A Poem that raised goose-pimples.

Yesterday, Sunday 4th sept '11 I went to the event Artournament Gloucester-Big chill. It was held in the New Inns and what a fabulous old building that is. Full of nooks and crannies, beautiful Moroccan lanterns and nifty little architectural details. It made it all very atmospheric. I did a slot early in the afternoon. I felt it went well. Three separate groups of people complimented me on my work which was so gratifying and the lovely Kim Fordwoh (who I had never met before and is an organizer of the event) came up to me, thrust a goose-pimpled arm at me and told me that my poem had done that. What a reaction! The poem was about waiting for test results in the fear that AIDS might result. I have included the poem below.
I didn't stay too long. As you may or may not know I am registered disabled and due to my health problems I have to pace myself. Even then I pay for my enjoyment the next day in pain and fatigue. So, I digress. In the evening Harry and I went to Buzzwords at the Exmouth Arms. Cheltenham. It was a particularly good night. The Buzzwords poetry competition, which I had raised advertising for, had gained many entries. They were of a very high standard. I so enjoyed hearing the winners poems and seeing so many new faces there. I hope they will continue to come along and enjoy this great evening of poetry. I was also in need of the poetry workshop. The guest poet, Angela Topping gave us some very good exercises. It was just what I needed to stimulate a brain gone soggy with working on a novel plot and proofreading a story for a friend. The end of the night was special. Angela France, our Buzzwords Organizer and excellent poet herself asked me to share a guest poet spot in July. I am delighted to do this as I really respect the Buzzwords poets and the way we have stuck with it for so long, improving and moving forward all the time. The poem that caused goose-pimples is below.



While I was waiting I thought of You. By Miki Byrne.



I sat in this place forty-eight hours ago. It has been the longest
two days of my life. I still have the little round plaster in the crook
of my arm where the nurse took blood. It bled a lot for such a little
prick. I thought of you. I gazed at the garish posters. Syphilis,
Chlamydia, Gonorrhoea. They sounded like Greek goddesses
wrapped in floating robes. Robes...Sheets…shrouds…corpses. My
mind made connections, screaming inside my head. Billowing until

I felt that they would pour like sludge from my ears, swoop up from
my gut and whoosh out of my mouth in a hot fountain. My eyes were
Already leaking. A blue–clad nurse trotted by, paused and said kindly,
“It won’t be long dear”. That small gesture nearly killed me. I gasped
for breath. Was chilled, yet sweating. Nausea slithered inside me like
a reptile. I thought of you-the one who craved excitement. Who secretly
slept around. Who eventually told me that he was bi. Had been for years.

Enjoyed both, the more the merrier-no orifice spared. No condoms
either. Like wearing wellies you said. I imagined all those fluids mixing.
Yours. Mine. Theirs. I thought of what you took from me. What you might
have given back. My imagination became a microscope. Showed me
time-lapse swimming sperm. Cells mutating, viruses swarming and tainted blood coursing through every organ in my body. I remembered scary documentaries from the times when I would watch TV in the false safety

of our long deluded marriage. I thought of you. I waited on a blue plastic chair. The man beside me was unkempt. His arms scarred from needle tracks. He gripped the arm of a girl and said he was desperate. I almost laughed. A reflex bubble of hysteria that rose unbidden and hiccupped painfully into my throat. My own desperation crushed me. Turned me to jelly. Robbed me of dignity.
I remember promising God that He could have everything I possessed, heart soul and body. If only I did not have AIDS.

A poem accepted.

Well, I am pleased again. Hard on the heels of winning the GWN poetry comp I have just had a poem accepted by the World Aid charity. It raises money for the homeless and other deprived people. I had't realized it was a international company so the anthology is full of people from many places. I'm happy that my poem 'Where I Lived' is going to be included. I'll log it here when the collection is due so that you can buy it and help the charity. There's also going to be an on-line flip-book of it which is very nicely done. I don't know how they raise money via that though. I've also had a knock-on from the reading I did in Ross last week. My CV has gone to a care home where I might be reading to some enthusiastic residents. I think I would enjoy that a lot. I hope it comes together.keep writing everyone.

I have won a competition.

I'm very pleased to have just received confirmation that my poem 'Tideline' has won the poetry section of this years Gloucester Writers Network Writing competition. I shall be delighted to read this poem at the GWN event held at Cheltenham Literature Festival in the autumn. I have put the list of winners and judges comment below. My congratulations to the winner of the Short story category. I don't think I know the writer but I look forward to hearing her story at the winners event.


