A Far Away Place – Arianne Jones

A trafficked slave, no longer fit to serve

I am Arianne Jones (16) from New Zealand but living in the UK for school. I moved over here on my own, and want to try new things. Here is my poem called “A Far Away Place”. It is about a human trafficking slave and their ‘escape’. This is my one of my first ever poem/writing competition.

A Far Away Place

Arianne Jones

A long journey stands in front of me,

Calling me forth, almost begging me;

Asking me to leave my home,

My life, my worth, my love, my dreams.

Things that were once a prominent part of me.

–

I join.

–

I prepare,

For the torturous conversations that lie ahead,

Everlasting speech,

Forever I will have them alone.

–

Alone.

–

For a single soul will

Never be blessed again with the sight

Of my disarray, my disorder, this imbroglio.

Never again, I promise.

–

I promise.

–

I will cross lava filled cities;

with diamonds that rain down and slice my cheeks,

with my feet dripping candle wax, and my hair ablaze.

I will keep that promise.

–

I will.

–

I will sink to the bottom of the ocean;

With a fired match as my light, and my skin turning 100 years old,

Crumbling, burnishing and face the monsters of the deep.

I will keep that promise.

–

Watch me.

–

I will go into hell, let the fire rush over me;

Slice Beelzebub’s horn off and have the demons

Bite at my feet, and claw me down

I will keep my promise.

–

I promise.

–

Trust me, I won’t break it,

I want it to keep, like in fire I do.

I will do it all to never be seen once more.

To be forgotten,

–

Finally.

–

To be flamed and forgotten.

Forgiven?

A worthy full life shall fall;

To the heavens as my soul is burnt.

This is where my journey is heading,

A heady, mighty descent.

–

One’s free fall.

–

A reduction of my body;

Into a worthless bundle,

No more a burden,

No talisman for the ages.

–

No angel or archangel will keep me

From my destination, my destiny,

And final resting place. It can close;

The door on my face and be happy –

–

That I will hurt no more.

–

Bury me hundred feet down,

Bury me a thousand,

Just burn me.

I beg you.

–

Light the fire and see me rise

from the flames to my rightful place,

and let the angels burst back,

to the heavens.

–

Forget me; Remember me not.

I was me.

An escapee of the torture, an escapee of life,

An escapee of misery and pain.

–

A trafficked slave, no longer fit to serve

–

To be in happiness, an eternity of one.

–

A joyous occasion it must be;

To set me off on this final journey.

To have it welcome me in open arms that wrap around me;

caressing, burning my skin.

–

The fourth degree.

The hider of my scars.

–

The giddy, nauseating smell that overwhelms me before I am welcomed on this journey.

Liquid petrol causes my everlasting delectation.

–

Was I ever sane?

–

One would say those that can keep fighting,

As the ocean pulls them to misery are insane.

–

Or when the words slit their throat,

They run around headless attempting to reattach are insane.

–

People who refuse to ‘give up’;

To the overall power are the insane ones.

I am sane.

It seems I am the only soul that has a body;

That has sanity running through their veins,

Pumping their heart.

–

A normal existence.

–

Rationality is key. Happiness is the lock.

–

So, I continue on my journey,

A hint of self-assurance in my falling soul.

The crackle pop of the journey the surrounds me is loud in my ear

As it drinks the liquid that had once engulfed me.

–

Walking nightmare I am,

or so I am told.

–

I walk my journey.

A journey towards happiness,

Away from my owners.

A timeless love will keep.

–

Forever.

–

And I walk off the edge of the world, never to be thought of again.

I am burnt from this planet.

A memory in ashes.

–

Destroyed.

–

Scattered.

–

Gone.

Arianne Jones

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Plastic – Isabelle Sanders

Fish think plastic is food in our oceans of blue

Poem written by Isabelle Sanders aged 8.
Isabelle was inspired to write her poem whilst studying the effects of ‘plastic pollution’ in school.

PLASTIC!

This is an introduction to plastic pollution.
We are drowning the sea you and me.
Our fragile earth is losing it’s worth.
Through plastic pollution changing it’s evolution.
Fish think plastic is food in our oceans of blue.
The damage to us is we are eating it too.
I just wish there were magic potions to save our oceans.

