PREAMBLE
In the selectively-edited words of John Lennon, ‘The dream is over… You’ll just have to carry on’. England’s football World Cup ended yesterday, but William Blake’s preface to ‘Milton’ (more familiar when set to Hubert Parry’s music) is ringing out once more and it’s time for England’s Poetry World Cup campaign to begin.
Carrying their hopes (and consequently, for the purposes of this preamble, poetry’s equivalent of Wayne Rooney) will be Jon Stone. Poet, publisher, court transcript editor — Jon Stone is a man of many talents, and was described as ‘a poet of fantastic inversions’ by Poetry London. He won an Eric Gregory Award in 2012; his first full-length collection, ‘School of Forgery’, was published by Salt in the same year and was a Poetry Book Society summer recommendation.
Hoping to send England home early (and consequently, for the purposes of this preamble, poetry’s equivalent of Luis Suárez) will be Russia’s Valery Petrovskiy, an international writer best-known for his publications in English. His work has appeared in Canada, India, Ireland, the UK, Australia and the US, and includes an ebook, ‘Into the Blue on New Year’s Eve’ (Hammer and Anvil Books, 2013) and a short story collection, ‘Tomcat Tale’ (Editura StudIS, 2013). He lives in a remote village by the Volga River.
                    
of nothing more or less ~ Jon Stone If I Were Able To Count Up To Five What she was thinking over I wonder What she was then pondering over ~ Valery Petrovskiy RESULT: Russia won by 10 votes Editor’s note: If, for any reason, you’re unable to vote in the poll, please leave the name of the poem/country you’d like to vote for in the comments.
than pulling the balaclava of foxglove or bluebell over her head
until her abundant pile is shaggy with pollen.
Contrary to reports, she hardly thinks at all
of the gorged queen bedded beneath thick comb,
the hive itself being little but a pitstop
to unload her burden of sweetness
before pedalling again at her body’s ornithopter
to tangle in the bathhouse of another lawn perimeter…
Ever well-dressed elderly Kapr-Tarry
Always on a bench in front of her house
One with faded sidings
Its color a dried bread crust
I liked to melt in my mouth
Wearing national black sackman
In front of her front garden
When she trained us to count from one to five
In the strange lingo of Gorny Mari folk…
