Two Photographs – Sue Byrne

The photos surfaced today

Sue became interested in writing poetry in 2016, after her husband died of cancer. She joined the local Maggie’s creative writing group. In 2018 she became joint Writer in Residence and she has had some success with her poetry. She has had poems selected for “Our Beating Heart” (erbacce-press); an insect anthology (Emma Press); “Missing Pieces” (Maggies’anthology); “Write like a Girl” anthology (a project about 5 women writers in Nottingham).

She has joined several other writing groups and she has extended her knowledge of poetic forms. She enjoys sharing poems and writing with other like-minded people.

Two Photographs

Both taken by the other

on Sheringham beach one October.

I’m sitting on the sea-wall

overlooking a grey-blue scape.

You’re on a boulder

surrounded by the shingle-shore.

–

I’m wearing my pumpkin coloured jeans.

You’re wearing black. No change there then.

Behind me, wooden groynes gradually

disappear into the sea.

Behind you, a glimpse of infinity.

We share the sound of the waves.

–

Six years have gone by.

The photos surfaced today.

We were looking at different futures,

faces hiding the pain and fear

that was to come.

And we didn’t speak of it.

Susan Byrne, 14th October 2018

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Amphibian – Laura Boyle

I’m an amphibian, cold-blooded; I just forget it sometimes.

I am a seventeen-year-old student, journalist, and aspiring poet. I use poetry to explore the full range of colours and sounds of the human experience; I delve into the topics that scare me most. I hope my poem finds a home in each reader.

Amphibian

Healing is a lake, and it’s a cold November day.

I feel the sand part beneath me as I stand on that border,

That static purgatory of liminality makes me shiver

Preemptively; I can’t dive in.

–

I feel the water steal the warmth of my brave toes;

Frightened, I recoil like a grasshopper, springing back onto solid ground.

The perpetual, vast wetness is the stillest whirlpool I’ve ever seen.

Still,

The anchorage of hope tugs me in,

Unwilling.

–
The torso is the worst part;

In feverish anticipation of the icy pain that begets the numbness,

I hesitate, searching for hands to pull me in.

The only hand that grabs back is my reflection.

–
The sky fills my ears and the clouds enter my lungs as I reteach myself how to

Breathe.

I’m an amphibian, cold-blooded; I just forget it sometimes.

–

I’m spinning upside-down in water or air,

Head hit by an asteroid, feet throbbing, disoriented.

Am I flying, or am I simply surrounded by the damp, frosty reflection Of the blotted sky?

–

I wish I could jump in the cerulean water head-first,

But for now, I’m taking tentative steps into the unknown,

Drowning until I believe I can swim.

Healing is a lake, and one day I will be the Loch Ness Monster.

Laura Boyle

Keep on Fighting – Claire Gee

this is a war I’ll win

I’m a seventeen year old student from Archway School who aspires to be a poet.

Keep on Fighting

Fight, they say, like a battle arena,
Keep trying, hold on, don’t let go.
I’m a fighter. I’m a trier
but this is my civil war.
Cells rage against saviors: my own lungs drag me
Down.
Tubes sustain and masks buy time
which is now a priceless gift.

Flowers of red, blue and yellow.
Hope, love and a funeral parlor.
I’m a fighter. I’m a trier
but this is a war I’m loosing.
Blood burns and lungs drown in airless nothing.
Screams.
My screams of pain,
my child’s weep at time.

Fight, they say, like they understand.
Keep trying, I’ll hold on, never letting go.
I’m a fighter. I’m a trier
and this is a war I’ll win.
Hope.
My family and friends hold it
so I let it glow in me.
by Claire Gee (17) Archway School

Not another Poem called ‘Snow’ – Peter Donnelly

there were snowballs and sledging, scarves and woolly hats

I live in York. I have a degree in English and a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from the University of Wales Lampeter. I have been writing poetry on and off since I was at school.

Not another Poem called ‘Snow’

As children it delighted us when it came,

never at Christmas but often at New Year.

School could not re-open,

there were snowballs and sledging,

scarves and woolly hats.

–

It brought us heartbreak too,

when aunts and grandmas couldn’t come to stay,

nor we go to them. We always knew

the snowman would melt in a few days.

–

Once we shovelled the driveway 

for old Bill next-door, expecting pay

not a hated mug of Bovril we could hardly refuse.

–

Now it only looks pretty. We feel the cold

and worry about damage to the garden.

But imagine a world without snow,

the memories we wouldn’t have,

the words we wouldn’t write.

Peter Donnelly, York

That Warm Night in September – Ken Fletcher

I looked into her eyes and she gave me a smile

Hi my name is Ken Fletcher, I’m 52 years old and over the last few years I have been putting some words together and I’ve produced some poetry. My friends and family have been pushing me to send it to someone so that they can have a look at it. I have written about half a dozen up to now and they all come from my life experiences and memories that are personal to me. personally I don’t think that anybody will be interested in them but I would like to have some feedback. I have attached a piece about when I met my wife in 1982 when I was 15 years old and it tells our story.

That Warm Night in September

That warm night in September

Is a time that I will always remember

Sat on the wall with my best mate lee

I asked this girl to take me home for a cup of tea

We chatted for a while but it was getting late

I said Sunday 12th shall we call it a date

The big day arrived and it was time to go

I’m an hour late will she still show

But to my surprise she had waited for me

And we went for a walk to my mums for tea

hand in hand I walked her home

Through birch field gardens she must have known

We sat on the bench for a while

I looked into her eyes and she gave me a smile

That lovely time in the autumn sunset

That’s when our lips they first met

Our first date had gone so fast

But I knew our time together was going to last

The weeks went by and things felt so good

The time was right do you think we should

I took her into my arms and held her tight

That gift she gave me felt so right

I will never forget what she gave to me

And on the radio played ABC

We had found each other on that special day

Our love for one another would always stay

The years have past so very fast

And they all said that it wouldn’t last

But we have proved them all wrong

Because our love for each other is so strong

Three grown up kids and thirty seven years later

Our bond together is even greater

As we continue so much in love

We fit together like hand in glove

As the next part of our journey is about to start

We never ever want to be apart

When I think back I will always remember

That warm autumn night in September.