Isabelle Sanders

Windfall – Alice Cattley

I can keep seasons like secrets

Alice Cattley is a writer based in Cambridge, where she studied English at university. Her poetry has previously been published by The Cadaverine and read on BBC Radio 3. Since graduating, she has worked as a copywriter and journalist but is now a freelance writer while she works on her first novel.

Windfall

The apple tree has grown old early. Autumn arrives

like a migraine, blazing. I have known this shuddering,

this rain-quake of branches balancing fruit. Soon

the tree will give up its armful and I will gather

apples tender as fingertips, skinning them green

for the pan. It’s always an act of remembrance –

ceremony of cinnamon and ginger, Kilner jars opened

and closed. I can keep seasons like secrets. I have learnt

that hunger tastes of apple prised from pitted hearts.

Alice Cattley

Tourist To The Sun – Virginia Betts

hurtling to the light fantastic

Virginia graduated from Essex University with a degree in Literature, and later gained a postgraduate degree in teaching English. She taught for 15 years, then set up her tuition business, Results Tutoring, where she indulges her passion for literary analysis whilst helping her students to achieve their potential. She is a passionate advocate for neuro-diversity, particularly as she is autistic herself. Alongside this, she writes poetry, articles and stories, making her publishing debut in The Weird and Whatnot, with her short story, The Rented Room. Following this, her poem, An Afternoon Walk, was published in the September 2019 volume of Acumen Literary Journal. The written word creates a visceralsensation in Virginia; poetry is her preferred method of emotional expression and stories often come to her in dreams.Her other obsessions are swimming and violin playing. Virginia is married, with one son, aged 18.

Tourist to the Sun.

Fired-up for take-off,

wearing my asbestos suit, designed to deflect,

I bring with me a cabin full of un-marked baggage for the hold.

Wing walker without a rope,

hurtling to the light fantastic,

untethered.

First to sign up

to step off the map;

where even the silvery surface is marked by dark spots;

even the brightest star is already dead.

With outstretched arms I

surrender to the sun,

glide, star-shaped, licked by flicking tongues of flame,

into the white-hot core;

white heat devouring sound,

eclipsing time,

searing conscience and

annihilating thought.

Not arrogance that brings me here,

but fear.

The elemental need to fly, unfettered,

to pilot my own craft;

to pierce reality,

and seek the truth behind it,

and, in seeking, half expect to find it.

And thus, avoiding bird-strikes,

negotiate safe water-landings

when at last I am earthbound;

within my hand,

a brand to fire my piece of earth’s story

when I return

scorched and burned.

Virginia Betts

Moonchild – Emily Ash

I’m a second year English student studying at the University of Nottingham. I use lots of music to inspire my poetry- this piece was inspired by Kim Namjoon, a South Korean rapper.

Moonchild

by Emily Ash

does it hurt, moonchild?

it doesn’t anymore, I’m defiled

with positivity and persuasion.

can you survive, my raven?

no, not without pain.

I stand here, sinking in the rain,

drowning in a glass pane,

confidently insane,

and yet for you I must remain.

will you fight, dark knight?

with trees and stars and kites.

I’ll fight with daffodil sprouts

and smiling at the sunshine.

I’ll rally around the lovely,

and wallow in the strange.

I’ll walk amongst the dancing lights,

rub my knuckles along a werewolf’s snout.

Smile at the soft and the serpentine-

what will be left, sweet sorrow?

myself

and the happiness I can ne’er find,

but must excavate slowly from the cracks in my mind.

Emily Ash, Nottingham

Breathe – Kirsten Smith

Life goes on, was what I was taught

My name is Kirsten and I’m currently a third year student studying English Literature at the University of Edinburgh. I’m currently attempting to get some of my work published to improve and put my name out there to benefit any future career after my studies.

Breathe

By Kirsten Smith

I sit and cry,

For I am weak.

My mind is a blizzard,

For I cannot sleep.

–

Left foot, right foot, inhale, exhale,

Left foot, inhale, right foot, exhale

Remember to breathe, remember to walk,

Life goes on, was what I was taught.

–

A shiver permanently elevates,

Along my anxious spine.

The memories that haunt me,

The flashbacks every time

–

I engage in intercourse. And in my sleep.

