WELCOME TO VIRTUAL DODO TWELVE – MARCH 2024
Welcome to the 12th virtual show from Dodo Modern Poets. This programme takes our tally to around 300 performances and contributions since launching in April 2020. We thank everyone who has contributed, enjoyed and supported the project since it began.
We hope you enjoy the show and welcome your feedback.
Patric Cunnane
PR Murry
DODO MODERN POETS
07769 7770222
Our featured acts this month are Sue Johns and Joolz Sparkes. Both appear in Fearsome Females, a new collection published by Morgan’s Eye Press and coordinated by Agnes Meadows. Poems by Agnes are included in the text section of the show.
Sue Johns originates from Cornwall where she started performing as a punk poet in the 1980s.
Publications
include Hush (Morgan’s Eye Press, 2011) , Rented: Poems on
Prostitution and Dependency (Palewell Press, 2018) and Track Record (Dempsey & Windle, 2021). She has an MA in Writing Poetry from
Newcastle University/ The Poetry School
Her work has appeared in anthologies such as Can You Hear the People Sing (Palewell Press, 2020), Alter Egos (Bad Betty, 2019) Welling Up (Palewell Press, 2019) and Time for Song, Contemporary Cornish Poetry ( Morgan’s Eye Press, 2009), Ver Prize Anthology, 2022 and magazines including Poetry News, The Morning Star, Southbank Poetry, Dreich, The Atlanta Review, Prole, The Alchemy Spoon, Brittle Star, The Big Issue, London Grip, Tears in the Fence and Dream Catcher
https://www.suejohns.co.uk (Books available from this site)
JOOLZ
SPARKES
Joolz Sparkes is a north London based writer. Her poetry pamphlet Face the Strain is published by Against the Grain press and offers an unashamedly feminist and political poetic manifesto for the state of the nation. Her poetry collection, London Undercurrents, a joint project with poet Hilaire, is published by Holland Park Press and uncovers London’s unsung heroines north and south of the river. Her poems and short stories appear in magazines, online and in anthologies. She was Poet in Residence at Leicester Square tube station, and upstairs at Ronnie Scott’s, has been shortlisted for the Bridport Poetry Prize and has featured at many events including Ledbury Poetry Festival.
twitter: @joolzess
Blog: https://joolzsparkes.wordpress.com/
To buy
a copy of London Undercurrents - https://hollandparkpress.co.uk/books/london-undercurrents/
VIDEOS
Aidan
Nutbrown
Zolan Quobble
Graham Buchan
Frank Crocker
Kevin Morris
Nick Goodall
BOUDICA -THE KILLER
QUEEN
"They raped my daughters," she howled,
Her voice a sword-thrust, remembering the broken bodies of
Her two golden-haired girls, maidens before their violation.
She cursed the Roman Legionaries who had taken their
innocence,
Then stripped her bare, flogged her 'till the blood ran down
her back,
Between her breasts, a wholly dishonourable flogging, leaving
her
Gore-covered, their mocking laughter shrill, just as it had
been
When Claudius snatched these Celtic lands not even twenty
years past,
Careless of the damage wrought on this benighted isle
Where now she ruled as Queen.
They called her Victory, the Killer Queen, a she-wolf who had
Brought the Romans to their knees, Britain's tribes
Coming together under her banner, tens of thousands
Gathering in a vengeful mass supporting their Queen,
The flame of rebellion that had smouldered throughout
The occupation flaring into a conflagration that would
Consume the land and all who lived there.
She had slaughtered legions, left whole towns and cities
Little more than ash and rubble, an epic journey of vengeance
And bloodshed until it seemed she was invincible,
Each unchecked conquest more precious than the golden torque
She wore proclaiming her royalty to all who followed her.
In her raging heart, her daughters' lost virginity, her own
Humiliation, became a symbol for what Britain had suffered.
She was not beautiful, this raging, vengeful woman who had
Unified the tribes of Britain into a single force to fight
the foreign foe
Who had stripped them of both dignity and freedom.