Ken Fletcher

01.01.19 – Anna O’Boyle

Our world has crashed and burned

My name is Anna O’Boyle and I am 18 years old. Currently I live in Derbyshire with my family as I am on a gap year trying to earn money before studying English Literature at University. Writing is something I have always been very passionate about and, although it is what I have wanted to do as a career all my life, it is something I will always continue to do even if I never get paid for it.

01/01/19

Thomas Hardy reincarnate,

The Darkling Thrush is doomed.

2019, the year began,

A descent, into further gloom.

–

An orange ruler, an alien queen,

Our world has crashed and burned.

You would have thought, that from the past,

Some lessons we’d have learnt

–

Yet no it seems, we cannot see,

The Anger that bubbles away.

Nor climate change, or melting ice,

But feel, warmer, day by day.

–

Lets not forget, despite our flaws

That we have travelled far.

We took control, immigrants out,

Now alone is what we are.

–

2019 the future so bright,

We have little need to fear.

Yes, worry not, it is alright,

Ten years, we won’t be here.

Anna O’Boyle, Derbyshire

Burdensome Expectations – Saule Zemgulyte

No one else seems bothered

A human being with a name of Saule Zemgulyte. I identify as non-binary and am currently in Yr11. I enjoy writing and drawing. Not sure what else to say.

Burdensome Expectations

Dresses, Doll, Skirts
All feel so restrictive,
They choke me.
No one else seems bothered.
Everyone else looks fine and happy
While I wonder how they can possibly be satisfied Dragging…those…rocks…attached…by chains.
I only struggle, wishing to

discard

it.
My name–
All feminine and pink- Presses down on me.
It only gets worse
As I get older and discover more of myself.

I hate it.
it suppresses me.

A breath of fresh air.
No rules. No restrictions. No expectations. At home. Alone.
A name that’s comfortable.
In clothes I like.
Away from accusatory eyes.
Safe with a pen
That creates words
Expressing my emotions,
Allowing me to be myself.
Finally.

Saule Zemgulyte

Fears – Emma Hewston

Fear isn’t my boss anymore

My name is Emma Hewston. I am a Geography Teacher from Birmingham. Until 2 years ago I hadn’t really written (or read) any poetry since I was at school myself! I have written 2 books of poetry and am passionate about reading the inspirational poetry of others too. After welcoming our first child into our lives this summer I find myself thinking there’s a first time for everything so thought it time to share my own poetry with others too.

Fears

I am a thought machine.
I can think up disasters so big even dinosaurs scamper.
My thought disasters are quick off the mark,
Faster than me, faster than cheaters.

I am a thought machine.
The dinosaurs know my footprints
Each one pressed in beauty,
A pathway leading everywhere but to disaster.

I am a thought machine.
The cheaters know my spots
They kindly dot-to-dot in magnificent constellations
Lockets of love, no disaster here.

I am a thought machine and I think for myself.
Fear isn’t my boss anymore,
Sure I get afraid but I am more afraid of
not being true.
Being a thought machine is amazing, I thought myself here didn’t I?

Emma Hewston

Adult – Ruth McLeod

Every ‘Adult’ has not developed yet into who they are supposed to be

I’m originally from the midlands, Leicestershire & Nottingham way, but moved further south a few years ago with my husband for work. I’ve been writing creatively since I was a teenager, I’ve always been good a coming up with ideas, but never very good at finishing them, so much so that I have several novels on the go. Writing is my way of expressing how I feel and processing my emotions, sometimes I write with no intention of ever showing anyone the elaborate stories I create. Recently I have been trying to push myself to write more short-form stories and poems so that I can share my thoughts to others.

Adult

Written by Ruth Macleod

The definition of an adult is a person who is fully formed, fully grown…developed.

It has little thought or description for those who, although may seem an adult in every way may still see themselves as lost as when they were children.

Still searching.

Still hopeful.

Still entirely not ‘put together’.

–

But then perhaps this is because every adult secretly thinks like this,

Every ‘Adult’ has not developed yet into who they are supposed to be,

Or who they could be,

And I guess that is the question.

–

Who they are.

Is it who they are RIGHT NOW, this very second?

Because that person will not be the same in a week.

A month, a year, three years.

They might feel like an adult tomorrow,

But in two weeks, they may feel as lost as they did when their parents dropped them off at university for the first night.

–

A definition of an adult then becomes somewhat impossible to ever live up to.

Because to be ‘fully formed’, ‘developed’… ‘grown’.

Is to be done, baked and ready to take out of the oven.

To be all those things means that you are over,

That life is over,

And I don’t want life to be over.

I don’t want to be an adult.

Ruth McLeod

Silly Girls – Eleanor Moss

You altered my own reputation

Silly Girls

Tell tale signs you’ve got a good story to play Lay audience is lay
So come on whisper it all;
words like the morning bird’s call.
Musical Lyrical
Followed you like it was biblical
wrong interpretation: un-pieus if there’s flirtation

You altered my own reputation
Left me jolted, though presented as oblation

Take your words, you can be the tortured artist.

I’ll always be the girl that stopped you to flourish.

Eleanor Moss