The Dog Problem – Dhylan Patel

A bright and bouncy bounding ball

My name is Dhylan Patel, I am 16 years old and I attend The Latymer School, Edmonton. Currently I am studying English Literature A level (alongside triple science). Poetry is one of my biggest passions and the poem I have submitted is intended as comical: the message should not be misinterpreted as provocative or angry. It addresses some of my earliest childhood memories around dogs in which I was chased through parks on numerous occasions. I do not hate dogs but I do believe their owners ought to be more responsible.

The Dog Problem

Eager and excitable,

Endlessly delectable,

Loyal to the very end,

Rightfully a man’s best friend,

–

A bright and bouncy bounding ball,

Attentive to your every call,

Inquisitive, intelligent,

With empathy and sentiment.

–

Dreamy, round and soulful eyes,

A loving heart: tender, wise,

Fur which shimmers as a jewel,

A muzzle glazed in moisture cool.

–

Since this viewpoint was conceived,

Most mankind have been deceived,

The friendliness which you perceive,

Is what they want you to believe.

–

Let’s start again: the honest way,

Ignoring lies that people say,

Tear away the fake facade,

Reveal the truth: cold and hard.

First of all: the antipasti,

Consider all the mess,

Sewage strewn across the street,

A bog of brown no less.

And why excuse our canine ‘friend’,

From cuts to meat intake,

Breeding, feeding animals,

To die for our pet’s sake?

There seems to be a motif,

Double standards if I may,

Dogs pollute and vandalise,

For which they never pay.

For mains we’ll have aggression,

Your pooch is born to hunt,

Only its domestication,

Turned sharpened instincts blunt.

It sees you and thinks caribou,

Its still a wolf inside,

But its too fat to get you,

So it sets that thought aside.

Why does the chihuahua snarl?

Why does the mastiff bite?

You fool! It isn’t friendliness,

This thug just wants to fight.

For dessert we’ll take the owners,

Who must accept some blame,

For releasing sewage monsters,

Whose bowels they cannot tame.

They pick a dog they cannot handle,

Disproportional in size,

Whilst cluelessly they amble,

It starts to terrorise.

When at last they turn around,

They choose to feign surprise,

You don’t like that barking sound,

Or saliva on your thighs?

–

Sure- they make good company,

They run around I grant,

They do a lot like make a mess,

But nothing people can’t.

–

Why must we keep such creatures?

They’re wild after all,

Though tameable and trainable,

They can’t obey your call.

–

Wouldn’t dogs prefer their freedom?

That’s how they have evolved,

Living peacefully and separately,

Helps all parties involved.

Dhylan Patel

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Whirlpools – Graeme Darling

A gentle current caresses

Graeme Darling is a poet who lives in Scotland and who likes poems that rhyme.

Whirlpools

I follow a stream

That tumbles out of a dream.

When I hear its waters sing to me,

I’m in a riverine reverie.

As I walk the banks I observe

The lifeblood pulse and rush and swerve.

While willows sob and wagtails bob,

A gentle current caresses

The long grasses’ sunken tresses.

Mayflies have only one day’s chance

To feel the Sun and mate and dance,

And dippers leave no trace of tracks

As they race beneath the cataracts.

The river nears its destiny

When it becomes the estuary,

And a notion flows over me;

We’re all like whirlpools that revolve

In a waltz of energy,

Until the time that we dissolve,

And are carried to the sea.

Graeme Darling

Metastasis – Tom McLaughlin

Why does everything go wrong for me?

Tom McLaughlin is a Northern Irish poet currently living in London. His poems have been published in Birds Piled Loosely, Pulp Poets Press, and Crossways. He recently completed an MA in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway.

Metastasis

You are having trouble unfastening

the complicated toggles on your new coat.

‘Why does everything go wrong for me?’

I wonder if you think about staying

inside your new jacket from now on.

My father helps you like a fussing mother

as I decorate the Christmas tree,

fastening a threadbare string of tinsel

to branches already shedding needles.

I concentrate on making even loops

between the branches. I unravel

the mess of fairy lights inside a box

to discover that they do not work.

