From the Heart – Olivia Goodlad

You can lose hope but magic stays

Many thanks to Olivia Goodlad for her fantastic entry to the blog and competition. Olivia’s poem is inspirational and reminds us to never give up hope and always hold onto the magic! We really appreciate Olivia sharing both her marvellous talents and positive energy with us.

From the Heart

There is always magic left

From your fingertips

From your heart

Magic can kill, but also light a spark

A spark which stays alight

–

You can lose hope but magic stays

You can lose faith but magic stays

A path way to the future and many lost

Magic stays

There is always magic left

From the cards

To a feeling

Always a spark

From the heart

Magic can be locked away

But always stays

Olivia Goodlad, Year 7, Joseph Whitaker School, Nottinghamshire

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.

The Magic to Live Another Day – Summer Reeves

The magic that connects us inside comes alight for another day

A big thanks to Summer Reeves for her fantastic contribution to the Voices blog and competition. Summer is a year 7 student at the Joseph Whitaker School who has a magical way with words! We are sure that you will enjoy reading her excellent entry as much as we did. Thanks again Summer!

The Magic to Live Another Day!

In the dark tunnel the magic takes its toll

When all is lost afar

And you feel like it’s the end

The magic that connects us inside

Comes alight for another day.

–

Those who are lost or have been tucked away

The spirit of those who lived is able to live another day!

Summer Reeves, Year 7, Joseph Whitaker School, Nottinghamshire

Matthew Birch – Untitled

the warmth of last night’s moonlight

Many thanks to Matthew Birch for entering our competition. Matthew is a talented poet who was highly commended in both the Foyle’s Young Poet of the Year Award and the University of Lincoln Armistice 100 competition. Daniel explains that his poems are an ’emotional response’ to his experiences. We are very grateful for his decision to share his talent with us.

“I think

mhmm.”

And the warmth of

last night’s moonlight

slowly filters out

through half-closed blinds.

Matthew Birch, aged 18, Lewisham

Life is an Unscripted Journey – Margaret Royall

a chasm yawns between hope and despair

Thank you to Margaret Royall for her deeply moving entry to the competition and Voices blog. Margaret has maintained a passion for poetry since childhood and she performs regularly at Writer’s Live Southwell and leads a Nottinghamshire women’s poetry group. In September 2017 a collection of her poetry entitled ‘Fording The Stream’ was published under the penname Jessica De Guyat. Margaret will also be releasing more of her work through Hedgehog Poetry Press later this year. We really appreciate Margaret’s kind contribution.

LIFE IS AN UNSCRIPTED JOURNEY

No bars, no jailer – no escape

through the door of the prison cell….

Despair dances on shallow breath,

Bitten nails dig deep into palms;

a chasm yawns between hope and despair

as the final countdown looms… tick tock…tick tock

–

Above the drone of hospice conversation

a radio is playing Rachmaninoff.

The aroma of freshly popped toast

buttered with grief wafts up from the kitchen

Everywhere the relentless trivia of life intrude,

as invisible blood drips from my wounds,

pooling into a lake of deep crimson, like the hips

on the winter rose bush beyond the window

–

Glioblastoma devours his brain –

grade four, no treatment, bad prognosis…

“Take him home to die, enjoy

what time is left” advises the specialist….

words that trip far too lightly off his tongue,

as though he is dictating a memo,

a thoughtless remark devoid of compassion…

I struggle to find a morsel of forgiveness

–

Gritting my teeth, I steel myself

for the grim hours ahead, maybe just minutes?

He is drifting away from me second by second…

One last heart-stopping time I stoop

and bathe his withered lips with my tears,

then, all too soon the last… breath…… comes,

gently, like a dove settling on an olive branch.

Unexpectedly I feel a deep sense of relief

Margaret Royall, Nottinghamshire

Crescent Moon – Jennifer Worswick Irving-Bell

My soul was only half there

Crescent Moon

Your hand lay limp

Upon my lap,

Tears gleaming-streaked down my rosy cheeks.

Your last breath raspy in the winter air,

Your face then went so fair.

–

The gloom of the solemn moon

Illuminated your fair face

I pulled back your hair and kissed you farewell.

I swear I saw your face burn with passion-or maybe it went lifeless.

–

My tears stained your jacket like a tea bag staining paper-

Hard to get rid of once it’s happened.

My soul was only half there and my head hung low-like the crescent moon hanging low above my head.

Lower

And lower.

Jennifer Worswick Irving-Bell

10pm on the Steps – Alice Hill

clouds grow and stretch and pull me in

We appreciate Alice Hill’s kind contribution to Voices and the competition. Alice is a music student from York who currently studies in Manchester. As well as being passionate about music and playing the saxophone, Alice also enjoys crafting poetry in her spare time. Thank you for your vivid and thought-provoking offering Alice.

