Something – Olivia Grace Railton

Summer is a childhood concept, Something distant and inaccessible

Special thanks to Olivia Grace Railton for her entry to the competition and contribution to the Voices Blog. Olivia is currently studying English at Cambridge University and has had a life-long interest in poetry. As she explains, it provides her with an opportunity to ‘capture complex emotions.’ Olivia certainly achieves this with ‘Something’ – thank you for supporting our project.

Something

Rubbing grit from my hands,

Dimpled with craters

Of tiny asphalt asteroids.

Inspecting the incision

In my nylon skin, which

Births bloody knees

as Plasma tears celebrate

successful caesarean section.

–

Gulping warm sun honey,

Bathed in a sea of caramel –

Sprawling supine starfish –

Diaphragm gripped,

Like a finger in a baby’s fist,

Scent of Earth’s shorn fleece Gently suffocates,

like a child Lulled by a rocking crib.

–

Something I am not entitled to,

Something secret and hidden –

Faint, hushed whispers of children.

Summer is a childhood concept,

Something distant and inaccessible

To my connected, conditioned mind.

Sometimes I still think I can taste it,

As honey hauntingly kisses my eyelids.

–

Something.

Olivia Grace Railton, Cambridge University

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.

That Disease – Darren J Beaney

he died on his terms

Many thanks to Darren J Beaney for his excellent offering. Darren is currently undertaking a Masters Degree in Creative Writing at the University of Brighton. A passionate poet, Darren’s work has appeared in anthologies such as ‘For The Silent’ which supports the work and aims of the League Against Cruel Sports. We are very thankful that Darren has decided to share his talents with us.

That disease

His last days were taxing, long black nights demanding. Living

a hopeless condition so brutally cruel,

wearing him down, rubbing him out. Consumed

by illness,

dying.

–

He didn’t suffer fools and refused to suffer the complaint,

in his way accepting the disease, carrying

its mass without grievance. Never a moan

or grumble,

just got on with it.

–

With the cancer

his final malady.

–

My lasting thoughts of him ail me. Bearing final witness

to a great man slowly passing, slipping away.

Barely able to smile at those gathered

around him.

But still strong enough to briefly squeeze trembling hands.

–

Still aware enough to hide the pain, the fear. Tough enough

to whisper haunting words of love and assurance.

Still proud enough to retain his stature

as head of the clan.

Concerned enough

–

to wear a brave face, masking sunken eyes, and hollow checks.

I remember he died on his terms, well the best

he could negotiate. His final act

of defiance, disobedience

toward that disease –

–

an audacious act in the face of death. The ultimate

show of strength and resolution! In his armchair.

With his forever faithful friend sleeping

by his sporadically tapping feet.

Holding up

–

a large scotch, in a clean glass, in his skeletal left hand.

Smoke from his last cigarette chasing the lazy

jazz notes that crowded the air. His children

cheering for him

as he danced away.

Darren J Beaney, Brighton

The Divide – Kevan Taplin

I rebuilt the walls, that you smashed in your path.

THE DIVIDE

You reached in sand touched,

where others have not trod.

You reached in a touched,

have you now forgot.

–

I rebuilt the walls,

that you smashed in your path.

I rebuilt the walls,

they were not built to last.

Kevan Taplin

Poem 5: The Journey – Jacinta Noel

There’s no one here to comfort me, no rose tinted love, no spectacles to reassure me

Jacinta Noel is currently studying at the University of Exeter and has a passion for poetry. In her own words, the art form provides Jacinta with an opportunity to ‘reflect and look back on my journey and be able to develop as a young individual.’ We are very thankful for Jacinta’s decision to share her talents, and we are sure you will appreciate her work.

Poem 5: The journey

As I read through the lines I look

Within

Searching to find myself amongst the confusion; the constant discussion.

Jumbled words. Constant echo –

Ringing.

–

But I look deep and within

I find a sense of hope – a sense of blurred emotion

The real me?

There’s no one here to comfort me, no rose tinted love, no spectacles to reassure me

–

Maybe that’s a good thing.

This journey is for me to travel and go down…

The lane… lone road.

–

Without fear I begin, so –

–

Let me be. Leave me alone.

Please.

I ask kindly, as I drift,

Float,

Rock, towards…

Destiny.

Jacinta Noel, University of Exeter

The Wait – Nabin Kumar Chhetri

I am going to hills of Darjeeling again

A very special thanks to Nabin Kumar Chhetri for his excellent submission to Voices and the competition. Here is a short biography about Nabin:

Nabin Kumar Chhetri is a Nepalese poet. He is a member of Scottish PEN. He graduated with a degree of M. St in Creative Writing from Oxford University and has also graduated with a degree of M.Litt in the Novel from the University of Aberdeen.

