Webs – Matthew Meredith

I will brush him away at some point, maybe…

A big thanks to Matthew Meredith for his vivid contribution to Voices and the poetry competition. Matthew is an electrician from Kent who has a keen interest in poetry. We are sure everyone will be able to relate to Matthew’s reflective and thought-provoking offering, and we really appreciate his kind participation with our project.

Webs

The spider’s web straddles the mirror
on my car door. All clingy and sticky, It billows
Slightly when I drive. I will brush him away
at some point, maybe, though he’s really no trouble.

Perhaps the greatest thing we can do
Is pay attention to what can be saved
and realistic enough
with what can’t.

Taking that cardboard box, with its
weightless contents to a woman in a car park,
who knew about these things.
The bat that clung to those brown velvet curtains.

All those years ago.
Handing it over and
before we left, brushing
that billowing web off the door mirror.

Then driving home.

Matthew Meredith, 40, Kent

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.

SNT – James Martin

Havana in your skirt that night

Thank you to James Martin for kindly entering the competition and sharing his poetry with us. James lives in Portsmouth and, as well as working in education, is a passionate musician and singer. We really appreciate his support with the Voices project.

SNT

Don’t let me be a jerk tonight, like
his ill-sped book I’m open to discussion.
In the back of dad there remains a motherload,
and having mined my childhood gold
I know I must, whether now or then
take a black Toyota to the second fold:
there is Danish piling up in St. Germain,
but the devil bought a book already sold.
So the consequence of light came when
the Rumba’s suicidal drummer hid
Havana in your skirt that night
and the door pulled shut set the clocks at ten,
and hearts on sleeves set the clocks at ten
and they’ll let me out before it brightens.

James Martin, Portsmouth

The Muses & Me – Pamela Scott

I seek answers in the stars

Elegant and enchanting, we are very privileged to include Pamela Scott’s exceptional poem in the Voices blog and competition. Pamela hails from Glasgow and her fantastic work has featured in publications such as: Buckshot Magazine, Brilliant Flash Fiction, A Quiet Courage, Allegro Poetry Magazine and Dream Catcher. She has also featured in anthologies published by Collections of Poetry and Prose and Indigo Dreams Press. At the time of writing, Pamela is working on a novel.

THE MUSES & ME

1: THE FAIR VOICED

Calliope whispers in my ear

when I write obsessively

about my epic journeys

of self-discovery and revelation.

She writes words of

inspiration on her

ancient writing tablet.

She spurns me

on when I feel like giving

up and think I’ve got no

words left inside me.

She won’t let me quit.

–

2: THE PROCLAIMER

Clio perches on top

of my desk when

I write screeds and screeds

of poetry telling my life story.

She records every step

of my journey on the

pages of her ancient scrolls.

She reminds me

of facts I’ve forgotten.

She supplies me with

cups of tea.

She perks

me up with chocolate.

–

3: THE GIVER OF PLEASURE

Euterpe lies back on my bed and plays

the flute day and night when

all my poems

and thoughts

rhyme.

Her beat’s addictive

and inspirational.

Her tunes make my ears

ring for hours.

My poems flow to her steady beat.

We make beautiful words together.

Our rhythm is divine.

–

4: THE LOVELY

Erato dances

around my room playing

her lyre and singing melodies

when love in all its splintered

glory infects my poetry.

She makes it sunny every day.

The sky’s blue and bright.

Her infectious voice

and music capture me

and I tap and hum along.

–

5: THE SONGSTRESS

Melpomene sings melancholy ballads

of woe behind her tragic mask

as I lie in bed drowning my sorrows

with bottles of vodka and write

angry poems of a loveless life.

She doesn’t offer much comfort.

She weeps in time with me.

Her sorrowful songs bring fresh despair.

We drink three bottles between us.

–

6: SHE OF MANY HYMNS

Polyhymnia keeps vigil at my side beneath

a black veil for weeks after

my grand-mother dies.

I write with fiery passion, poems about

the unfairness of death.

