Strawberry – Tamsin Brown

Persevere, persistence, positivity is key

My name is Tamsin Brown, I’m 24 years old and work as a nursing apprentice for the NHS. My poem is about mental health. I’m also a huge Beatles fan and find that music has played a huge part in my recovery, so there’s a little reference in there and my inspiration for the name of the poem. Thanks for reading 🙂

Strawberry 🍓

Living through eyes closed,

Ignorance is bliss.

Desolate individual, a little optimism wouldn’t go amiss.

The antidote is within you, no one else.

The drive for the recovery of your own cerebral health.

The expedition to the impeccably, imperfect me.

Persevere, persistence, positivity is key.

When will this end? How will I know?

Patience, patience… embrace the odyssey of the lesson.

Tamsin Brown

Did you enjoy this poem? Why not visit Maggie’s website at: Maggie’s Centre Nottingham to find out more about their exceptional work and/or make a donation. Do you have a poem you would like to submit to Voices? Feel free to do so by email at: voicespoetry@outlook.com or via the ‘Contact’ page on this site.

I Am Me – David A. Stansfield

I was like a day that was refused a dawn

I was born in Liverpool in 1968, and was unfortunately abandoned by my mother. I spent the first 18 years of my life in and out of children’s homes and foster care. I always felt alone, without anyone who I truly trusted, or who I could talk to. That is how I originally got into writing poetry. It was the only way that I could release my emotions and thoughts, even though I never shared my poems to anyone at the time. Now, I enjoy sharing my poetry with people. I hope that my poems will inspire, guide, and support all those that read them.

I AM ME

I was abandoned by my mother at two hours old,

Fighting for my life for the first two years.

Going through Hell, whilst being brought up in care,

Falling asleep, most nights, in tears.

Most days, at school, I was ridiculed and bullied,

Rarely getting praised for good work I’d done.

Playing truant, for me, was my only escape,

Because being alone, was almost fun.

Even when I was placed with foster parents,

I felt like I was always second best.

I never felt like I was part of the family,

More like a social experiment, or test.

It seemed, to me, for my first eighteen years,

There was nowhere for me to belong.

I was like a day that was refused a dawn,

I was just like a non lyrical song.

Then one day I had an epiphany,

Everything became suddenly clear.

A realization that broke through my darkness,

For the first time in so many years.

I was a victim of circumstance, not a victim.

My whole mindset had been so wrong.

I am a survivor, I am a fighter,

I am emotionally and mentally strong.

I have done many things that I am not proud of.

I haven’t yet become all I can be.

But I can look in the mirror with my head held high,

And be proud to say “I am me”.

By David A. Stansfield

Chewing Gum – Georgina Hinsley

Finally she was spat away and stamped on right in the street

Chewing Gum

Neatly packaged with a wrapper all shiny and new,

Then she was chosen but he still kept a few.

Her flavours exploded stimulating every sense.

It got chewed away when he took offence.

As putty she skillfully danced around his throat,

But she took too much room and he started to choke.

She tried to stay out the way when his teeth were clenched,

Her resolve kept her sticking even when she got alcohol drenched.

Finally she was spat away and stamped on right in the street,

He never looked back she admitted defeat.

He left her right there in a deep darkened hole,

That poor poor women that chewing gum soul.

Georgina Hinsley, Shifnal

DidI you enjoy this poem? Why not visit Maggie’s website at: Maggie’s Centre Nottingham to find out more about their exceptional work and/or make a donation. Do you have a poem you would like to submit to Voices? Feel free to do so by email at: voicespoetry@outlook.com or via the ‘Contact’ page on this site.

Confession – Huda Javed

When she had hair that shone in the blistering sun

My name is Huda Javed, I’m 16 years old. This poem was inspired by my observation in the difference between the generation of British-Pakistani’s, who grew up within a new, modernised culture, compared with that of my parents, who grew up in Pakistan. It highlights that the youngerBest generation values different things and aspects of life compared with previous generations. I used the object of hair as it is a symbol in Pakistan, among women, of youth. The poem expresses underlying tones of nostalgia and an ignorance to what we possess when we are young.

Confession

My mother cried,

When I cut my hair.

–

When she saw the dark locks,

Littered on the white tiles

Of the bathroom floor.

–

It was just so heavy,

Like carrying a sack,

Laden with stones.

–

Too weighty to pile atop my head,

Too much to let loose,

Too wild to set free.

–

A creature of its own, that battled me daily –

It clawed as I combed,

Snarled when I gathered it roughly,

Forcing it into a knot –

That I knew wouldn’t hold.

–

When I washed it with water,

It yowled and it yapped

When I tamed it with oils and sweet-smelling ointments,

It scowled and it snorted

At my futile attempts.

–

I gave up on my efforts,

Left it to grow and bask

In its short victory –

The ends grew wispy, rough and neglected,

Split with confusion and weak with dejection.

The wild mass grew tired and lost its spirit,

–

The fearless black, of a starless night sky,

Faded, into a cloudy dusk.

–

Holding my scissors,

Before I could hesitate and think of

The severity of this cut,

At the missing cape that fell to my waist

At the fresh strands that would brush my shoulders

And the plait that wouldn’t snake down

My spine

But tickle my neck with starker ends.

–

I looked at the floor,

And saw what my mother would see,

Not dark locks covering my feet

And the white tiles

Of the bathroom floor.

But a rejection –

Of a gift,

Of the motherland

She left behind –

When she had hair that shone in the blistering sun

And sailed past her waist,

That whipped in the wind

And flew in her face.

–

Hair that was her pride

And her fading grace –

That she lost

When the strands grew limp and tired with age.

She put up a fight,

Caring and nursing

With oils and ointments that came from the garden

Trying to preserve

The rich dark river

That flowed down her back,

Burdened with honour and gladness.