He is recognized by the Scottish Book Trust:

http://www.scottishbooktrust.com/profile-author/122275

His poetry has been published eighty national and international journals. He lives in Scotland with his wife and two children. Further information can be had at www.nabinkchhetri.com

THE WAIT

I sat beside you

when we went to Darjeeling.

I must have been nine then.

–

I would sit by the glass window

and watch the landscape shift

on the tinted glass pane.

–

At Kurseong, the bus would stop

the old train station would show up

through a haze of mist

the smell of burnt coal would warm my nostrils.

–

You would get off, to buy something

my eyes would follow you through the crowd

and as soon as you disappeared, my heart would skip a beat

and when you would reappear again, life would return.

–

The bus driver would come

he would roar the accelerator; On and Off

a column of black smoke would rush out

and when he blew the horn

my eyes searched from one face to the other

until I would see you

running with a packet of biscuit in one hand

and a bottle of water on the next.

–

On the way uphill, I would vomit

you would wipe my mouth with your handkerchief

give me water and an avomine tablet

I would rest on your shoulder and sleep.

–

Thirty years have passed by

I am going to hills of Darjeeling again

I sit by the window

a stranger, rests next to me

The wind moans through the glass chink.

At Kurseong, the bus slows down to a low throttle

beside the same train station

It hisses and comes to a halt. I do not want to go out.

And it feels like nothing has changed;

the rush, the smell of coal and the faces of the people.

The driver comes back, pushes the accelerator, blows the horn.

I look at the crowd. The mist curls up and lazily cover the town.

–

I feel like I am waiting for you again.

Nabin Kumar Chhetri

He Grows – Danielle Moles

he wants to fit in…

Topical and very thoughtful, we thank Danielle Moles very much for her excellent offering to the blog and competition. Danielle is currently studying at the University of Lincoln and hopes one day to pursue a professional career as a writer. In her spare time she enjoys creating poetry and is clearly very passionate about the arts. We appreciate you sharing your talents with us Danielle.

He Grows

Zero

the start of his life

was a rough one. Severely

asthmatic, two holes in the attic

of his heart not lessening

the love he had to give

showcased,

but nowhere to place it

parents gone

no place to belong.

nevertheless, he grew.

–

Four months later

he met two foster carers,

a premature child

wrapped his hands around

the woman’s thumb – mum

looking up, wide eyed,

into the face of a new home

he lay, a lifespan

in the palm of the man’s hand

he would never be alone.

–

The parents wanted him to stay, prayed,

couldn’t part with the new addition

to their family.

–

Problems – though not their own – arose

he was not their blood and bone,

but chosen

they were a family of white,

the young boy was not

was falsely written that

he would not fit in – but he already had.

they loved him as their own,

the children loved him too

he grew.

–

He became part of a family at four

the title of son he wore

adopted

the picture complete

the fleet; whole and content

what could be overcome,

was. Together.

–

Brown –

he thinks, down

he feels disparate, separate

due to words of the past

that never last

due to binary opposites

that society imposed to segregate

due to hate

many years before him.

he was loved

more loved here than anywhere else

he is loved still.

–

Six

he questioned his existence

a hundred times more

he wondered

why?

–

How

could parents abandon children

his mother told him

parents are not those who bear you

but are those who raise you,

they put plasters on the grazes,

rip plasters from the feelings

that aren’t healing,

and comfort

she comforts him.

–

He fears abandonment,

once more, tears up

he is afraid

she tells him she will be there

always

or at least, for many more days

he makes her promise

to live until she is one hundred.

he grows.

–

Ten

is when

he had already wanted to be

a footballer,

a singer,

a dancer,

healthy,

happy,

loved.

he is all of these things.

–

Eleven

he was angry

at how small he was,

at all his friends, family,

teachers, at the system.

he was angry

at no one but himself.

–

He was fidgeting

he did not listen

the teacher asked him if he is stupid,

preached to him about the future

he left

he hid under tables

disguised his flight as strides

and ran from authority

shouted at his mother

and doubted himself

no one understands.

He was diagnosed with ADHD.

–

He gets angry

when you mention it

–

he tries to grow

he is a tough kid

but he cries

after the show.

–

He is cruel

his sister walks him to school

he pushes her into the road –

i hope you die – he lies

he yells

his parents are patient

but he is persistent as well –

i wish you never adopted me

you hate me

i hate you.

familiar records repeat

an hour later he makes amends.

he is cruel

to defend himself.