Tall as any man, her eyes were fiercer than an eagle's, her
voice
Harsh enough to rouse the dead. Yet, there was a
fairness
To her blue-patterned face, her hair a flame, like the fire
Inside her, its crimson tendrils curling to her waist, until
she
Seemed to be a column of fire, burning all who stood in her
way.
Riding with her two despoiled daughters in a chariot axled
with
Curling scythes, she addressed her armies with volcanic
words,
A confident pre-battle speech urging them to conquer or die,
So sure was she of the success the Gods would grant her.
Yet in the end it was pride undid her, the air of divine
mystique
That had grown around her fading faster than her army's
Destruction, her rebel force, more than a quarter of a
million strong,
Massacred in minutes, slaughtered by Paulinus's modest
Ten thousand men, his legionaires slaying some 80,000 Britons
While he lost a paltry four hundred men, for though the
Legate
Lacked the greater force, his army's strength had been honed
by
Years of military discipline with weaponry that shamed the
British force.
So Boudicca was crushed, a once victorious Queen now little
more
Than a broken Roman plaything. So to avoid capture and
disgrace,
She took her own life, poison becoming her final, fate
friend.
Information
Boudicca (Boadica) was the warrior Queen of the ICENI.
She united the tribes of Britain, and led them against the Roman invaders in
60-61 AD. When her husband Presutagus, King of the Iceni, died, the Romans
decided to rule the tribes directly and confiscated the property of all the
leading tribesmen. According to historian Tacitus, the Roman soldiers
scourged Boudicca, raped her two daughters and plundered the country. The
Queen took her revenge, slaughtering an entire legion, and reducing several
major cities to ash and rubble. But despite having a vastly numerically
superior army, in the end the Britons were defeated, and Boudicca killed
herself to avoid capture and disgrace. It is said she is buried beneath
Platform 10 at King's Cross Station, London.
KHUTULUN
The Mongolian Warrior Princess
My name means moonlight,
Though there is nothing gentle in my touch
For I am a noble warrior descended from the
Mighty Khan Genghis himself, my father Kaidu
The sire of fourteen sons and daughter,
The most powerful of men, ruling the eternity
Of grassland that is Mongolia, across mountains,
Rivers, and far, far beyond.
For more than three decades, he and his uncle
Kublai had fought for supremacy,
While I stood at Kaidu's die, a hawk,
Helping to keep the unwanted invaders at bay,
My tactical skills lancing their ambitions.
While others feared defeat, I stood proud and
Fearless, leader of his armies, and undisputed
Champion in all things equine or athletic,
For none could outshine my riding skills,
And as a wrestler, I remained unconquered,
Defeating both men and women, crushing them
Underfoot as if they were of as little consequence
As the worms burrowing in Mongolia's oil-dark earth.
Other women of my tribe married, bore children,
Lived in placid contentment as wife and mother.
But I had no wish to wed, challenging potential
Suitors for my hand to thrash me in the wrestling ring,
Their prize if they defeated me, though if they were
Vanquished, each one gifted me a hundred horses.
I smile as I regard my equine herd, stallions and mares
In a kaleidoscope of hues, an ocean of horses almost
Ten thousand strong, each one an echo of the rejection
I meted out to every failed suitor.
At last, to please my father, and quash the evil rumours
That he had taken me to his bed, I married Abtakul,
A man I had chosen for his handsome face, his stone-strong
Body, and eyes fiercer than any hunting bird's.
And so at last I knew the pleasure of being wife
And mother. Yet I will never relinquish my leadership
Of the Khan's armies. I will cherish it for as long as
Sky kisses earth and my name is spoken as a warrior woman
Of worth, always a shining moon in the Khan's abundant
Firmament.