Results of the 2011 Gloucestershire Writers’ Network ‘Discovery’ Competition

Poetry: Tide-line by Miki Byrne
Short story: Fairy Story by Sophie Livingston

Judges’ remarks:
Poetry: Tide-line stood out on first reading and the subsequent readings. We were treated to textures of grit and sand, Bladder wrack’s fat air sacks and the pink nacre of razor shells. The whole experience was well observed and beautifully choreographed, it made one want to continue along the beach, slow and wind-blown, to see what more could be discovered.
Short story: Fairy Story has all the qualities of a perfect short story; the voice is compelling, the pacing is superb, and the meaning emerges smoothly and powerfully. I wanted to read it over and over again. As a writer, I appreciated and admired this wonderfully crafted piece of work, and as a reader, I was utterly engaged in the emotional journey.

Poetry runners up:
A Rough Guide by Phil Kirby
Found and Lost by Christine Griffin
Diagnosis by Gill Garrett
James Phipps Finds his Voice by Stuart Nunn
The Ice Man by Michael Newman

Short story runners up:
Taming Caroline by Cindy Moss
Thirteen Age of Discovery by Guy Hunter
The Scenic Route by Edward James
The Box Room by Stephanie Smith
Mr Gravina by Michael Skaife d’Ingerthorpe

Poetry on the Pavement.

Poetry on the Pavement turned out to be under the beautiful old Market House. Ross-on-Wye. It had a great view down the sloping hill of the high St. In the distance, golden fields of cut hay could be seen. The other poets were made up of members of the Inkwell writing group. There was a good range of topics read in a very enjoyable way. I had the privilege of opening and closing this event. The audience was appreciative. Even when the rain fell in curtains beyond the lovely sandstone arches of the Market House. We simply moved further in and carried on. As there was no amplification we did have to compete a few times with large lorries that rumbled by behind us. Being blessed (or cursed depending on your point of view) with quite a carrying voice,I was able to be heard. I met some lovely people and enjoyed the event very much. I am grateful to organizer sue Hill for offering me the gig. Also grateful, as ever, to Harry for driving me there and back and generally being my poet roadie. There is picture to go with this entry.

Reading in Ross-on Wye.

I am reading my poetry at(or under) the Market House in Ross-on-Wye on Wednesday August 24th. I am very pleased to be asked but the usual questions are rolling round my head. Will there be a stage, amplification, rain? Who do I see on arrival. With a moving audience of shoppers and tourists will anyone stop to listen? It's odd how organizers of events never think to tell you these things. It's a good job poets are flexible and accommodating. I am looking forward to it and have gone over my set many times in preparation. At times like this I recount the odd places I have read poetry in and see how it compares. OK. A bikers club in Birmingham. In a number of other streets. In a marquee, on a boat and in a field. On second thoughts-no worries. I'll tell you how it went on Thursday.

A short story.

Xenophobia. By Miki Byrne.


Professor Brenda Snead leaned the small black pull-along case against the wall. She pressed the switch to turn the kettle on and sank onto the chair that was half tucked under the plain pine table. Thank God she was home. It had been bad enough that she had had to leave her familiar laboratory to attend the convention in Prague. Worse to have to present her paper to the mixed bag of delegates but the flights! The flights had been by far the most nerve wracking.

She shifted her ample bulk into a position of greater comfort and pushed her large dark-framed spectacles further along her small but fleshy nose. It had all been awful. How she hated other people. She disliked those who she knew but strangers were loathed and despised as simply unknown intruders into her world. Brenda hated their proximity, the smell of them. Even the expensively perfumed and after-shaved left her feeling revolted. They always needed to talk. She felt that no-one knew the power and serenity of silence. The absolute pleasure and satisfaction of pure thought.

On the outward journey the man who sat next to her had wanted to chat. Not only that but he had done so in a manner that was flirtatious. Brenda had no time for such trivial social interludes. She had found his approach fatuous in the extreme. She was plain and she actively cultivated that plainness. She paid only lip-service to her appearance by keeping clean but never visited a hairdresser or cared about what she wore. Her hair frizzed out in a dark nimbus around her head and her clothes were only ever bought in shades of brown. Brenda was overweight and content with it. She used and valued her brain and saw her body only as a vehicle within which she could transport her intellect. She had glared at the man from behind her thesis “The Extended Use of Plant Toxins in Microbiological Delivery”. He was oblivious to her distain and even a curt
“Do you mind? I’m busy” did little to deter him. Brenda had sat feeling uncomfortably claustrophobic. Conscious of the smallness of the metal tube in which she was travelling and of the fixed windows that gave her a tantalizing glimpse of the fresh air and space outside, yet, allowed no access to it. She felt stifled, uncomfortable and the seat did not accommodate her weight easily. Her thighs rubbed together and her ankles had swollen giving her an even greater sense of discomfort. She had the ridiculous feeling of having somehow been inflated. Being fully aware of the medical details did nothing to ease the feeling. The man next to her, who was no oil painting himself, had made it known that he had no time for ‘skinny women who live on lettuce.’ He thought he was being solicitous. Brenda knew that he was being offensively intrusive. She felt trapped beside him. As the flight progressed he had taken his jacket off to reveal half moons of perspiration darkening his shirt under his arms then, when he had dosed off, his snores had reverberated in her ears preventing her from either sleeping or thinking. She sat through the inane in-flight movie with gritted teeth and a sense of mounting annoyance that came very close to the first red simmering of rage.

