A Cup of Two Teas – Zyra Álvarez Claudius

splendid music starts my soul to stir

My name is Zyra Álvarez Claudius. I am nineteen years old, and a student at Bristol University studying Mathematics with Study in Continental Europe. During the Summer I have been home in Falmouth, Cornwall, writing poetry and working in a shop.

Thank you Zyra for your decision to support our project and share your talent.

A Cup of Two Teas

While she speaks, I am struck

by the beauty

of the act.

–

Each idea is astoundingly astute

and sharply perceptive,

and the eloquence

of their conveyance

is marvellous

in and of itself.

–

It’s true her meaning’s wondrous like the woods,

yet soon my sense is carried high above

(the gist her words transmit) towards their song,

and splendid music starts my soul to stir.

Her voice is beauty. Full and fluid rush

it’s ebb and flow, it’s rise and fall of pitch,

it’s choice delays —

which add suspense to the tune,

which are the shade to the light of her voice,

whose presence is needed to appreciate the noise from which they’re carved —

and meaning’s mere and left behind as soars

my raised attention borne on wings of sound.

–

The music demands,

and of course receives,

graceful and sensuous dance.

At each select fermata, her lips

are held — slightly apart — poised

to lightly kiss and once again

cavort to the tune of her

words. They couple,

uncouple, and twist

into a captivating smile,

which has the effect of teasing

at that which it guards: Her tongue,

occasionally stroking air, only to abscond

itself as a skittish faerie in the moonlight

once more behind its softly joining

and enjoining ingress.

–

Each —

her meaning,

her music,

her dance

— passionately overshadows,

and at once succumbs

to the other two; as the ingenuity of her

observations renders all but her

meaning obsolete,

so too the rush and trip of sound

controls and beats away all sense and motion, and the

salacious dance of scarlet flesh

obliterates exactly that which it conceives.

–

In the midst of this trinity

of woven style and substance

my attention is frantically

changing, shifting,

but still

motionless in awe. Is it any

wonder then that, in this impossible,

primordial duality of awareness,

there are born ideas

and feelings which — coming

at once from nothing as from impossibility

itself — give rise to humanity’s most

contradictory and impossible dimension

in a deep and unguarded

corner of my heart?

Zyra Álvarez Claudius, Falmouth

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.

Reminiscing Senses – Mina Yakinya

Warm moments of the past I once loved

My name’s Mina Yakinya and I am a uni student studying broadcast journalism at NTU. This is a poem about the senses that bring a feeling of nostalgia and remind us of things from our childhood and other moments in one’s past.

Thank you for sharing Mina.

Reminiscing Senses

While sitting on the bus looking out the window,

Or walking along my way to the store,

Warm moments of the past I once loved,

Come to visit me

Lingering smells, sounds and sights,

Reminding you of even the subtlest times of happiness,

Are of a bittersweet nature,

That disappear within an instant

Unknowingly waiting for those senses,

In a bid to preserve what once was,

I hope to meet you again

Like the scent of a perfume,

Or a music box tune,

Or even a glance at a familiar stranger,

These time capsules drift by waiting to be spotted

Delicate memories that come and go momentarily,

Like presents given to us on meaningful days,

I stand by to catch a stage in time,

Just like I had yesterday

Rather like a splendid dream,

That never quite leaves your mind,

Senses appear to us just as a new season comes by

So, to these beautiful senses,

That capture all my beautiful past’s,

I welcome you to visit more often,

Particularly in the most mundane of times

Thank you

Mina Yakinya, Nottingham Trent University

01 – Alina-Gabriela Sandu

I chose to be a “poet” so I could sleep under the bridge

Many thanks to Alina-Gabriela Sandu for her entry. Alina-Gabriela is a passionate writer and has ‘been writing for as long as she can remember, on different subjects, sometimes with a more dark view on things, sometimes in a more pastel way, passionate about symbolism, which can make the writing a little bit tricky and left free for interpretation.’

