Voice note from a lover in summer – Luke Grey

When the city is nearly silent

It is a poem taken from a Whatsapp Voice note sent by a lover.

The author, Luke Grey, is a writer. He lives in London.

Voice note from a lover in summer

“One of the ways in which I love looking at clouds

Is to see them bisected by wires.

One of the most beautiful sights of the summer,

This late in the day, is when clouds take on

Their deeper tones.

Sometimes more intense, even, than the brightly lit sky.

When sat, or stood, or (now) walking on a platform

And looking up at the wires, the suspended wires:

Gliding towards each other,

Crossing, ending, held aloft, hitting a pole,

Marked out by the thinner wires than hold the thicker ones apart

And yet together.

That web of energy, stretching far across the city,

Only a few metres above me and the rail tracks,

Never meeting.

That web measures itself out between me and the sky,

And sometimes, sometimes, at the most exciting moments,

When the city is nearly silent,

And you stand on the platform and look up at the wires.

You can hear them fizzing.

Fizzing in a sky full of high, lunging, soft and smooth clouds

That sashay upwards and northwards.

Pink on their undersides, lit by the setting sun.

A dark lavender on their edges, and then above them

A pale, duck-egg blue.”

Luke Grey, London

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Tomorrow – Bonnie Cheuk

What will it bring?

Bonnie is from London, UK. She writes poetry to complement her piano playing as a way of expressing unspoken thoughts and feelings. Her writing takes inspiration from personal experiences coupled with creative depiction of stories that derive from imagination. The fragility of life and the expanse of astronomy are themes she likes to include throughout her work.

A little bit about the poem – Tomorrow:
It was written as part of a three-part poem (Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow) and is about looking forward to Tomorrow and what it will bring, whilst remembering and reminiscing a loved one who has gone to the skies.

TOMORROW [明天]

Tomorrow

What will it bring?

Will songbirds still sing?

Maybe a change in human nature

Discovery of a new creature

Let us write historical scripture

For tomorrow and our future

Can you still hear me talking?

In times of lonesome walking

I wish you were still here

To wipe away today’s tears

Yesterday was difficult

It brought me to a halt

A time capsule is what I need

To plant more memory seeds

I don’t want them to fade

Willing to put tomorrow up for trade

Just to see you once again.

Bonnie Cheuk

Romanticism – Aisha Bibi

I do regard the sky often, wishing upon a shooting star

My name is Aisha Bibi, I am a full time A level student, studying Sociology, Geography and religious studies. Am 17 years old and like to think that I have a lot of extraordinary life experiences.

Romantism

He has me caged in a sanctimonious romantism

By which a dwindled hope, became a beacon of light

By which I barefaced crave, to be the nostalgic character

Whom he voluptuously gazes at

But I know she couldn’t be me

For I am attainable, so not the one he’s looking for

And not the unattainable like his love, he so loves the unattainable

I do regard the sky often, wishing upon a shooting star

That thou he isn’t mine

Someday in my dream his voluptuous gaze, might free me from this cage

So together we can rescue the goldmine wrecked ship

In which he sails away, treasuring her

And I will treasure the voluptuous gaze

While regarding the sky

So, I can wish upon the next shooting star

–Aisha Bibi

Paper Bag Seagulls – Chris Quigle

Clothes plastered to my limbs

Paper bag seagulls

Paper bag seagulls
scrawl across the
dying day
Slivers of disappointed rain
hang within the air
Darkness slowly suffocates
as chill wraps his arms around
my broken shoulders
Crested puddles
seek refuge in my shoes
Clothes plastered to my limbs trying
to keep warm
As the new born night
steals the light of passing cars and lamps
breathing in the antidote
of mixed rain and sprayed wind
that cures the poisoned day.

Chris Quigle

Entangled – Jacinta Noel

The path crossed with thorns among bushes

My name is Jacinta Noel, a student originally from West London but currently studying Law at the University of Exeter. My story is not unlike many others you may have heard in relation to their poetry journey, but I started to write down and express my feelings and thoughts as a way of self-expression, and as a reaction to things occurring around me, to not only deal with that but also to be able to reflect and look back on my journey and be able to develop as a young individual.

Entangled

Wrapped up in wires,

The source? (untraceable).

She searched for the beginning,

Longed to see where it started –

Where it begun.

But still nothing but a hint;

A mere nudge in the direction.

The path crossed with thorns among bushes.

She gives in –

Unwilling.

The prize not worth the pain,

But stuck confused with a longing for purpose (acceptance).

Wrapped up in self-gratification.

Alas.

Jacinta Noel, University of Exeter

What Memory Tastes Like – Sasha Saben Callaghan

we drank sweet, black coffee, flavoured with orange peel

Sasha Saben Callaghan is a writer and digital artist. She was a winner of the 2016 ‘A Public Space’ Emerging Writer Fellowship and the 2019 Pen to Paper Awards. Her poetry, short stories and illustrations have been published in a wide range of magazines and journals.

Sasha’s lived experience of disability and impairment is a major influence on her work.