10pm on the steps

cigarette smoke

always ascends in

unique patterns. i like

to watch it

as it dissipates

as it grows yet

disappears. clouds grow

and stretch and pull me in

and draw me close

like he did.

they don’t disappear so quickly. the only

stars are artificial

aeroplanes filled

with people who i’ll never know.

the evening sky

is colder than the wind

that seethes beneath it. a smudge

of dull purple with grey cobwebs in its

corners. i suppose

the night doesn’t wish to distract from

his eyes. the scene

mustn’t be too beautiful for a moment like

this. our thoughts

ricochet and

never end. but

the clouds are a salvo for the sky

just as the mouth

is a salvo for the

mind.

Alice Hill, Manchester

Bid Him Adieu – Gopes Niraula

for the repose of his eternal soul

Thank you to Gopes Niraula for this vivid and moving entry to Voices and the competition. Originally from Nepal, Gopes currently resides in Wokingham and has enjoyed a life-long interest in poetry. The theme of mourning and honouring a loved one is something we can all appreciate and understand. We really appreciate Gope’s contribution.

Bid Him Adieu

We wrapped his body in a white holy cloth

and carried him in a white sling

slung between two brown bamboo poles

to the edge of the Bagmati river.

–

On the pyre, we covered his cold nostrils with

soft cotton balls and placed six sacred

beads of rudraksha in his palm for moksha.

We lit a handful of sandalwood incense

and hovered it in circles from head to toe

for the repose of his eternal soul.

Its thin wisp of smoke curled lazily into the air.

–

We walked around the pyre with a burning

piece of wood and lit a handful of kindling at

his feet. We threw a tong of rice on his chest

and started chanting mantras for his soul.

–

The dry logs began to whoosh and

his flesh sizzled and spluttered as the thick

columns of black smoke rose into the air.

Its ashes flaking off & falling silently near the pyre.

–

The summer sun turned red on the horizon and

we left the burning pyre to go home.

My small brother was sitting in his chair

beneath the dimly glowing grey oil lantern

hung down from the ceiling of the balcony.

He kept expecting his Grandfather home from farm

pedaling his old axon bicycle with a bag of bonbon

in the basket on the front of his bicycle.

Gopes Niraula, Wokingham

A Simple Soldier – Denis Paratusic

He and mother had shared their final hug and kiss

An interest in World War One poetry inspired Denis Paratusic to create ‘A Simple Soldier’. Denis was keen to explore how war affects the youth, ordinary people and families – and he does so very powerfully. We really appreciate his kind contribution concerning a theme which is just as relevant today as it was in 1914. Thank you Denis.

A Simple Soldier

A simple soldier told a simple lie.

Little did he know

That simple soldier would-in war-die.

At only fifteen years old he did enlist.

Departing, little did he know,

He and mother had shared their final hug and kiss.

–

So off to war he did go.

Little did that simple soldier know,

He would never return.

–

To be old,

–

To Grow.

–

On the battlefield-in his heart that bullet struck!

Fall did he.

Into the mud,

Into the yuck!

–

Mother received a telegram to say that it was him.

She sobbed;

“NO. Not my boy.”

“Not my dearest Tim.”

Denis Paratusic

Lost People – Mori Leadbetter

This is the place where the lost people go

Special thanks to Mori Leadbetter for her excellent entry to the competition and Voices Blog. Mori has a talent for expressing her feelings and emotions through poetry and we are sure everyone will enjoy her poem and relate to her work. We appreciate your kind contribution Mori.

Lost People

There is a place a million miles from here,
Where there is nothing like hate or like fear,
There are no cars, no planes, no not here,
Nobody shouts so it’s safer for your ears,
Nothing is loud, just quiet and low,
This is the place where the lost people go,
It’s not a myth as I hope you can see,
I wish one of the lost people was me,
I wish one of the lost people was me.

Mori Leadbetter, Aged 8

Wildford Suspension Bridge – Teo Eve

clouds that loitered in the greying sky

Thank you to Teo Eve for his vivid contribution to Voices and the poetry competition. Teo is a talented poet who often explores ‘themes of place and identity, and how our relationship to spaces affect our outlook on the world.’ We really appreciate Teo kindly offering his time, effort and talent.

Wilford Suspension Bridge

For Tom

On a Tuesday we knew we’d forget we chose

to stroll across the muddy fields near the river,

concerned that such a drab place could never be

poetic material, especially with nothing poetically

drab to speak of. The clouds that loitered in the greying sky

looked less like dreamscapes than dust

found after months of not cleaning your desk.

Muttering ironic muted verse, we trade perplexed

double-takes at dog walkers and family strollers,

and wonder whether the bridge is not ornamentation

after all. Love’s locked heavily on its iron bars,

and we ask if ours are not the only stories.

Our initials are embarrassingly symmetrical.

You ask me how elitist it must be to see

graffiti as modern art. Tired of small talk

we collapse on a bank, and with fiddling thumbs

wonder whether poems can ever be composed

entirely of numbers. Outsize Czech palaces

that summer we wondered who else had had

the same conversations, and where, and when,

and why.

Teo Eve