My novel, by Peter Shilston

My historical novel will soon be published! Here is the cover! 

Angelica Shalagina: a voice from the Donbas

 Putin doesn’t talk.

He bombs. During negotiations - he bombs. After negotiations - he bombs. That is his only language. Terror instead of words. Explosions instead of diplomacy. And yet the world still sits at tables. Still poses for photographs. Still pretends there is something to discuss. But we in Ukraine know the truth. We live the truth. Every night. Every morning. Every funeral.

(Angelica reguarly posts her poems on X (formerly Twitter)

Ahriman, by Peter Shilston

 Ahriman, Lord of Midnight, 

pours darkness on the earth.

From his throne on the Black Sun, 

amidst the Radiant Cold

he sends oracles, saying, face facts,

nothing makes sense anymore, does it?

The human dilemma has no solution,

the end of the universe is Absolute Zero, 

and as for you: you can do npthing, 

you're on your own

nobody loves you.

 

But Ahramazda replies, Don't despair

don't be taken in

don't listen to this oxymoron

the sun's still shining

and look: it isn't black!

(The idea here is taken from the ancient Persian religion of Zoroastrianism, which saw the world as the scene of a titanic battle between the forces of light and the forces of darkness, personnified by the competing deities of Ahuramazda and Ahriman). 

The passage of the river: a fragment, by Peter Shilston

 The villagers regarded us with barely-concealed hostility, but we were armed and numerous and they did not dare to attack us. We explained that we were only passing through, that we needed to cross the river, and the more they assisted us in this, the sooner they would be rid of us. After some muttering, they appeared to see the sense of this.

   The river was very wide, with an island formed around an enormous rock in the middle. On the west side, where we were, the water was shallow enough for us to wade through, but eastward the stream was deep and fast-flowing. The villagers, with evident reluctance, supplied us with boats, and after several journeys our entire party was transferred safely to the eastern bank. We thanked the villagers for their help: we had no presents to give them, but for them our departure was clearly sufficient reward.

  But this was only the start of our difficulties, for ahead of us loomed a far sterner task: the passage of the mountains. Those of us who had earlier gone on ahead knew with grim foreboding what to expect: crawling in the darkness through passages too narrow to turn round, and the dreadful door which was to be found at one of the corners. What lay behind it? none of us knew. 

They all stood up, by Peter Morford

 

After three hours driving I needed rest and food at the service area three miles ahead. I needed to cross the two lanes on my left to escape.

It seemed that there were more trucks on the road than cars tail-gating at 65 mph. I slowed down, looking for a gap but far too many of the lorries were left hand drive from the Continent , so I had to be extra careful. I edged my way into lane two but had missed the exit. Unwilling to go on to the next service area, 20 miles away, I decided to take A59 East.

Within minutes I was at the Bat and Ball Tavern. It was just as I remembered it. There was plenty of room in the carpark as I found a space near the entrance. I parked between an aged and rusting Land Rover. I guessed that the driver would be having a pint in the farmers’ bar.

On my left, a vintage Aston Martin. I knew it was still the sort of pub which entertained anyone from a farm worker in his practical transport to the well-heeled director with his 100,000 Tesla or Porsche. They were all there.

Inside, nothing had changed and after a refreshing visit to the Men’s Room I went to the bar and asked the barman for a menu. He looked familiar. Surely not Chris Barnes after all this time?

“That’s me. Welcome back Mr May, We’d just been talking about you. Your mate Joe Staples is over there. You remember him?”

“Of course I do. He was my skipper when I got my County cap. When he retired he became my batting coach and best cricketing friend. He made a batsman of me and I thank him to this day.”

The man in the window put down his paper and struggled a little to stand up and walk over to me, smiling, his hand outstretched. He invited me to join him for dinner and I knew that I wouldn’t be going home that night. I quickly booked a room and phoned my wife.

You can imagine the rest. We were two old men reminiscing about the past, the people and the places, the big scores and the personalities. The time I managed to get two ducks against Hampshire. The revenge when later in the season we trounced them by and innings and I scored 275. Defeating the Windies. 

 “Ah, that was a match,” Joe said. “We needed 260 runs to win on the last day on an old wicket. It looked like a rout as your partners tumbled. We were 8 wickets down. You managed to keep the bowling and snatch the winning run. I’d rarely seen such excited crowd as you reached the pavilion steps and they all stood up. Even the Indies clapped you home. What a day!”

Joe raised his glass. “It was the proudest moment of my career,”

Poem, by Parnia Abbasi

 Parnia Abbasi was an Iranian poet, reported killed at the age of 24 in the bombing of Tehran.

.

I cried for both of them

for you

and for me

blows

to the stars my tears

in your world

the freedom of light

in my

the pursuit of shadows

you and I will arrive in the end

at some where

the most beautiful poem in the world

is stopping

you begin

at some where

to complain about the murmur of life

but I will finish

and

i will be that dying star

in your sky

like smoke

Translated by Veronica Jimenez

A song becomes a sonnet, by John Lennon and another