How is it there are not more accidents
upon Britain’s high streets
as we have found a way to truly
be at one, not with the universe,
but with a small selfish screen
which demands we lower our heads in silent
prayer and ignore
the passing footsteps of the careworn
and the sarcastic, that we must
bump into those surrounding us
and argue that they should
look out for our shadow dangling off us,
desperate to get away and seek
out other sun driven silhouettes
in humanity’s gloom;
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
Cast: Gillian Bevan, Bethan Cullinane, Oliver Johnstone, Hiran Abeysekera, James Clyde, James Cooney, Natalie Simpson, Temi Wilkey, Graham Turner, Kelly Williams, Marcus Griffiths, Byron Mondahl, Doreene Blackstock, Eke Chukwu, Romayne Andrews, Marieme Diouf, Jenny Fennessy, Kevin N Goldberg, Theo Ogundipe
During the Royal Shakespeare Company’s quest to perform all 38 of the great Bard’s plays over the coming years, audiences get to glimpse gems of his repertoire that are less often performed. This production of Cymbeline showcases one of Shakespeare’s later plays, and the play shows a maturity and complexity that is a joy to behold.
It is a freedom fought and worth
the small slow drag on a Cuban cigar,
the long drawn out
spiral of smoke
and the collection of brown
spit that chokes the air
off the Danube, only briefly
before it becomes invisible
but toxin rich, before it is joined
by the steaming coffee, stronger
than home, sending its aromatic
desire up the street in a kind of wanton
come hither eyes and stroke
of the silk stocking that I watch
of one woman on her young friend;
Accused of everything under the sun, blamed for all and sundry and sometimes with truth in their words and the charges – the responsibility is truly being mine alone. However, more often than not, they are just the unfortunate side effect of being the scapegoat, of being the person the finger gets pointed at when trouble brews, when the ugliness of jealousy steps into the heart of a person, when envy and hate are allowed to fester, to breed and to accumulate in a kind of toxic soup, bubbling under the surface, never truly revealed until the bitter taste of poison cramps their stomach and the foam of any residual innocence is long since evaporated.
Her eyes match the Danube on this cloudy day,
yet look deeper, look beyond the casual
observance and see a person that is majestic,
that rises up beyond the groove
imposed by life at others behest,
see a woman,
as you should see all women,
as life itself, for without them
we are just lumps of useless clay, dressed in rags
and willing ourselves to self destruct;
The Danube meanders along with serenity,
as her eyes close to remember the scene forever,
it is a serenity that is matched and surpassed
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating 9/10
It is an island that sits on the edge of many different ideologies, of history having forged its distinct and positive identity and one to whom the people who nestle and cling to its rock with patience, drive and a sense of peace in their hearts. Malta has almost everything you could wish for, in both a place of relaxation and the best of holidays but also it holds secrets that implore investigation and one of them is the local outstanding poet Miriam Calleja and her anthology of dual heritage writing, the beautiful and absorbing collection that entwines throughout each page, Pomegranate Heart.
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating 0/10
Cast: Idris Elba, Richard Madden, Kelly Reilly, Charlotte Le Bon, Alexander Cooper, Anatol Yusef, José Garcia, James Cox, Laura Hydari, Karl Farror, Eriq Ebouaney, Daniel Westwood, Jorge Leon Martinez, Alex Martin.
There are times when you do have to wonder if some film makers actually know the difference between a good film with a plot that doesn’t tax the brain too much and that where they make a film just purely for the credit or the financial gain that might come their way, the plot as weak as a watered down soup from a vending machine in a bus terminus, the acting as interesting as mould growing in a Petri dish and all the action of a night in the morgue, where the only excitement is seeing just how badly the film runs towards its bitter and thankful conclusion.
I would love to know what made
each city burn so bright
and every town, village and enclave
burst with energy, the pulse,
is it manufactured, brought into existence
by the heartbeat of those
whose muscle desires it most;
desire in ache, desire in conquest,
the craving to be free
but pulled in one direction
to be a fragment of the whole…
I see the whole and kiss its pulse,
I hear the trumpet blown and the
car horn bluster with discontent,
the ravage of the road
Sheep Street never looked so good
as it did in the early May sun,
the spotlight from decades past
captured with almost boundless
enthusiasm from roof to roof
in which places from my childhood
have leaked away, have melted into nothing
more than history and tethered remains
of collective memory.
The record shop long gone,
Goble’s, along with Iain, vanished
into the ether, coffee shops by chain
replace the feel of something inward
and to be rejoiced
and as for the biggest killer
There are no flies on you,
for the moment,
just as there are no ties on me
no knot to choke me with
should that be your choice
in which to strangle, to suffocate,
to shift me from vision, no tie,
no fasten except the criss-cross
of emotions that we share, some that bond
with the same sensation of the first kiss
that two teenagers share in an open field
in secret but with all knowing
about it by the time
the final bell rings and clangs with rusty