I’ll cut pieces of my courage out while calling myself “Satan of my life”.

I’m chasing sweet words out of drunk people’s mouths, while the lions are eating their cubs.
I’m not chasing fame, I got a “no one” coat, and believe a lot of things.

Life’s a moment and if you’re lucky and truly see it when you die,
It’s gonna be worth it.
I’m talking about what you want to talk about.
I’m not important, but my friends are smarter than yours.

To be myself is dangerous.
I’ve cancelled any talent I’ve had to write white rhimes.
I chose to be a “poet” so I could sleep under the bridge.
I’ve put my soul in a bottle and thrown in the sea
When it has disappointed me.

Some of you made me hate all of you:
Lions, leeches, octopuses, moths and stupid snails.
I’ve grown up among strangers and saw people dying.
I’m holding springs in my stomach and digested all the butterflies.
I’m writing what I’m writing out of simplicity and because I’m willing to ruin your mood.
I’ve learned to keep my distance from people like me.
If I don’t fight for my life it will be a waste of time and space.
Most of the time I’m feeling that verse butt pposite.

My story started with: “There was once a time”

Sorry for any inconvience caused.

If there is anything else, please let me know.

Alina-Gabriela Sandu, London

To What End – Elen Hughes

a shadow of a memory

To What End

Chop me up and share out the pieces

My flesh is the giver of life;

it was selfish of me to cling to it for all these years.

Of what remains

Burn it. Bury it. Chuck it in the bin.

Leave it to waste and

Remain

only so long as time

In a form

of sorts.

And all the rest means more

(or less?)

To whom it may concern

To whom it may provide

a shadow of a memory,

a ripple of what once was,

a comfort in the remembrance of fondness.

A sham.

The next is not to be dealt with

Or dished out or examined.

It is to be

pure and unfiltered in its falsehood,

naturally poisoned and distorted,

in that way –

Time’s specialty.

Hovering in your mind, interrupting your stories,

somehow more prominent now

Skirting at the edges of your vision,

Buzzing at the window,

not quite me

more than I am

(or less?)

Until

you

too

Elen Hughes

Neuroplasticity – Amy Ndubeze

The trees snake their roots around your waist

Neuroplasticity

Instead of of rose-tinted glasses, you had them swapped out for a thin permanent film

I’m not sure when you got it fitted

But I know no child should excuse what you excused

Cheeks stinging and you whisper

I love you, I love you

Nose bloody

Forgive me, forgive me

The trees snake their roots around your waist

Keeping you stable

(keeping you from running)

Snake their way into your brain, and you rot, as expected

Decaying wood used to keep the fire going

Flames become you, for being alight is the only life you know

If dulled out who are you?

What is a life without pain?

Pain is a mother and she nurtures you

Pain is a sister who playfully belittles you

Pain is a father who gaslights you

So of course it was always your fault

Neuroplasticity

A neat word you learnt in class that made you realize that no matter how many tablets you take

No matter how many therapists you see

It will always be you

The feral child will bark until she dies

And so shall you

Amy Ndubeze

A River’s Journey – Savannah Williston

waves like splashing lava

A special thanks to Savannah who has submitted an excellent poem about a very magical river journey. Savannah’s poem is so good that it is now proudly displayed in the ‘Hall of Fame’ in her school. We are sure you will enjoy reading this as much as we did – Savannah is a very imaginative and talented writer.

A River’s Journey

One cold and wet day I saw a river passing my way.
It had waves like splashing lava but I started to think I’d rather…..

–
Be floating on that river in a golden boat,
and then start to think to play a note.

–
The river would be floating in the breeze,
as I start to pass many trees.

–
Suddenly I go into the dark part of the jungle and then I hear something starting to rumble.

–
Out of the jungle comes a big hippo,
As he jumps into the water like a speeding limo.

–
He splashes me with the water, maybe about a quarter.
When the hippo went away the river was nice and calm, nothing to be near me, nothing to harm.