–

He is afraid

of losing them

he is afraid

they will leave him

after all he puts them through.

he grew.

–

Twelve

he hangs around

with the wrong crowd

street corners, music, loud

these boys play with knives,

bb guns, and cigarette butts

they play with their lives

he wants to fit in.

–

He is frustrated

the schools, comprehensive

cannot comprehend

so just apprehend

behaviour that offends them.

–

He goes home angry, again,

he shuts his door

and cries

why

he cannot understand

he puts his fists to the punching bag

then the walls, then the white flag –

then nothing at all

he sprays aerosol until his breath is lost

he curls into a ball and suffocates

on the pressure rolling him thin

he is lost.

He catches his breath.

–

Thirteen

he experiences death

for the first time,

–

mature and yet naïve,

waits each night for the

dead to rise again

maybe she will surprise us when

he thinks

nothing is forever

not even death.

–

Frustrated

he cries to his mother

he said he hated

and she holds him tight

to calm him

knowing

he never meant it

and never will

he knew too

he grew.

–

He sits on his sister’s bed

slurring a story

one she’s heard before

he stirs

but she listens;

he’s hurting

he asks to be cuddled

and falls asleep

she keeps watching

his tiny back move

deep under the quilt

worried, then

he is a baby again

she watches

shallow breaths

oxygen deprived

minimal movement

but, alive.

unsleeping, her eyes follow

for a cover drop

fearing that it will one day

stop.

–

But he is a fighter

he is aerosol to a lighter

the craters in the heart concave

to a slight

the pain inside eases

more each night

he will continue to fight.

–

He is still obsessed with comparison

colours, size, origins,

learning difficulties and medical conditions

one broken bone,

two interior punctures,

two inhalers,

four surgeries,

five sets of medications,

eleven major asthma attacks,

fifteen injections,

twenty sprains and muscles pulled,

twenty-five blood tests,

thirty sessions, counselling or other,

countless concussions,

and a dozen other various pain sources later –

He is growing.

Danielle Moles, University of Lincoln

Someday – Eleanor Atherton

When it rained, you demanded a rainbow.

A very special thanks to Eleanor Atherton for sharing her poetic talents with us and supporting a very good cause. Eleanor’s aim when writing poetry is ‘to create a safe space for my feelings, my ideas and my creativity to reside.’ Vivid and expressive, we are sure you will enjoy reading ‘Someday’ as much as we did – thanks again Eleanor.

Someday

Someday I won’t think of you,
Your laughter, that whimsical smile,
The excitement that dances in your alluring eyes,
Giving me a horridly, opulent sense of beguile.
–
I won’t recall the times we’ve endowed,
Where your smile told stories of elation,
Where your freckles mapped out the stars themselves,
And your voice rivalled angels into damnation.
–
Although our memories are furtive,
I remember a share of sand kicked in our face,
But still you battled through, a leader.
And you, I would follow to the most dangerous place.
–
There is a silver lining to every cloud,
In darkness, you scoured for stars,
When it rained, you demanded a rainbow.
And to sadness, you threw sharp spars.
–
Someday, I won’t think of you,
I shan’t recall the times we’ve endowed.
Although our memories are furtive,
There is a silver lining to every cloud.

Eleanor Atherton

Perfection – Molly Nash

But why can’t we live for these imperfections that make us this way?

Molly Nash makes a very powerful statement in her excellent offering to our poetry competition. ‘Poetry provides me with an outlet to portray my emotions, my ideologies, and most importantly, my passion for writing’ explains Molly. Thank you Molly for sharing your talents and we are sure your school, Weatherhead, is very proud of you.

Perfection

Perfection; that noun, so abstract and bold,

So demanding, so peaceful, so heartbreakingly cold.

We strive for perfection, crave it in each imperfect day,

But why can’t we live for these imperfections that make us this way?

–

Stretch marks, our figure or scars from long ago,

Surely these things make us human and create things to love and know?

Seriously, every one of those ‘imperfections’ you’ve grown accustomed to see,

Are the very things that make you utterly brilliant and beautiful to me.

–

Days of perfection are always dull, they hold no hope for fun,

What’s life without a few mistakes? It’s a game finished before it’s begun.

Suppose everything was perfect, we’d end up all the same,

Marching to the same drum beat over and over again.

–

Next time you see yourself as imperfect, please don’t worry so much,

Just cast your eyes to our imperfect world and smile, even just a touch.

In yourself, promise me that you’ll never (if for a second) doubt,

Because all these perfect imperfections are what life’s all about.