Khutulun was a Mongolian warrior princess who was descended
from Genghis Khan. She was a champion horsewoman and wrestler, defeating
both men and women in the ring. Although her father, Kaidu Khan wanted
her to take over the Khan-ship when he died, her brothers and the men of her
tribe rejected this idea. Instead she became the leader of his armies
until her death aged 56 in 1306.
Both poems appear in Fearless Females, published by Morgan’s
Eye Press
Patric Cunnane
WASEEM’S EYES
Waseem’s
eyes were full of dreams
Too
young to be bereft of hope
Cherished
as all children are
His
life worth the same as yours
How
can an army steal our children?
They
never learned to hate
Their
loss denies our future
Their
right to make a mark rubbed out
No
chance to ride a bike, to throw a ball
To
grow, to fall in love, to shape the world
Waseem’s
eyes were full of dreams
He
loved to play, to shout, to sing
Who
condones such terror from the skies?
Shattering futures, crushing hopes
Waseem’s
eyes were full of dreams
Let’s
build new dreams for him
Safe
homes like yours or mine
Don’t
let the future be extinguished
Young
lives abandoned on the line
Eight-year-old
Waseem was killed when an Israeli bomb hit his grandmother’s house in South
Gaza at the Nuseirat refugee camp. The
Observer began a report ‘Waseem’s eyes were full of dreams’ (26th
November 2023).
Max Fishel
the gift
Margaret donates her living room
to the nation but fails to realise
that she hasn’t died yet so one
Sunday morning a charabanc
from Derbyshire* parks outside,
unloads its cargo of sightseers,
wellwishers and gawpers on to
her driveway. The shock of seeing
this crowd from her upstairs
bedroom window is too much
and Margaret crumples on to the
linoleum and expires. However,
now her donation makes perfect
sense.
*It could have been
Nottinghamshire.
Joseph Healy
Clap for
Carers
Clap,
clap, clap, clap
The TV
shows the multitudes each Thursday night at 8
Nurses
outside hospitals, bin lids beaten outside terraced houses
Cheering
paramedics on Westminster Bridge
And
grimacing politicians applauding furiously for the heroes
Clap,
clap, clap, clap
For
the nurses and the care workers struggling to serve
Their
Eton ancestors ordered the hopeless Light Brigade to charge
Into
the valley of death
Theirs
not to reason why
Theirs
but to ask for PPE
To
protect their lives and those of others
Clap,
clap, clap, clap
For
the daily press conferences worthy of Ceaucescu
Where
bored cabinet ministers read empty scripts
And
health experts try to hide the puppet strings attached to their backs
Where journos are allowed but one question and that had better not be tough or Laura Kuenssberg will be asked instead
Forty
five minutes till they’re slightly grilled but not enough to burn
Clap,
clap, clap, clap
For
the families without a loved one for the empty rooms in care homes
Not
forgetting the Cheltenham crowds told to have a good time by the leering Boris
He’s a
cheery old chap said Tommy to Fred but he did for them both in the end!
And
when the virus returns and the shopping and partying must end
To
fill the coffers of the super rich and merely rich
What
will we all do then?
We
will carry on clapping into the night more silent than the graves
Oluwatobi Sanni
EVERYWHERE BUSY
The streets are busy
The houses are busy
The courts are busy
The police stations
are busy
And men too are filled
with businesses.
That that want to jump
a fence
Them that want to
snatch a car
Them that want to hold
up at gun point
Them that want to
molest at will
Them that want to
butcher men.
Bandits banned up the
bodies logged
Kidnappers string up
like beads the captives
And terrorists mow
down forests of men without ransom
Innocent and guilty alike ripen mangos falled to hand
God sends his sun and
rain on both sinners and righteous.
Where there is a will
there is a way
Determination makes a
mill of a hill as even
They break the most
secured security barriers
Fill us then with will
to skin their will driven
And train us to enter
into the dragons’ den and win the barriers.
John Sephton
the soft parade
an ode to Jim Morrison
Other voices calling,
breaking through the darkness,
the unknown soldier passes over,
the soft parade, the starlight ride.
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