing -
a requiem for summer
an ode to winter -
inviting, sadly,
it’s bare trees.

And my last note,
lost in the post.

By and © Alice Lander

[Note: Alice is an observer and a smoker]

everything sing
wings wings
unfurling my
away

By and © Nick Jarvis

[Note: Nick is an aspiring poet, philosopher, and a very good bartender. He is also currently studying English with Creative Writing in Falmouth]

(By and © Rupert M Loydell)

(By and © Rupert M Loydell)

(By and © Rupert M Loydell)

The elephants were on television, all lit up and ghostly.
If you don’t know the reference it makes no sense at all.

Angel singing, girl crying. A sense of narrative pulled
out of nowhere, my third trip to town today.

Bob said the paintings looked like rows of teeth.
I cannot see them now without remembering this.

We know how the future sounds but still cannot
reach a definite confusion. Elephants fly overhead.

(By and © Rupert M Loydell)

Goal so gong! I on Seuss. D!
I cheat like the bee be lean I will
by calm to kip the clay

from dumbing the son, from
mocking the ski of its cab eel
guise. He has won men, he

deserts gooses, and I heave light him:
the ‘you’re all gone hell’ Engels, who files
and files. “It’s a glue. Roar as road,”

he hears wasps pad as part of hose-
spill. “This is a gem of puke.
I have lust, but no lungs are washed

to plea,” I rip low. Goal so gong.
D. I on Seuss and proclaim:
“You commute scruff, my sire cretin-

mum. For I plead with ho
steaks while you one lead witched.”
Goal so gong. D. I rused

hiver a thong while you hid God
so I could song nuts
only vaginal buys can master,

only fir-full dogs can whore.
I lust myself in the veal lie
of I full but my wings and far led

to make me rose. And leak your
wings, mine dead not bit-rate-
and far led as I changed my mend

Fur eve in noir our brothy hue

(By and © Jake O’Leary)

[Note: Jake is a student of Rupert Loydell's. Jake writes: "In translating ‘Girl Singing’ I came up with a system of sound replacement/displacement using vowels. Every A sound became an E sound, every E an I and so on. With this somewhat random method I hoped that new meanings would emerge from Villa’s original text that would surprise both me and the reader familiar with the original. I do admit, however, to abandoning the strictness of the system in certain places and tweaking the words a little if I caught the whiff of a meaning too good/convenient to miss."]

He being older, more musical than physical, desired
head sex; pure opera his thing and oddly – hers.
She found him comforting, unlike the average punter.

Safe in a contract of nakedness and high notes,
her nipples hardened in the street’s cold air,
as she trembled her way through a coloratura.

He’d watch but never touch; until one night – too much.
He kissed her,gagged her song;
wrong but understandable, he thought.

Poor devil, it had been so simple,hypothetical
and sinless, more or less, so gloriously sexual;
a skin cell’s width from actual.

She sang again, but not for him, he had to pay the basic rate,
no music, so, he fucked her silence with his sweat and beg.
Sing for the love of God girl, sing, he said.

(By and © Anna-May Laugher)

[Note: Anna may writes:

"I only found out about the website last night and became fascinated by the whole idea. David Grubb, who tutors me in creative writing at the River and Rowing Museum in Henley-on-Thames, was kind enough to send me the link.

I really hate the biog’ thing but here goes.

Anna-May Laugher born 1959
Lives in Berkshire
Prize winning poet.
Member of the Brickwork Poets
Had a poem accepted this year by the Media Studies students at the University of Chichester. They chose it to make a film, which was subsequently voiced over by Joanna Lumley. The BBC Big Screen project showed it in Portsmouth. The poem (Stone Map in Ravelin Park) will be published in an anthology of Portsmouth poems next year.
Website
www.annamay.moonfruit.com"]

I trudge past with a
London expression of ‘get the fuck out
of my way’, with no time for the black
lady singing, with no eye contact.

An old couple, stiff with chill soften
my demeanour and make me angry that
I’m up there with the best briefcase
grimacers, as they reach round their
cardboard Starbucks cups, warming
their hands and

pulling scarves closer to their pleated
necks. I start the words in my head, ‘All
you will see is a girl you once knew’, silently
trying to keep the vicious late afternoon
sky from bending into deadly night.

He has had many chances and I have
let him balls it up: the last of the feckless
romancers who tripped and fell.
“With every mistake we must surely
be learning?” He has muttered uncertainly with
an Argos guitar.

“This is a game of spin the bottle that I will
lose, and don’t want to play to begin with.” I
argue. Black woman singing. Winter sun.
“You cannot snort

at my attempt to give this my all, for I have
put all my eggs in one basket while you were
still running with yours on a spoon.”
Black woman chirping. Crisp winter sun.

I jeopardized high returns and you played to
win, whilst I danced to melodies that
only animals could hear, in an empty
room. I lost myself but now am
found, spread-eagled, on a London street.

Black woman singing. Crisp winter sun.
Unlike yours, my wings will not desert
me, as I shift my thoughts

and blink up at the crisp winter sun.

(By and © Jemma Green)

[Note: Jemma is a creative writing student currently living in Cornwall]

[NOTE: IF ANYONE SENDS ME A NEW VERSION OF 'GIRL SINGING' I WILL HAPPILY POST IT]

(by and © Aileen Ibardaloza)

[Note: Music by Parageet, who writes:

Hi Aileen,

with this I give you the permission to use my piece "Sprouts" for your project.
Of course I`m curious, so it would be great if you could send me a copy [upon publication] …

If you make any money, we would have to make a contract – if you need anything written or signed please send me a form!

Kind regards from berlin, Parageet.

Ed. note: Thank you, Parageet. Upon publication, you’ll be sent a copy. But don’t put a down payment on the Lamborghini while waiting for royalties!

For info re: sources: please see note to the text version of 13 Oct 2008]