Molly Nash, Liverpool

The Jazz Band in Gas Masks – Oliver Cobbin

Because fame is fickle and ‘The Gas Masks’’ jazz, isn’t really all that jazz

Many thanks to Oliver Cobbin for his lively and original offering to Voices and the poetry competition in support of Maggie’s. Oliver is a keen musician, but is also clearly a very talented poet as well. In his own words the poem is ‘a mix of dark humour, jealousy and a critique on music.’ We are sure you will enjoy Oliver’s work, and we thank him for kindly sharing his talents for such a good cause.

The Jazz Band in Gas Masks

The gas-masked, taxman, jazz-band are; abstract, gift-wrapped, maniacs,

In second-hand cracked anoraks, with an attitude to match

And their shoes are purposely untied; their minds are all electrified

Wearisome and bleary eyed, are their audience at dusk

–

On spoons, we have one Billy Botch, whilst Victor is the one to watch

‘Can we turn my microphone up a notch?’, the nameless drummer says

Darkness shrouds all of the band, except for one who gets to stand

In the bright spotlight, and wave his hands, no points for guessing who

–

Victor clicks his fingers twice, the rest scurry on like timid mice

He never heeds their good advice; his ego outweighs theirs

Wisdom ricochets around, the absurd, turgid, dirge-like sound

But we all know the audience are bound, more-like held against their will

–

And ‘The Sentimental Mentalists’, are weird experimentalists

‘Moon Gel Melt’ and ‘Gypsy’s Kiss’, all await their turn

They’re out of tune and out of time, half of the words don’t even rhyme

And one of them actually ate a lime, for their final song

–

They play music that’s already dated, and their bassist is sorely overrated

This sophisticated, but widely hated band of merry men

A forced vocal and a phony stutter, apparently the singer’s ‘bread and butter’

A new find, straight up from the gutter, please bring on the next

–

‘Arabian Oryx’ are the band to see, ‘The Gas Masks’ are their arch enemies

Victor tuts, struts bitterly, to welcome on the band

The singers trade malicious looks, “you can’t learn jazz from reading books

And that song ‘Fizzy Pop’ really sucks” Victor does proclaim

–

“Get on that stage before I kick, your band out, you make me sick

I hate anyone with hair that slick and the drummer’s curls are naff”

But there isn’t time for squabbling, the audience is wobbling

“It’s pronounced as Oliver Cobbin” the singer he corrects

–

As the song reaches its final verse, Victor plans to do his worst

Cobbin, Pat, Thraves and Kenneth are cursed, no encore for them

–

As ‘The Whippersnappers’ crack the whip and crease the page on parlour tricks

The trail of crumbs and used tooth-picks, has them scratching all their heads

But it’s almost time for the main act, shoes untied, gas masks intact

The pre-show warm-up is in fact, a ritualistic task

–

Victor proceeds to stumble on, ad-libs the lines to the opening song

He’s out of tune but “it’s the key that’s wrong” is his excuse of the day

They barely ever make it through, one whole song, let alone two

Without an audible sigh or boo, fight or broken string

–

Victor clicks his fingers ‘STOP!’, then lingers on like a ticking clock

The cynical and critical, roll their eyes in disbelief

His rants and raves prolong the shows, to the point where no one knows

What he’ll say next, so no one goes, the audience has shrunk

–

He gestures towards them all to call, his name out loud as he stands tall

His narcissistic, egotistical ways, in full effect

Spoken-word interims, silence descends, the lights are dimmed

A startling joke, a closing hymn, the band grind their teeth

–

The crowd tonight begin to boo, got the ‘difficult-second-album blues’

They twiddle their thumbs, untie their shoes but the silence still remains

Yawning shows they’re so very bored, they boo and hiss like the house of lords

At a lengthy jam of two minor chords, self-indulgence on display

–

Bottled spit soon appears upon, the stage they played but they’ve all gone

“We cannot play another song; a refund is probably best”

“Who needs fans when you’re as great as me?” Victor asks so arrogantly

“Will we ever make it to album 3?” the band begin to muse

–

“Get off that stage, you’ve hit your peak, the same old songs every week

No longer even tongue-in-cheek, more bite your lip and cringe

De-tuned strings, countless false starts, punctured drums, pretentious art

Practise more, learn your parts and throw away the masks!”

