poetry

The Martyrdom of St. Peter by Tony Dawson

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio,

a troublemaker who gloried in sadistic

violence, especially in his paintings,

was the Prince of Darkness of Baroque,

the pioneer of the style dubbed tenebrism.

Together with his realistic portrayals

of the subjects who populate his canvases,

“the terrible naturalism that attracted

and ravished human sight”, as Scannelli put it,

they are the distinctive features of his work.

His painting, The Crucifixion of St. Peter,

commissioned by Monsignor Tiberio Cerasi,

is an archetype of Caravaggio’s tenebrism

and how he exults in depicting brutality.

The distribution of the four individuals

conjures the shape of St. Andrew’s cross.

A beam of light traverses the canvas

from the top left of the frame

to the bottom righthand corner

illuminating St. Peter’s torso, left arm,

and hand nailed to the crosspiece,

every muscle and sinew of the martyr

tensed. A blend of pain and terror cross

the face of the Saint. High to the left,

the only executioner to escape anonymity

embraces Peter’s shins and the upright

of the cross to help a second executioner

whose woollen jacket is rucked up

by the rope he’s using to haul the cross

upside down as it is placed in the hole,

dug by the third executioner’s shovel.

Petra, the rock in the foreground,

evokes Peter’s name, the rock

upon which the Christian Church

is unified, emphasised further

by the shadowy rocky landscape

in the background darkness.

Tony Dawson

(Image is of the author; would be strange if another fellow, now wouldn’t it?)

Octave for Janet by Tony Dawson

Spring and summer blossoms populated

our family tree that stood so straight and tall.

Then the blossoms gradually faded into fall

bringing the fruit that we so eagerly awaited.

When our winter hesitated and finally never

came, apparently because of climate change,

our blossoms bloomed and flourished once again.

An Indian summer in which to bask forever.

Tony Dawson

(Image is of the esteemed poet)

Your Jesus by Geraint Jonathan

It’s true that your Jesus came back. His bar mitzvah coincided with the end of the First World War. As eldest scion of second generation Nazarene immigrants, he no doubt had his work cut out for him in the heartlands of a newly ruined Germany.

As you’d expect it was his talk brought the grief, the trouble. Said he had such news as would overturn the world and so forth. In short, words best whispered, or better yet, left unsaid. Those who rejoiced to hear them would soon lose their ears. And soon enough he and his raggletaggle crew were among the ten thousand others on the slow train east.

He did everything he could, your Jesus. But it was no good. Some clocked him as a collaborator – owing to that enemylove spiel of his. The bread not in his belly started to show on his face; but still he shared what few scraps he could procure, making himself no friends by doing so.

As for his ‘fate’: it came without warning, during morning roll-call: he was hanged along with two others before the work detail set off. His executioner was a man known as ‘Ape’ – a sobriquet supposedly derived from his reputation for “going ape” when beating people to death. ‘Ape’ himself was promoted to captain shortly before the end of the war. He disappeared soon after.

Geraint Jonathan

(Image by Christopher J Ananias)

Third of May 1808, by Francisco de Goya by Tony Dawson

is a virtuoso display of dynamic brushwork.

In his visceral need to capture the moment,

his depiction has anticipated impressionism.

The speed at which he applied the paint

has infused the canvas with ominous terror.

The left side of the canvas is bathed in light

from a box lantern at the feet of the faceless,

hooded, firing squad of Murat, on the right:

evil is being perpetrated under cover of darkness

by the French incarnations of Death.

The Spanish victims, each a non-combatant,

standing beside three slaughtered patriots

whose bodies lie bloodied in the dirt,

show a mixture of fear, resignation and defiance.

One of them, a monk, his hands clenched in prayer,

seems to be hoping to receive clemency.

The man in the white shirt throws his arms

out wide, challenging the soldiers to shoot him

as more civilians are herded up the slope

to meet their deaths like cattle in an abattoir:

the horrors of war laid bare by an artist in despair.