I peer into the centre of each bulb

to check each tungsten filament –

which is broken, which are intact.

Tom McLaughlin

100% Human – Jodie Jones

We’re all human regardless of our birthplace

My name is Jodie Jones and I’m 28 years old, I’ve been writing poetry for over a decade and it’s took me until now to get brave enough to send any of it to anyone. I owe this new bravery to my little boy Peter, who’s 2. Because he is fearless and I’m convinced I learn more from him than he does from me. Anyway, peace and love.

100% Human

There’s a little, square piece of fabric

Sewn to a place that makes my skin itch.

100% cotton from my waist up

With a drawn on smile made of makeup.

I hide in a disguise that I’ve created

But I’m still shoved in a category and hated.

Whether I stand out or I blend in

There’s always someone I’m offending.

And I just can’t escape the judgemental

If I had a label it would read “please be gentle”.

Who knew the fabrics of our heart

Form the blocks from where we start?

And the skin that creates our surface

Is the ticket that gets you furthest?

I’m not taking part in that race

We’re all human regardless of our birthplace.

Cut off the labels attached to our skin

We’re the same underneath and we’re the same within.

Yet we all close our eyes and sit in the dark

I can hear society crying of a broken heart.

100% human 100% of people

We’re all best dressed when we’re equal.

Jodie Jones

Notes Regarding Notes I – Ollie Dixon

Change, contrast and flow

Ollie Dixon is a 19-year-old student, musician and previously unpublished poet who resides in London. His poetry focuses on the external, physical world exploring the simple and existential ideas arising from it.

Notes Regarding Notes I

Oil and Water separated, At the touch of chemical Change, contrast and flow. Flamenco Sketches. Feelings low.

Metal from stone. Gold from Rome. You are the cotton that keeps me warm, The stomach lining and butterfly swarm.

How does it appear so? That two lives are lived, Yet not one hearing knows From where all the magic grows.

Ollie Dickson, 15th April 2019, London

Writing With Light – Chrissie Morris Brady

Don’t ask them to smile

Chrissie Morris Brady lives on the south coast of England with her daughter. She is much travelled and has lived and worked in several countries. She gained her degrees in Psychology at USC and has worked with people of varying mental health conditions. She has been published by Bournemouth Borough Council, Plum Tree Books, Ariel Chart, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Dissident Voice.

Writing With Light

Take the photograph now.

The light will change in moments,

in murmurs, in breaths.

Don’t ask them to smile,

that is not the memory.

Take another photo, half a stop up,

again, half a stop down.

We can write with light if we

don’t seek a pose.

–
The light has changed now.

So have the murmurs, the breaths.

Laughter may have died to another mood.

Capture it, the sense of it.

Fragile, the memories we keep.

The camera often lies,

but more, our uncertain minds

don’t retain what was,but rather,

what we wish it had been.

–
Yet we recall the things we meant to say,

or wished we could have said, or not said.

If we could have loved better, or found love

elsewhere.

Friendships that we have still are and those

we lost or ended.

Chrissie Morris Brady

The Garden Girl – Mercury King

Under a moonlit sky in the ease of autumn

Mercury King is a writer and artist who lives in Suffolk. She is inspired by nature and fantasy to craft her poems. Originally from Boise, Idaho, Mercury enjoys the outdoors, and can often be found exploring the woods in East Anglia.

The Garden Girl

Mercury King

Questions To Ask A Potential Lover – Arcadie

Do you think the world is black and white or as grey as a bullet

Arcadie is a writer and poet from Brighton, now calling South London home. Inspired by both the world around her and the relationships humans have with each other, she writes poems described as ‘storytelling to a rhythm’ and likes to write extensively on matters of the heart.