She sings hymns in the sweetest,

saddest voice I’ve ever heard.

She wipes my tears as they spill

down my cheeks.

She comforts me.

–

7: THE WHIRLER

Terpsichore dances

in tune with me playing sweet songs

on her lyre the night I get really

drunk and dance around my

room to prove I can make it

on my own.

My feet move

in rhythm with her tune.

She picks me up each time

I stumble.

She washes sick out

of my hair and helps me into bed.

–

8: THE FLOURISHING

Thalia perches on

my bookshelf and tells jokes behind

her comic mask the day I write

an epic poem about a woman’s

love affair with a bar of chocolate.

Every punch line makes me roar

with laughter.

Tears roll down

my cheeks.

I laugh so much

my throat hurts and I feel stitches

in my side.

We roll about on the floor.

–

9: THE HEAVENLY

Urania peers into

her globe and compass the night

I seek answers in the stars.

I stare up at the moon, the black

sky and twinkling stars and pray

our paths will cross again.

I talk to the moon about you

for hours. I tell the night sky our story.

I beg the woman

who lives there to send you back to me.

I make a wish on a shooting star.

Pamela Scott, Glasgow

A Cry For Help – Kajol Jain

All they desire is liberation

Kajol Jain’s excellent offering addresses the crucial issue of animal rights. This is a subject Kajol feels very passionate about and believes ‘there should be more awareness around animal captivity and measures to be taken to protect animals’. We are very thankful for Kajol’s decision to share her powerful poetry which contains a vital message.

A Cry For Help

Caged yet free,

What an odd home of old plastic bottles

And sludge in their once clear water surrounds them,

Sharp ends on the sands – one wrong move and

It’s over –

Rays reflecting off of the metal bottle-tops

Their quiet pleas echo as they reach out desperately

But no one hears a sound

They mourn in silence.

A lone pigeon stumbles, a thin wire tangles

Pulling its foot tighter

And tighter.

Their indignant squawks – a cry for help,

Once free, they yearn to roam free once again, they seek

Freedom from their predator

Freedom from us.

Unheard, or rather ignored,

By the selfish individuals that abuse them

Tumultuous sounds as they quarrel with one another

Yet seek comfort in their shared suffering.

What are they, mobile machines for entertainment, tossed around?

Their pounding heartbeats

All they desire is liberation from the world

Why don’t we

Free them from captivity?

Free them from their misery.

Kajol Jain, Henrietta Barnett School, London

Hunting Out Home – Imran Boe Khan

how strange to be out of place

Thank you very much to Imran Boe Khan for his exceptional contribution. He is a ‘keen admirer’ of the work done at Maggie’s Centre. Imran teaches creative writing and his work has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, in the Rumpus, Menacing Hedge, Juked and Heavy Feather Review. He has had work anthologised in a special edition of Writing for Peace. Khan is a previous winner of the Thomas Hardy Award and we really appreciate his kind submission.

Hunting out Home

A body remembers everything, fluid plots of time

brine life beneath the skin, moments detach from their birth places

–

– how strange to be out of place, a fear heaped in desire,

birdsong trapped in a down town gutter.

–

I’ve withstood the hours long enough to earn my badge,

a flood of dopamine amongst the ruins.

–

It’s the blossom in the black, the adventure beneath the dry rot,

some figure in the blood will console us.

–

I stare at a pulsing canopy for hours

flaunting its centre, the countless peripheries hurt my skin,

–

but I see the path made clear. Piece by piece I peel from the still place,

hunt out home. As my feet pitch and howl,

–

I cough up new constellations, drag myself into the woods

behind an old lover’s house, sling her abandoned canoe.

–

Awed by the strength of a boat dock, I covet the sea.

I have a sink to drain, a set of keys to leave behind,

–

but the river is stronger. I grip an oar, grip a prayer,

pursue the scent of a world we thought had come to its end.

Two unlocked doors pivot eyes towards my absence.

I’ve abandoned nothing I would not abandon again.