–

The missing weight,

That used to drag at my head –

A reminder to her

Of the step that I took,

Away from home –

–

A lesson

For when the strands go limp and tired with age,

–

Of the dark, fearless cape,

Of a starless night sky

That once brushed my waist.

Huda Javed

Hospital Visit – Kate Jarvis

Ambulances cry out, wailing for past tragedies and future mistakes

My name is Kate and I’d like to submit a poem that I wrote after a particularly cold, hard look at myself and my lifestyle.
I’m 31, and wrote this a while back.

Hospital Visit

An empty beer can rattles past my feet

And the half forgotten frivolities of a blurry Friday

Revived in aluminium tinkles.

Ambulances cry out, wailing

For past tragedies and future mistakes.

And I must keep walking

Away from ‘Get Well’ petals.

–

Trudging under my footsteps, the ashen pavement edges by

Like rainwater, stalling down dirty window panes.

The frail brown wrappings of a fly-away summer

Cling to stark railings,

While a canny wind whips hair across my shame

That it might purge my sins.

Arbitrary things.

Kate Jarvis

Streets of Hockley – Emma Wing

The rainbow road leads to the forgotten shops

My name is Emma. I live in Nottingham

The Streets of Hockley

The rainbow road leads to the forgotten shops. You have bookshops, restaurants and even a cow outside a café.

These little streets have so much for everyone. Bargain books at Bookwise. Bargain at Sue Ryder and even something for Goths at Jugglers.

These little streets are so vibrant. Something for everyone. Even crystals for the spiritual at Ica Nine. Which has been serving Nottingham for a good few years.

After all your bargain hunting at the shops. Take a rest at one of the many pubs or independent cafes. Especially the one with the famous cow outside.

Support our local businesses before it’s a dying trade.

Emma Wing

Breakfast in the Village – Josh G Hamshar

Fried, boiled, poached?

Josh has had several pieces of writing published in the last couple of months, both online and in anthologies. Alternating between observation and personal meaning, his eclectic style can range from war and politics, to peacefulness, nature and humour.

Breakfast in the village

The waiter brings a plate of pigs

entangled in unethical crowds

of scrambled clouds

Fried, boiled, poached?

With coffee to make the most

The

honey

drips

toast

And the ferry slides through like bread in the yolk

Josh G Hamshar

Alone – Rohan Mathews

I know that the barbarians search for me

I am submitting on behalf of my 12 year old son, Rohan Mathews. Rohan has written the following poem.

Alone

I am alone.

I used to proudly parade the deep lush forests, the beauty of the land.

I walked with family the ones who were close to me, the ones who I loved, but that all changed…

I walk the plains alone, my stomach aching with hunger, fearful that they will come back.

Those people, stealing all the food, burning the forests and killing my family.

My herd was cut down, I ran and I ran from the painful, sharp cracks echoing in the distance and one by one my family fell.

I felt the sadness and utter hatred as I ran from the bangs and the crying of my family.

My mother, my father, my siblings brought to the ground with no remorse, their skin removed.

The people wore the very fur that was once proudly gleaming on my family, my family reduced to cold carcasses lying on the cold hard floor.

I know that the barbarians search for me, wearing the skin of my own mother, father, brother and sister.

I now roam the wilderness alone frightened, my red fur corrupted and my ribs sticking out, I’m scared that those sadistic things will come back for me.

I am a red deer and I am the last of my kind I live a life of limping in the cold barren landscape searching for the food that deep down I know will never come…

Rohan Mathews, aged 12

Factories Will Rule The World – Simeon Filipov

We mustn’t radiate, let hate propagate and our trees decapitate

Simeon Filipov, 14. I am passionate about climate change. I want to share my views, inspire the masses and motivate change and salvation. Through poetry, I can express my views and dedication, and I aspire for my work to be an inspiration, to spark the thought that there is survival still on offer so let’s forget intergalactic migration)

Factories Will Rule The World

They tell me it is too late

They tell me that we have to accept our fate

And I say, why are you taking the bait?

There is no point to underestimate

Yes, our extinction we accelerate

Because to me, ourselves we asphyxiate

There is no need for Mother to irritate

We mustn’t radiate, let hate propagate and our trees decapitate

We must cooperate, educate and salvation motivate

It is still a clean slate

And to the moon, I wouldn’t want to emigrate

Because between me and you, global annihilation wasn’t deliberate

Globally we must communicate and a simple solution we can’t cultivate

Or do you need me to translate

STOP POLLUTING OUR BEAUTIFUL EARTH IF A SUSTAINABLE SOLUTION YOU CAN’T FORMULATE

It is never too late. We are a unified nation so let’s save the universe’s most beautiful creation

For normality to return will take dedication. so let’s not take survival out of the equation

Simeon Filipov, 14

Counting Stars – Brian Wake

we went outside and gazed at stars

Brian Wake

Born in Liverpool. Published in the UK and abroad. Work broadcast

On BBC TV (BBC 2), Radio 4 and local radio (Merseyside). Books published

By Headland Publications, England and Driftwood Publication (UK)

Counting Stars

In the early hours then, sometime between

not wanting to get up and needing to,

expectant silences, the visual discrepancy

between gunmetal blues of fading night

and gorgeous morning, my father walked

the landing half asleep.

He asked me if… do I, he said, still work,

and should I shave, and if his bus was due.

I turned him back and closed his bedroom

door, and wondered if, at some god-help-me time,

I too would walk the landing half asleep

and if my children might be near

to keep me from unutterable despair.

Against conditions such as these, to question

how and why we live and breathe is somehow

quite absurd. That night, a little time ago,

we went outside and gazed at stars.

My father counting them, my children asking

what they mean and me caught somewhere

in between what matters everyday

and what is meaningless.

Brian Wake