Questions to ask a potential lover

How are you

How are you really

Where do you consider home to be

When you stand up too quickly do you get headrush

Do you get headrush when you think of me

Do you look up at the sun even though you shouldn’t

If you do, do you get those dots that dance across your eyelids

The ones you can’t quite focus on

Do those dots remind you of an acid trip

Have you ever taken acid

When you did did you see things

Like the world through the lens of an old VHS tape from the 80s

Like the view from the top of a toll bridge

Like your future with a partner

Do you want kids

How would you react if your kids took acid

When was the last time you cried

When was the last time you really cried, cried so hard you wept enough salt water to keep a sole* in

Is it a sign of the times that the Amazon is burning or could we do something to stop it

Would you pray to a god if you thought it could really change anything

Is it better to do something good and shout about it or suffer in silence

Would you consider yourself sad

Would you consider yourself happy

What does happiness mean to you

Does it feel like chocolate

Does it feel like melted chocolate

Does it feel like the specific feeling of chocolate melting in your mouth before the solid has fully become liquid

Do you even like chocolate

Do you love your mum out of greed or necessity

Are you close to your family

Do you prefer a wedding or a funeral

Do you get jealous

If I watched Love Island would you judge me

Or would you curl up on the sofa beside me with a glass of red wine and indulge in an hour of escapism by watching others succumb to what society expects of relationships

Do you have your own Netflix account

If so what comes up on your recommended list

Is it true crime or chick flicks

Do you love a rom-com because I think everyone kinda loves a rom-com

If I cried would you comfort me or leave the room because neediness makes you nervous

Did you like broccoli when you were a kid

When you fall asleep where do you go

Do you travel universes and warp reality

Do you dip feet in liquid silver dyed by the moon Do you just close your eyes and awaken again

Do you believe dreams mean anything

What’s your star sign

What’s your moon sign

What’s your rising sign

Which one do you identify with the most

Do you subscribe to the fact that astrology is a tool used by intellectual women to believe in something

Are you a feminist

What do you think that word means

Does it make you cringe when I mention it

Does it make your eyes roll into the clouds of your brain when your eardrums absorb it

Are you a good person

Do you believe in kindness

What’s your favourite colour

Do you think the world is black and white or as grey as a bullet

Do you think anything can be considered bulletproof

Do you think everything I touch turns to gold or falls apart

Do you pray to pints of beer or whiskey

When was the last time someone asked you how you really were

Did you answer honestly

Arcadie

Special World – Keelan Powell

There is a special world I sometimes go

Keelan Powell has ten years experience writing poems, music and short stories. He has performed live music and entered poetry competitions, but now wishes to focus upon short story writing. He obtained a First Class Bachelor of Arts degree in Outdoor Education at University of Wales Trinity Saint David and now works within Conservation.

Contact: allez2004@gmail.com

Special world

There is a special world I sometimes go,

here now my mind can flow.

Sweet dreams that forever sing,

the land of no suffering.

–

There is a special world I sometimes go,

the place where time does slow.

When I return, I am alone,

I sit upon my dusty thrown.

–

There is a special world I sometimes go,

the glowing universe no one else does know.

Almighty stars sparkle through the night,

I run free and take flight.

–

Will you join me in this land,

walk together hand in hand.

Watch the bleeding sun upon the sand,

a magical and everlasting land.

Keelan Powell

Nostalgia – John Morshead

I was thinking of her strange hysteria

My name is John Morshead. I was born and raised in London and I am currently 15 years old. Having been a chorister for several years of my life, language was thrusted upon me from a young age, and ever since words and the ways in which they fit together to reach meaning has fascinated me. I am taking my GCSEs this year and am very excited albeit excitement stemming from racked nerves and long nights with coffee. I hope, regardless of the outcome of my writing, that I can make someone smile when they see my writing, or feel something. Be it joy, fear, sadness or any other emotion, to me, the kindling that fuels the raging fire of emotions is words, and to essay to tame that flame is an honour.

Nostalgia

I was standing by mother’s wisteria,

The wistful, wizened curls of lilac like lavender cream.

I was thinking of her strange hysteria

About the man cutting her hydrangeas in her dream.

She would tell me I ought to be careful,

To only take trimmings from the left hand side,

And me gazing lazily on with the dog,

Only to head back on to the cool of inside,

Where we would stand by the wisteria every day until she died.

John Morshead