Frank McMahon lives in Cirencester. He’s published three books of poetry, the third in 2024: “The Light will Always Return.” He’s also created poetry films and won several awards. He volunteers for Cheltenham Poetry Festival and has helped to promote the Queen’s project; ‘Poetry Together’ with Powell’s School. With members of local writers’ groups upstairs (there’s a lift too!) at the Bingham Library, he organises ‘Writers in the Library’ a free event at 2.00pm on the second Monday of every month. It’s open to everyone, and there’s an opportunity to read your own work at their ‘open mic’.
To read Frank’s poem; ‘Joining the Ring’, go to Cirenscene.com online magazine and search for Somewhere Else Writers.
Don’t forget, there’s lots more from Somewhere Else Writers on somewhere-else-writers.org too, including audio clips of poems, stories, plays and spoken word programmes.
Joining the Ring
- Little Barrington
It’s always the unexpected moment,
drinking champagne on a sunlit lawn when a shower
bursts upon you, winter morning
a solo trumpet in a market square;
it came
that moment when half-way over the stile
I saw their caravan and trucks,
tethered sphere of the Big Top
alien spaceship in disguise
albino jelly-fish.
Illusion? No.
Not as I approached through the wilting meadow
all quiet in midday shimmer.
I could have waited, bought a ticket
confident I would witness something close to wonder,
and something more imperfect, vivid memories
spanning three generations flickering
like an Aldis lamp. To return would be an attempt
to convert decaying celluloid to digital.
- Minchinhampton Common
My only act of entertainment
driving away, grandsons in the back,
boot-lid I’d failed to close,
car horns, shouts which sounded like applause, until….
That day, their first experience, walking past candyfloss and burgers
sweets in cellophane cones.
Entrance. Decibels.
The band loud and brash, maybe three false notes
as if Gershwin had rushed in late,
ink still wet on the score. Parabolas;
the women performing somersaults on the circling ponies
trust in their constant pace as they rose
from shoulder to land on the gleaming flanks;
acrobats and jugglers could have just flown in
from medieval Carcassonne or the Grand Vizier’s Divan.
Another week, another field,
their home is where they hear our acclamations;
all polished muscle defying gravity and fatigue
a lesson in physics, drawing energy from our gasps
a young girl hanging from the rope’s end by her teeth
flashes of juggled knives.
Interval of ice-cream and cider,
performers perspiring on caravan steps
a drift of sawdust
glimpse of the strongman flexing biceps.
It’s not the smell of the grease-paint,
this audience has brought its own bouquet of after-shave and perfume,
- Arrowe Park
it’s the evolution to something kinder
than the tiger snarling and pawing at the whip
the parade of elephants uncaged unhobbled
to perform their vacuous circles.
It’s new wine from different vines
and the swirl of an older vintage
clown and fall-guy enduring
another baptismal custard, gross blob on the nose
acid-dream blasts of face-paint. Here
in their routine of precisely calibrated chaos
we might confront a glimpse of our life
teetering along our narrow ledge
the sense of someone unseen fermenting disruption
because it makes more profit
or fits an ideology
when we’d rather go back to the messy play,
mud pies bowls of cold spaghetti
water fights and sun cream
someone there to scoop us up
tuck us into bed to dream again of the big tent
the wobbly benches
stench of fresh perspiration
the waiting for….
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