Brenda had been intensely glad when the plane had landed. She had disembarked and finally been ensconced in her small but spotless hotel room near the University campus. Her presentation at the University of Prague had been well-received. She had blushed at the compliments bestowed and had glowed from the respect shown to her by academics who led in their own fields of study. She had returned to her room smiling with satisfaction. Brenda had still been wrapped in the warm vestiges of that feeling as she manoeuvred herself into her seat for the return flight the next evening. Then, to her horror, the same awful plebeian little man had flopped down next to her and began a determined attempt to renew their acquaintance. The journey had passed in the same sense of unease and distress as before except this time her irritation hardened into a solid and deep dislike of the thick-skinned moron who was intruding on her space and thoughts. She loathed him for breaking her warm and rosy mood and for giving her a reprise of the outward flight.

As she stirred her tea Brenda recalled looking out of the huge window that gave a view onto the runway. She had paused in her effort to drag her wheeled case for a second. An Ambulance had been speeding dramatically toward the plane she had so recently left. She could see the stroboscopic effect of its lights and hear the distinctive wailing of its siren. Brenda smiled in grim satisfaction. The two drops of clear and undetectable liquid she had dripped into the man’s Vodka while he slept had had the desired effect. That was the beautiful thing about science she thought happily. You could always find just the right substance for the job.


Word count 857.

a piece of micro-fiction.

The Anguish of the Rain God. By Miki Byrne.


“Oh how I weep! I weep and weep. My tears fall hot and wet. They gather upon my chin. A salty beard that dries so fast it brings soreness to my face. I endure it like a penance.

My face that was so black and proud is grey with dust, blanched by fear. My tears dry in the air that was my friend. The wind blows hot. It scours the land. I see the verdant green plains crisp and dry. They shrivel before my eyes. Drought strides like a fearsome warrior across my land. I cannot make the rain.

Mother Earth is losing her cloak of clouds. The lifecycles that blossomed in the Earths beautiful turning, pause in indecision. I look down on creeks that shrink like the skin of a snake sloughed off to lie lifeless and desiccated.

I call the skies to me. I sift the wind. I breathe into the hot bowl of the creeping desert, yet, I cannot make the rain. Below me Elephant and Kudu, Impala and Oryx move in restless thirst across the land. They leap in hope. March in expectation, seeking water. Needing water. The land cracks in its discontent.

I speak to the sun and she does not answer. She sends greedy rays that lap at pools like Hyenas licking blood. The sun is now my enemy. She is ferocious. The hunter in the sky, turning her deadly incandescence on all below.

I plead with night and borrow its coolness. Holding it in my palms to wrest a few drops from its condensation. It is not enough. I cannot make the rain. All is changing. Once the elements fitted, woven like a reed basket. We worked together. We kept promises made to the land.

I speak to the moon. I take her shining beams that are so like water and wring them out. I twist them in my hands but they are dry. I weep but I cannot shed enough water for one tiny flower. I chant the old chants. No other God hears me. I dance across the sky beating the drum of sorrow. The great blue vastness mocks me as if I were an intruder.

Where is my power? I despair as my people are herded by thirst across tribal borders. I see them become outcasts begging at water-holes that belong to other tribes. They hold empty gourds to the sky and say to me “Why Mulengi? Why have you deserted us?” I hear the children cry with dust-coated tongues. It burns my heart like an embers touch. I am an empty god. Drowning but only in the thundering wave of my own despair. I am a helpless god. Feeble in my lack of strength. I twist like a fish on the hook of desperation. I raise my fisted hands in anger and scream into the parched and endless void.

I embrace the clouds. They turn from me and flee. They are coquettish maidens and will not join in union. I roar my defiance to every grain of sand, to every dry and wilted leaf. I howl down ravines seeking moisture. The wells are drying. The rivers are shallow ribbons. Rocks that once were covered, point like accusations. I am hollow. A storm without thunder. The world is broken, for I cannot make the rain.