February 2013-March 2014
17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses
See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab
Poems Inspired by Book 1
Sadaf Fatima and Richard Biddle
Are we not living in the world of deceit?
Where the rich rule and poor stay weak
Can you not see Jupiter and Apollo?
In the rulers we choose
They loot, plunder and misuse!
While some of us are alarmed
Like Juno, others hurt like Io
Self-gratification is what they seek,
On expense of the lives of the weak
We must not look up to these demi gods for our good
But stand up, be strong and do what we should!
by Richard Biddle
In my head stands a lone wolf. On the face of it, a smoking
Muzzle, snarling like a sawn-off shotgun. Then this stony
silence makes my flesh creep, forms a contentious fishbone
manmade within this textual body. I chastise myself for
vegetating and not rooting for an underground movement.
Ironically, I tighten the tourniquet and shoot up. Now, down
on all fours, I cream a low scream from my cowering throat
while bullishly milking this mythical figure. Musing on these
pipe dreams, I wonder how things will pan out and conclude,
instrumentally, I should just have a go at it kid.
Changing before your eyes my impatient lies, etherised, spread
upon the table like a remote sky. A catalogue of inverse proportions,
out of focus with each fragment’s word-sense. Wild ideas that
should be sectioned bookishly; meaning mentally, I divide regions,
cut and paste into manageable chunks and surgically remove my ego’s
imperfect victim in order to remix the void.
I chastise the movement and in my throat stands a mythical wolf.
Then this stony creep makes my snarling, like a cowering
pipe while bullishly milking this lone tourniquet,
ironically, manmade within this textual body. On the face
of it, a low scream from my sawn-off head. I tighten
myself for vegetating and figure, shoot up. A smoking muzzle,
flesh-musing on these shotgun dreams. I wonder how things
will pan out and conclude, silence forms a contentious fishbone.
Now, down on all fours, I cream instrumentally, not rooting
for an underground, I should just have a go at it kid.
Flooded With Doubt
by Richard Biddle
this brain is cumulonimbus, blue-raining
blue thoughts through this vibrant corpse
this rain is an obscure bloom clouded
with gloomy reflections, its torrential
message; a final curtain
this pain is a foaming rhythm hammering
heartlessly into the shoes of my feet
this saturation is a jade-black sponge
twisting wet, diluting my hated cells
with greed and seeds
this name is witness to the green oomph
that forces its drowned panic into my
this scream is dragged from writhing
bodies like a trance or a trick then set
this beneath is an exit with no chance
of dancing towards tragedy. It ends in
this seepage takes the sun away. They
rise again, unmade. A pitiful rainbow
awash with pearlescent pores
this water is undying power and all the
animals aboard my leaking boat watch
as the world falls apart