–
When I open my eyes again I am back in my bedroom still gazing out at the sleeping city. I also think I can see my golden boat saying goodbye now.

–
Just as I’m about to go to sleep I can see the river splitting out into the ocean,
And my golden boat with it too…..

Savannah, aged 8

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.

Preposterous Abrasion of Classic Humour – Indiana Bolton

Descend into the madness

Indiana Bolton is a 14 year old poet who lives in London and finds much ‘solace and enjoyment’ in writing poetry. Thank you Indiana for your entry and support!

Preposterous abrasion of classic humour

Humour is as thick as dickens novels context

And complex as a circadian rhythm.

–

But its random acts upon our eyes is troubling

To the mind,

as its daft and shallow which on attempt on jumping

Can break the brains sturdy legs.

–

As speed is not key nor is presentation but the depth is dangerous and must

Be filled by the masses of the crippled minds and dare-devils

Looking for simplicity.

–

I warn the explorer of these misleading shallow waters, come the bank

And let the water absorb you.

As certain few understand that to become famous the

Simple trick to survive a humorous depth is to descend into the madness before you take a swim.

Indiana Bolton, London

Resurrection – Samantha Robertson

I’m one with the sounds

Many thanks to Samantha Robertson for her rousing poem. We really appreciate her decision to support the project.

Resurrection

Rhythms shake my ennui;

allowing a ripple of existence to emerge

from within.

I dance to the Bossa Nova;

embrace the music

until I’m one with the sounds

emanating from the drums.

I’ve been woken from my slumber –

dragged out of the depths of depression

by the sound of song.

Freed to express

the joie de vivre that exists in me –

once hidden, buried deep.

Samantha Robertson

Acquiesce – Anne Victoria Westwood

Life’s tides envelope me and try to drown

Anne Victoria Westwood is a primary school teacher who lives in Derbyshire. In her spare time, she enjoys penning verse, and we really appreciate her decision to share ‘Acquiesce’ with us. Thank you Anne.

Acquiesce

I am cast adrift but still afloat,
just hanging alone, low remote.
Life’s tides envelope me and try to drown,
but I’m still head up when I’m down.
For in the sky I see a sun,
one day when all of this is done.
I’ll be back on dry land for all to see,
but will it be the real me?
Could, should, would have to be.

Anne Victoria Westwood, 43, Derbyshire

Pink or Blue? – Katie Bagg

That was the first time you’d been put in a box, but it wouldn’t be the last

Many thanks to Katie Bagg for a very thoughtful and topical entry to Voices. Katie is very passionate about poetry and ‘Pink or Blue?’ focuses on the struggles of a transgender man.

Pink or Blue?

“Pink or blue?” Your parents asked

“Pink” he replied

That was the first time you’d been put in a box, but it wouldn’t be the last

A pink home, with pink walls and pink floors,

Pink clothes and pink shoes, a pink bed you did not choose,

pink food and pink drink, a pink bath and pink sink

A pink life, a pink world, a pink baby – maybe?

A pink school, with pink friends and pink teachers,

Pink uniform and pink hair, a pink chair – that didn’t seem fair,

Pink toilets and pink toys, a pink playground full of pink noise

A pink life, a pink world, a pink child – maybe?

A pink textbook, with pink words and pink pictures,

Blue brain and blue imagination, a blue head full of frustration

Green friends and green hair, a pink world that started to stare

A pink life, a pink world, a blue teenager – maybe?

Pink words from a pink parent leave pink scars on a blue heart

A blue wish from a blue body goes unnoticed in this pink world

Forced time and time again into pink boxes:

College applications – pink

Drivers license – pink

Social media accounts – pink

Email – pink

But, blue boxes were just waiting to be filled,

And a blue life was just waiting to begin.

A blue world – ready for you to embrace it.

Pink or blue?

Blue.

Katie Bagg, 16