Still so vivid, still so real.

What I would do to change,

The things I would do to feel

–

Safe, when in close company with another.

The look of pity and anger, enrages on my mother’s face.

Judgemental comments from unsympathetic peers.

I knew deep down I was a disgrace.

–

I entered his cage, blind to the signs,

For I am gullible and naive.

But this man is my friend, right?

Or so I believed.

–

What friend strikes fear to the other’s heart?

Their mind, their soul, their body.

What friend strips all dignity from the other’s autonomy?

And all qualities that they embody.

–

A groping hand weighed down my neck,

Another caressing at my hip.

Conflicting between abuse and love,

Until I felt my jeans unzip.

–

I tell him no, and again and again.

He forces harder, shhh its just practice he said.

I sob to stop, and again and again.

Ignored and blinded, were the tears that I shed.

–

Further again, after slow painful minutes,

I inhaled a deep breath and cried out one last plea,

“Please stop, Im in pain,” though I was ignored,

He claimed that he was almost finished, but I could not see

–

For tears flooded my eyes, a lump chocking my throat.

Alas it was over, I collapsed to the floor.

Legless, I crawled my way up to the shower,

Where I sat drowning in water, numb yet sore.

–

Another deep breath, and up I stood.

I escaped from the cage and all of its terror,

As I walked aimlessly down the high-street,

In the summer’s day weather.

–

It appeared that outside of the cage,

The sun shone warm and bright.

No cloud in the sky, no rain pouring down.

Yet in attempting to breathe, my lungs closed in tight.

–

From here on, I mask a smile, I laugh to cover

The crackle in my voice, the tears slipping down

My cheek as I hold my smile.

I can not appear weak. I must not frown.

–

If only I were a starfish,

So easily mended at the loss of a limb.

Except the reality is, is that I was a child,

Forever cracked, because of him.

–

This inspiration, I questioned.

Who is she?

This inspiration, I questioned.

I realised is me.

As I continued to breathe.

Kirsten Smith – Edinburgh

The Boay Rit Didane Learn Swedis or French – Shane Johnstone

A tear faws as reality claws

Shane Johnstone is a Glasgow writer and poet, writing in his Glaswegian dialect of Scots and Scottish Gaelic. His prose has been published in literary magazines such as ‘Lallans,’ ‘Pushing Out The Boat,’ ‘Product Magazine’ and ‘New Scottish Writing.’ His writing features a consistant theme of examining modern class attitudes. His first novel is awaiting publication.

The Boay Rit Didane Learn Swedis or French

Lit a mad bolt tae the heid it cam

Oan a shyter ae the arse end ae the blackest backshift

Pannelin throu competin eez selfish fancies

Rooteed in the middle ae re sel, atween establishit identitees

As e pictures facees ae progressive pals

Answerin wi guilt the hoodies caw fir “new”

–

E made it blue oan paper ae start agane

Pit it in ink n pattit eez ain back

Sat back n smirked at eez modernitie

That’s hou ae move forrit, e shoutit wi wide ees

Alloued the tendrils ae Swedish an its associates tae tak root ower eez shame

Wife lookin oan wi wise resigned cynical truth

–

Tell thum it’s modyrn, picture ri praise

Thu’ll ask ye ae displae wi gleams in ees

The just motivation fir noble intentions

Nae need fir that auldness, that’s juist politics

Why bother wi strife, fir somethin that’s deid?

That’s no reason, put attention oan days tae come

–

So e scrunchees eez ees, clenchees eez cheeks

Erms grittit wi tension, heid burstin wi lines

Eh scribbles in blue, wi a hunner pictures floatin

Aw the while bubblin, tae be stuffit tae the boattom

Thae auld voicees screams will be snufft, (only fir so long)

An each minit passin brings ri threat ae him wakin

–

Clatty howlin rattles ri ayr aroon

E luiks up fae eez papir, tilts ri heid, sighs

Hauls ri heavy shooders, ri droopin torso

Opens ri latch tae ri ruim ae panic

The wee heid harried wi thots ae abandonins

Wee rid ees searchin fir a big boady an a certain whiff

–

E sighs as e tips back warm milk, shhhhh

Guilt streamin throu tae the end ae the “h”

