#helena nelson

[lioninsunheart]

By Jackson Pollock

‘Muse-Dragon Seed’- by Helena Nelson

[amokedas]

The Final Flowering Virgin Mother goddess by Helena Nelson

[batgovernor]

Helena Nelson, 'The Fall (GM)'

The tree was genetically modified. The apple was full of dioxins. The leaves were too green; any fool could have seen they were vibrant with millions of toxins. A helpful old friend (we called him ‘The Snake’) announced he’d go up there and get it. I said to my spouse ‘We’ve got pears in the house’ but what did he do? Adam ate it. He snaffled a bite with a smirk of delight, then laughed till he…

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[batgovernor]

Helena Nelson, 'Invitation'

a homage to Donne’s ‘Nocturnal on St Lucies day’ The shortest day is soon. Time for a pact. I don’t mean with Saint Lucy (Lucy’s day falls earlier in the month). But hey let’s meet and talk and counteract such darkness of the heart as coincides with winter’s formal start. We can read Donne’s ‘Nocturnal’, view its art, its provenance and what on earth it means. Location doesn’t matter. We have…

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[batgovernor]

Using form: unconventional couplets: Helena Nelson, 'The Hill'

His heart is okay (it has been checked) but not far from the top his pace is checked and he stops. ‘Enough. Let’s go back.’ Mrs Philpott doesn’t want to go back. If they get to the summit, they’ll see the view. He doesn’t give tuppence about the view. ‘It’s not far,’ she says. ‘Too far,’ he says. She doesn’t care a bit what he says, she wants to get to the top of the hill. ‘Come on,’ she says.…

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[batgovernor]

Using form: Short poem: Helena Nelson, 'Duel'

Your false self says to my true self, Hate. My true self says to your false self, No. Your false self says to my false self, Shit. My false self says to your false self, Go. Your true self says to my false self, Love. My false self says to your true self, Late. Late, too late, too late, too late. My true self sings to your true self, Wait. ***** Helena Nelson writes: “I can’t explain this…

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[batgovernor]

Sonnet: Helena Nelson, 'Dream'

I found myself in bed with an old man. His beard was silvery, his scrawny chest a rack of ribs, his loose-lipped mouth open and toothless as a baby. There he was, there in our bed, as if he owned the place. He snored and grunted like some ancient king asleep after a banquet. But what feast had led, dear heart, to this? What partying? He turned his head to me. I saw his face— a travesty. Some…

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[anthonywilson]

The Wind and the Rain

I am delighted to announce the publication of The Wind and the Rain, with Blue Diode Publishing. You can buy the book and read sample poems from it here Thank you to Rob Mackenzie for accepting the manuscript and doing such a fabulous job with the production of the book. Thank you to Lucy Runge for permission to use your stunning painting for the front cover of the book. Thank you to Helena…

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