Imran Boe Khan, Dorset

Recovering – Katy Corderoy

You aren’t really my best friend. But you are all I have ever known.

We are very thankful for Katy Corderoy’s exceptional submission. Katy is currently completing her Masters in Children’s Literature whilst working full time, but still managed to find the hours to kindly create and share her talents. Katy’s poem ‘Sunset’ recently won the Purple Breakfast Review award. Poetry for Katy is a ‘a way to say those things which are really difficult to say otherwise’.

Recovering

You have been with me for years.

My best friend, accepted and known, silent.

You are the frightened look in my eyes.

The rabbit in the headlights. The butterfly in my stomach.

–

You are my best friend, accepted and known, loud.

I hear you, shouting at me, it will come.

I listen to you, you guide me, with you I am numb.

You are me, the sparkle in my eye, the bones in my body.

–

How can I say goodbye to all I have ever known?

Are you me? I don’t think you are, you are you.

I don’t need you anymore, yet life still hurts.

I want you to numb me, to free me from this pain.

–

But Anna, what is this pain? Why am I empty?

Lonely, misunderstood, a void of suppressed desire.

Am I hungry? Of course not, I have no hunger for life.

How can I, when the world is hungry for love.

–

You are my best friend, loved and let go- leave.

I hear you, I feel you. Your caresses, the kindness.

I see you in those lonely dark nights and in the stars above my bed.

I see you in the cracks in my ribs, the pain in me.

–

You are my best friend, but I can’t let you stay.

I think back to nights on the ‘green thing’,

To crying, to laughing, to drunken whispers.

I see you in everything, you are all I have ever consistently had.

–

But I need to start a new chapter,

I need a different success,

I need another peace.

You aren’t really my best friend.

But you are all I have ever known.

–

Maybe the light that seeps through the cracks in me will shatter into a rainbow,

But how will I know if you are always there, a polyfiller, a plaster across a gap.

I need to accept those holes in me, I can’t give love, I can’t give life. I am me. Imperfect, alone, I am the space in between the branches. Can anything be empty? Are those gaps not precisely what constitutes those branches?

–

Leave me with my broken bits. Leave me. Leave me with the gaps – I won’t fill them, I don’t need to. I can’t give love, because I am love.

Katy Corderoy

Memories – Ellie-Mae Slavin-Lockyer

They’ll always be in your heart

Special thanks to Ellie-Mae for her fantastic entry. A passionate writer and poet, Ellie-Mae would like to pursue a career as an author when she leaves school. We are sure you will enjoy Memories and remember loved ones when you read. Thank you Ellie-Mae for sharing your excellent talent.

Memories

We all have people who we love,

We all have people to see,

But sometimes they need to go,

Into a better life, another one and another one.

–

But do not worry,

Do not forget,

Yet they are happy

Amazed.

Wherever you go in this world,

They’ll always be there,

Forever and ever.

–

Even if you went to space

They’ll always be with you,

In your heart,

In your mind

In your family.

–

They’ll always be in your heart,

Wherever you go.

Ellie-Mae Slavin-Lockyer, age 8

Hell – Regina Lee

you are met with a mirror… a reflection of you…

Many thanks to Regina Lee for her excellent submission. Regina is based in London and is a gifted poet who very kindly decided to share her work. Hell invites us to consider the trauma of a tormented soul.

Hell

I have not been to hell.

But let me tell you

How I imagine it to be.

–

Thoughts.

Thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts.

Thoughts that tear into the flesh and infest the mind

These thoughts, they have found a breeding ground

Optimal conditions. Multiplication. Infestation.

You did wrong.

Physical exhaustion; the body slumps like a dead man

Shot and left for days, eyelids drooping.

But thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts

Keep the heart beating.

Beating.

Raging.

Heaven would be where the nightmare ends,

But there is no such luxury known as sleep.

You cannot awaken.

–

Hunger.

There will be food.

Glorious food. A banquet. Ready.

There will be some comfort in this.