Sorry, ach sorry, ach sorry wee yin

A tear faws as reality claws

But nou’s no the tyme fir fancies an ifs

Yir heid doon, yir graft done, mak do

–

The auldness rears again, in a heid that’s too easy

Tae pummel intae the shapes ae others

Swedis n French wull huftae wayt

Lit rey did that last month an afore

Puir wee hing will need tae survive

Oan two native tongues that ye wir telt

Belong tae the past, though thir normalitie gropes ye

Thir evryday-ness shouts n bawls at ye,

Thir aw aroon-ness elephants ri ruims

An noo, post decision, e listens fir facees

As normal interactions, induce squirmin an twitchin

An e hinks, wan day, e’ll learn thae two othirs

But noo e hears wi a smile, screamin a rattlin

An looks forrit tae speakin intae calm slumber,

Eez puir, two tongued wean

Shane Johnstone

Someone’s Changed the Flowers – Lizzie Smith

the stories you build of life

Lizzie Smith was born in Scotland. She went to Cambridge University to study literature and ended up working in Japan, Switzerland and England. She is currently a teacher and lives in Edinburgh with her husband and two children. She has had poems published in a number of anthologies including Hammond House, Binsted Arts Festival, Write Out Loud and Planet in Peril.

Someone’s Changed the Flowers

Someone’s changed the flowers

in front of the gilded mirror,

the reflection they make

looks orderly.

Someone’s changed the flowers,

perhaps it was a carer,

the orchids are trained

into shape.

Someone’s changed the flowers,

it’s a different picture now –

the stories you build of life

through the looking glass.

Someone’s changed the flowers:

to you the mirror on the wall shows

the same queen of the drawing room

holding court in her gown.

Someone’s changed the flowers,

like you changed the story of my role,

and my exits and entrances

into pantomime villain.

Lizzie Smith, Edinburgh

A Lone Mother’s Worries – Scarlett Wilson

A cradle of love made by her arms

A Lone Mother’s Worries

The baby cries in a crib made of wood

cotton blankets to soothe his cold body’s shake

hands flailing through the early morning’s light

and tears swimming on his rose tinted cheeks.

Through the door comes his mother,

her child’s name on her delicate face’s lips

and she will feed him with her body’s nutrients.

A cradle of love made by her arms

A hush in her tone to float him back to sleep

where he dreams of silk skies and golden clouds,

and she trails a light step through the room

leaving her son’s cries to echo through the air.

After the door flutters shut

One hand clasped into the other

She whispers to the sun

Knees red from repeated hope lost in the horizon

For the faith grows weary

The more she hears his cry

And the only thing that replies is the wind

Empty without promise.

Scarlett Wilson

Here For A Season – Jess Streeting

Your autumn came too swiftly

I am a community nurse and teacher and write for pleasure and for the nursing press.

I recently published a novel on Amazon, Last Summer in Soho, primarily to help raise the profile of school nursing. I have been asked to speak at many nursing conferences about my work, including most recently the International School Nursing Conference in Stockholm. I enjoy evoking the complexities of nursing, with affection and humour.

In my poetry and prose I explore themes of childhood, loss and trauma.

Here for a Season

There have been other autumn days,

A morning when I looked out over Oxford trees quietly dropping their fruit and leaves

Joyful and exhausted, holding our new son

And you brought me one of every kind of apple from the Tesco in Cowley Road,

Confusing the lady at the till and not caring, of course, about that.

Our boy had fallen, like a ripe, ruddy apple into our lives

Abruptly, appropriately, on the day expected.

Coming home to flowers, cards and whisky warmth to wrap our baby in, we

Retreated from the world and churches,

Keeping stillness in one room.

This autumn morning

–

Our grown babes sleep, exhausted.

Outside, some dry gold leaves from great old trees drift down past stone church walls.

You brought such love and music into our unusual lives

Borne proudly in like apple gifts for us to take or leave.

Colour that most people would not think to blend all in one jumper or sock.

Not caring about that at all, of course.

Your autumn came too swiftly then your winter.

And we all, dazed and heavy, with no music for this autumn day

Keep stillness in one room.

Jessica Streeting

21.10.2015