Victor dreams of prestigious awards; he may be thrilled but the band are bored

“I think it’s time we pulled the cord”, a bandmate thinks out loud

“There’s so many people for me to thank; my manager, um God, the bank”

Well that speech was really ‘wank’, I hear an onlooker say

–

“He’s always thought he’s better than, the archetypal, insightful, righteous man

Spiteful moon boots, muddled tan, mirrors on every wall”

The band themselves begin to tire, of his ways, they would conspire

But know all too well they would be fired, penniless and raw

–

Those who remain will rack their brains, to make sense of the snowy stains

Upon the shirt of he who is named, Victor Angeles

And the fanatical delusionists, are the ones who will always insist

That they received a mortal kiss, from Angeles esquire

–

A troubling thought soon reappears, its long been the band’s biggest fear

That they’ll be replaced and disappear, into obscurity

Surely not, he must understand, that they were once ‘the greatest band’

In fact, it almost seems too well planned, contrived to say the least

–

Rumours start to spread around, the pestering press, the dwindling crowd

“Have ‘The Gas Masks’ bowed their final bow?” a shocking tale ensues

Is it just a bunch of vicious lies, so Victor can sever all of his ties?

No heartfelt note, no last goodbyes, the band are soon to learn

–

“Get off my stage, you’re all dismissed, in fact you all barely exist

My backing band, with the limpest wrists and tuneless ears to match.

It’s ambition you all so sorely lack, I could do this with one hand behind my back

Fetch your shoes, your anoraks and don’t expect a call”

–

“He played us all like marionettes, a string of lies with more to come

His sycophantic, rock star antics paralysed the numb

How dare he ruin our biggest dreams, with his cunning plots and evil schemes

And I’ve always hated his lyrical themes, pretentiousness galore”

–

Victor brings forth his latest creeps, upon the stage amid the sound of weeps

From their dearest fans who’ll never sleep, knowing what he’s done

Rumours start to spread around, “He must have his head stuck in the clouds”

But would anyone dare say this out loud? The whispers circulate

“The last I heard, he’d lost his mind and sailed it down the river of tears”

He plays in space, where no one hears, so no one ever claps

Still out of time and out of key, all of their songs are in ‘Drop C’

But no one else will ever see, the jazz band in gas masks

–

From helter-skelters in the sky, to fallout shelters, they would try

To play each and every town and place, in this universe

No matter how damp or bleak, they used to come here every week

And if it’s mediocre jazz you seek, you need look no more

–

So, I’m rating them 4 out of 10, generous but then again

I’m envious that they can spend, their lives playing ‘that’

Now jealousy may spring to mind, but look close and you will find

That I once-upon a time declined, an offer that they made

–

Because fame is fickle and ‘The Gas Masks’’ jazz, isn’t really all that jazz

It’s ‘caveman-esque, bland, razzmatazz’, and the audience are dull

Now I’m not one to just complain, I haven’t been declared mundane

The band themselves are all to blame, their curtain call is nigh

–

And it may look to the untrained eye, that it’s jealousy, cleverly disguised

But a pocketful of dreams must die, no sacrifice too small

Victor and his men are cursed; 14 times I have rehearsed

This in my head until it bursts, into a ball of flames

–

It may look to the untrained eye, I’m devilish, equally as sly

The crowd will mourn and they will cry, the vigils are prepared

Victor and his men are cursed; 15 times I have rehearsed

This in my head until it bursts and ‘The Gas Masks’ cease to be

–

A tale that lives on through the ages, told in print on history pages

Meanwhile, inside, my hate it rages, bubbling to explode

These padded walls can’t hold me in, my conscience fails, the room does spin

But I’ve had the last laugh, I always win, ‘The Gas Masks’ cease to be

–

And once they’re gone, they’ll be replaced, similar sound, familiar face

There’s no accounting for a lack of taste, but that is just the game

Insipid lyrics, subtly masked, in a music style of the past

But it’ll soon be gone, it’ll never last, at least this writer hopes

–

But now they’re gone, they’re idolised and their successors are slowly on the rise

Tepid music, cleverly disguised, by jazzy interludes

But now they’re gone, they’re idolised and the history books still print the lies

Another band I will despise; this game goes on and on…

Oliver Cobbin

Seven and Six – Summer Meadow Phillips

There’s a cheeky angel pulling my hair

Many thanks to Summer Meadow Phillips for her kind contribution. Sadly, Summer lost her mum to cancer recently and was very keen to support the Voices project. As a creative writing PhD student, Summer loves formulating short stories and crafting poetry. We are sure her mum would be very proud of her work and for taking the time to share her talents.

Seven and Six

Don’t take me anywhere
I’m already there
There’s a cheeky angel
Pulling my hair
As I sit on a swing
And kick off my shoes
Forgetting this hospital
bed and its blues
When I root too deep
In the darkest glades
I’ll have imps and elves
Dig me up with spades.

Summer Meadow Phillips, Kingston University, London