Tony Dawson, 12 February 2026

word is by Geraint Jonathan

don’t you dare say marl

nothing deserves it

likewise heft or skirl

avoid them as you would

verdant

& if it’s evening keep it that way

don’t go with gloam

anymore than you would darkfall

darkfall being

like gloam

down there with

verdant

the sky can never again be azure

anymore than the stars above can twinkle

though sooner by far the stars above twinkle

than a sky ever again be azure

& if deny yourself mulch you must

then do so

mulch having about it the very vetch & sedge

& graunch to convey the earthy

itself a proposition of dubious provenance

wouldn’t you say

mulch?

it’s not down there with verdant

but it’s close

there’s a leatheriness survives i suppose

a compact sogginess

wet as mulch is

generally

Geraint Jonathan

(Wonderful images by CJA)

Finis Gloriae Mundi by Tony Dawson

Juan de Valdés Leal has shrouded

his canvas in deepest darkness.

Two open coffins lie side by side:

a bishop and a knight of Calatrava,

each a worldly exemplar of vanitas,

two souls awaiting the Last Judgement.

The prelate is in an advanced stage

of putrefaction, the flesh of his skull

consumed by worms and beetles,

his crozier clutched by scrawny fingers.

An angel’s hand suspends the scales

of the Last Judgement above them both.

One plate, sustaining a dog and horned goat,

each animal representing mortal sins,

is ominously labelled NIMAS (NOMORE).

The other plate, NIMENOS (NOLESS),

with the Sacred Heart of Jesus, IHS

and the Bible, contains the virtues

that must outweigh the sins of men

if they are to receive eternal rest.

Many other corpses are hinted at,

sprawled in the background gloom.

A messenger to the underworld,

an owl, surveys this scene of doom.

Tony Dawson

The Girl Who Tilted the Earth by David Henson

A waitress finds her

wailing and convulsing

‘midst porcelain and tile.

A fighter, she held on

‘til methadone prevailed.

Her history scares

couples wanting to adopt.

She grows up wandering

in a forest of fosters.

When she’s thirteen,

a man sneaks into her room,

puts his hand over her mouth.

She takes to the streets,

her body her coin.

Robbed of innocence

too soon, the child

leaves her own behind

at a storefront.

Tempting fate once

too often,

she imagines floating

high above rooftops

and rickety fire escapes.

She crashes so hard,

the earth’s axis tilts,

imperceptible but real.

Like her life.

(end)

David Henson

(Image provided by DWB)

Saragun Verse: It’s Like Fentanyl for Lazarus

Plan A

i

I used to be of the night

Never ate, drunk at dawn

Gods be damned, laughter so bright

Not knowing only slaves write songs

ii

Ahab’s lovely light landed on me

On summer staircases, tenement eaves

Below winter stars in wrong skies crossing

Greedy time knew nothing of me

iii

The devil clock chimed one morn’ at three

The deathnight spoke the mind of the Boar

‘Stupid girl, the master marked the cards before you were born,

Innocence is over, come now, find an oar.’

iv

No more nights of putting the wrong key in the lock

Nor philosophies over blasphemy and cigarettes

Nor scorning those who have children as a form or revenge

A strange method of payback for having been born

v

Then comes nothing, and nothing echoing more

‘T is nothing that makes only more

Of its stern self perpetual, redundant, sane

The ugly thing that happens when time remembers your name

Plan B

Re-read Plan A over a good snort of Methadone

Then snarl snarl at the dying of the light

Give your deepest weakness the finger and rise like Lazarus

People were made because the beasts won’t laugh at us

Mime by David Henson

The mime motions for a volunteer.

A young man emerges from the crowd.

The mime tips an imaginary hat.

The young man likewise.

Chuckles mingle among the onlookers.

The mime holds his pretend hat

to his head, leans

against an imaginary wind.

The young man does his best.

The mime nods.

The mime presses his hands

against the walls

of an invisible box,

crouches and pushes

his chin to his chest.

The box is shrinking.

When it appears the mime

is about to be squashed,

he strains his hands above him

and, arms trembling,

struggles to his feet.

The young man tries

to imitate the maneuver,

but the invisible box

continues contracting.

The young man’s mouth opens

in a silent scream until

he disappears.

Someone holds up a phone,

shouts Viral video!

The mime sweeps a bow,

motions for another volunteer.

Twenty hands shoot up.

(end)

David Henson