What Memory Tastes Like

Yes, I know what memory tastes like.

It’s a triple espresso from Las Violetas,

a coffee house in downtown Buenos Aires,

with terrazzo floors and marbled Corinthian columns.

Now, when the smell of arabica or dark cerrada

hangs between flurries of snow in the wintery air

I go sailing away, down the Rio Grande

Due southerly, from Colorado to the Gulf of Cazones

to dance the tango in some basement jazz bar.

Mocha means riding a sleek, black horse across Patagonia.

cantering over the pampas in distant Tierra del Fuego,

where two great oceans collide.

Blue Haitian reminds me of watching from the veranda

of an estancia near del Santiago Estero,

as a charm of humming birds, tiny living jewels,

darted between barberry thorns, frangipani flowers.

Blue throated goldentails. Collared Incas. Sparkling violetears.

On the first night climbing the Andes,

we drank sweet, black coffee, flavoured with orange peel.

Star anise melya, poured straight over ice,

like the heat and the breeze in the mountains.

Sasha Saben Callaghan

Till The Streetlights Come On – Kit Duddy

just as Didi passed to Pele

My Name is Mr Kit Duddy I am 72 yrs of age
a former housing officer and retailer retired.

I live in East Kilbride Scotland, married
with two children and six grandchildren.

My hobby is writing poetry and I have
a poetry page on facebook/ kitspoems.
I hope you enjoy this poem which was
inspired by a painting by Danny Abrahams,
shown by Cheshire Galleries on facebook
of young boys playing football in the
street as the streetlights came on.

Till the Streetlights
Come on

And we played the game
while the ball was there,
and our mothers were
sleeping in their chair.

Yesterday’s soiled, were on
the washing line, bairns in
their pram and dinner on the
mind.

Seated there to even a seam,
caught by exhaustion and love’s
young dream. Mills and Boon was
never quite what it seemed.

As the score climbed higher and
disputes were shed, united had
won but not time for bed, so best
out of twenty five instead.

Yet the smirr of rain that wet their
heads, never seems to dull the side
who’d led, and as mother scrambled
out to save her line, street lights were
out so all was fine.

Then the flicker of yellow crossed
the glass just as Didi passed to Pele
who scored the last.

Match ball was presented, the
owner took it home,
and more than the scoreline that
night had grown.

Kit Duddy
kitspoems.
Inspired by
The artist
Danny Abrahams
Cheshire Art Galle
Thank you for reading.

Kit Duddy

30,000 Steps – Connor O’Sullivan-Day

Boy you’re like a Rubik’s cube – Showing me all you colours and sides

My name is Connor O’Sullivan-Day. I am 22 years old and I love travelling, writing and a combination of city and nature, although I am a city boy at heart.

30,000 Steps

All of the hours fly by
It’s never felt so natural like this time. My night is in your hands –
I wanna get lost with you
Explore every single avenue.

–
We could get lost in Finsbury Park Stay here till the air gets dark.
Boy you’re like a Rubik’s cube – Showing me all you colours and sides, There’s nothing that I want to hide.

–
Found myself smiling at your name Wanna scream it from this train.
You walk me to my stop –
Please keep me out don’t let me go, Don’t make me end this night alone.

–
You quickly pause our conversation
To tell me about your dream in the middle of the station. And it feels like the stars were made just for us
We’re on our way to nowhere
But with you it feels like somewhere.

Connor O’Sullivan-Day

Chameleon – Sophie O’Neill

How similar we are to chameleons

My name is Sophie and im currently studying a performing arts degree which has expanded my passion to write poetry. I go by the basis that I write how I feel without guidelines and hope something resonates with the people reading it.

Chameleon

I used to think to myself on a saddened day

How similar we are to chameleons

How our minds work parallel to their traits

We mold our self into the world

A defense system when we feel at threat

Yet we convince our mind that’s our true self

When the real identity behind us

Is the one who doesn’t change its colors

When approached by the terror

We call society

–

I used to think to myself on a saddened day

Trapped in my mind parallel with society traits

Succumbed to sink into the chameleon way

When I pretend I’m not myself

It stops me feeling this way

Sophie O’Neill

The Truth Illusion – Lisa Winship

I awake, see truth is an illusion

I love creative writing, especially poetry, but I don’t always have the confidence to ‘get them out there’. So, having you read my poem would be amazing! It’s about the illusion of truth we create for ourselves, especially now with social media allowing us to create personas that may not reflect who we really are.

The Truth Illusion

I’m a visionary

Yet I’m sedentary

The richest soul in stolen rags

I’m a wit, don’t fit

As I inhabit

Spheres of influence, I degenerate

I influence, degrade

And agitate

I am beauty in all its fierce repellence

Full to the brim with style and inelegance

My captive audience

Hundreds

Yet none

I sleep, held by contended dreams

That haunt my mind

And steal my streams

Of consciousness

I awake, see truth is an illusion

No one on this earth knows the depth of my intrusion

I can create in my madman’s workshop

A truth for myself

Until the truth is forgot.

Lisa Winship