Familiarity. You vaguely recall a day

Your loved ones welcomed you home to feast and

For a fleeting moment you remember

happiness

Starving, the gut ringing from the hollow

You reach out to take a bite.

But a lump in the throat blocks

Every single particle from reaching

All the places that need to be filled.

Food.

It cannot satisfy your aching hunger.

–

Pain

At times, others will join you

Smiling, eyes wide open

They will stand in a circle.

Surrounding you,

They will chant “I care, I care, I care”.

You find solace in this. There are others who will share your pain.

But when lightning strikes and the thunder ROARS

Only your body is chosen by the skies

Agony. The roaring thunder deafens their ears to your pain.

They smile and chant “I care I care I care” as your face contorts in despair.

No one will share the pain.

–

Exhausted

You will crawl to the light.

Somebody

Something

God

Please

Stop this

Please

–

“You need to learn”

–

A voice appears. You turn around to face your opponent

But you are met with a mirror

A reflection of you

“Learn. Learn. Learn. Learn. Learn”

–

And you feel the whole cycle beginning again

Thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts

Remorse

–

I have not been to hell.

But I lost you.

And that is close enough.

Regina Lee, London

Home – Karin Brittle

I stood there on the doormat, a stranger alone

Special thanks to Karin Brittle for her excellent offering to Voices and our poetry competition. Karin is a keen and talented writer who often draws upon personal experiences for inspiration. We are sure the themes contained within ‘Home’ will resonate with you, and we are very appreciative of Karin’s contribution.

Home

I stood on the doormat, a stranger outside,

Looking in at their world, whilst quiet, wide-eyed,

–

The night, it was still, and the air calm and mild,

Nothing to hear but the sounds of the wild,

–

The sky a deep blue with its moon shining bright,

An ethereal glow, that lit up the night,

–

There I stood frozen whilst time, it stood still,

In front of the house, built proud, named Anvil,

–

Fixated on something I’d not seen before,

I looked through the panes, of the glass in the door,

–

I stared up and down, at the neutral décor,

And marvelled the sight of the real oak wood floor,

–

For two minutes I paused and gazed right on through,

Into the hallway, the lounge, and even the loo,

–

What, I do wonder, have those four walls seen,

The laughter, the fallouts and everything in between,

–

Romantic meals, and wine just for two,

To family gatherings and fun-filled barbecues,

–

I bet the Christmas tree lights sparkle gently at night,

Whilst they wind down for the eve, raising a glass to their life,

–

They smile at each other, in the soft candlelight,

Her legs rest on his lap, as he sits there upright,

–

They relax in harmony and let their hassles drift away,

Knowing all in their world is completely okay.

–

Ahh the staircase I see, must lead to cosy bedrooms,

Where a baby sleeps peacefully, as midnight looms,

–

They’ll lay there tonight, tucked up warm, hearts content,

With dreams for the future of days so well spent,

–

With their loved one beside them, to have and to hold,

In the house they’ll stay fond of, until they grow old,

–

I stood there on the doormat, a stranger alone,

Looking in at a life that I did, yet did not own.

Karin Brittle, 27, Cambridgeshire

Service User 0001 – Vicky Leaning

What could it take to win your trust?

It takes a very special kind of person to work with children who have challenging behaviour. Vicky Leaning assists juvenile offenders and is also a mental health first aider. Vicky works hard to ‘think creatively about stress at work.’ Service User 0001, she explains, ‘has helped me to get my feelings about a difficult young person I was working with down on paper and explore my own thoughts and sadness.’ Thank you Vicky for your excellent contribution.

Service user 0001

The defences are up

Your iron clad eyes look straight through me

They lost their life years ago

Are you even hearing me?

The court brought me here

You have no choice

What could it take to win your trust?

Another face

Another promise

Someone else’s hope and dreams

You have heard it all before

I drown you in language you don’t understand

Your mind is 6, body 16

You have no interest in it

Looking to the clock, the minutes til I leave

I shut the door, til it revolves again

A mislaid sigh of relief

And a sadness

This is you

Vicky Leaning