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Jude Marr
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the poet
The Pushcart Prize-nominated non-binary poet Jude Marr (they/them) is the author of the poetry collection We Know Each Other By Our Wounds. Their work has appeared in many magazines in the US, the UK and worldwide. After ten years of living, learning and teaching in the US, Jude is now back in Britain working as a freelance editor and writing coach. They're looking forward to expanding their horizons on the UK poetry scene.
the poems
Live from the Billionaire
Philanthropists’ Banquet
at this false table appetite is not loss: love cocoons blame while self-
proclaimed good servants shave bottom lines and spin
kaleidoscopes before the famished (slivered glass as thought salad)
as well-tended hands offer bread to shrinking, wrinkled bodies
the would-be unhinge their hearts, still filthy from a dream of delights
meanwhile children, graveyard wraiths, stuff restructured
bread into unlined mouths: their hands hang
angular: their eye-skeletons are sockets of birds who sing, featherless
in the graveyard of power-hungry minds, dark famine eats air: rainfall’s
undelivered: a mess of struts rises around barred gold—
three meals feed expectations: a bountiful garden, bread without errors,
heart-table dreams
and we say, let’s eat expensive: grind night like we grind coffee: remind
the pot that we are appetite: but what terror of the rambling heart,
rock-fraught and filthy, empties a child’s hand without touching?
graveyard children make our sold-out hearts raw: we draw
our hands from their hunger: we make coffee without touching the world.
Solitary
spider on a cold expanse of glass: your padded claws, tiny
to the human eye, never misstep: your leg-hairs hear
the beat of winter’s wings—
find my window’s crack
and crawl in: my home’s dark
corners do not hide a broom: make my room
your own: spin filaments as sanctuary, silk strong enough
to catch the light—
cold-blooded spider: I know you
do not fear winter’s beak: nature has made you predator
and prey: stay
of execution is my offering: all I seek
is fractal consolation from the corner of my eye.
Silence Will Not Save Us
word-heat rises, carbon-oxidised, as oily lies
combust: on city streets
we are still breathing, just: our children
trusted us—
masks act as word-catchers, trapping holy lies
as halitosis, drowning saviour
fantasies in spit: still, the unmasked
spew their shit—
jugglers, jousters, clowns conjure witty lies
to please a crowd: word games
to distract: even mimes may
misdirect—
in my silent room, I pass my cup
from one hand to the other: I am the loner
I declaim, my wasted words
already ash—
in my room, silent, I smell smoke.
Publishing credits
All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb