If Only – Craig Slater

These are clothes of solace

If only

Her jumper was too loose,

Worn out at the elbows,

From leaning on the table

Head in the hands,

Daydreaming through the window

About a life of “if onlys.”

–

His jeans were too tight,

Threadbare backside

Sitting at the same table,

Uncomfortably restricted

The same chair in the same place,

Away from his “if onlys!”

–

Garments in poor repair,

faded over many years,

The attractive designs

Now only memories

glimpses of the original pattern,

Struggle against the “if onlys!”

–

But they cannot be thrown away,

Despite the faults and flaws…

For these are their comfortable clothes,

These are clothes of solace,

Fearing to discard such familiar touches,

For the want of “if only?”

Craig Slater

05/06/2014

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Cut From The Same Cloth – Ben Docherty

But yer family so a love ye

“Cut From The Same Cloth” by Ben Docherty, written in Glaswegian dialect, is a narrative on two sister’s relationship and a reflection on the brutality and realism of love. It follows a comedic yet harsh tone whilst exploring the historic barbarity that is affection. Fighting will always be one the key components in a relationship. It’s unhealthy not to challenge ideas or have conflict and that’s what makes love bearable. Compliance will never suit us and we will always need love so in our relationships we follow a messy, violent, passionate equilibrium that is ornately normal.(ps the poem is a little in appropriate at times but really adds to the sense of realism, thanks for considering me and I greatly understand if you wish not to enter the poem but the bad language really does serve a purpose. Also, it’s not that bad)

Cut from the same cloth

Ben Docherty

Cut fae the same clath

And we came oot that way

No hawf fightin and tuggin

The claths seen better days

Now we love each ether dearly

But honesty a must hev

A want tae bastarding kill ye

Naw but a love ye, or so ave heard

–

Cut the cloth,

Auch you’d ken aboot cutting that clath

Ye dae a fine job a rippin ma knitten

Always sense how ta rub me up the wrang way

Biggest ershole in Britain

Ye could aye start a fight in an empty room

But you’ll hae come an find me

Always raring to go

Always brimmin wae glee

On ma despair yer dancin

In ma misery dae ye bloom

Hell’l hov tae digger that bit deeper

Just tae give yer arrogance some room

And ave telt masel tae shrug it af

Tae take the higher stance

But am at stabbing that clath

And trust ma sweet yev git nae chance

–

Sew the cloth,

But yer family so a love ye

That’s the way it goes

A can take the pain a can aye pit it up

When yer treddin oan ma toes

A hugs a warm embrace

Well tek a cup o brew

If we’re honest a few too many glasses

But That’s wit sisters do

We’ll always be raring tae fight

Yev beilt ma blood sa much

Am propped up by the steam it’s become

And the anger a call ma crutch

But that’s the hing about the clath

It’s wear and tear but holds

We’re no a perfect family

But in love, aye, we fit the mould

Ben Docherty, Glasgow

Insomnia – Liam Hickson

The fears I have, now I’m grown up

My name is Liam Hickson, I’m 28 years old. I’ve always had trouble sleeping due to great amounts of anxiety, I was recently diagnosed as autistic, something that has played on my mind greatly. I found myself wondering if my autism played a role in lost loves and missed opportunities. Did my anxiety and need to structure create become my own worst enemy?

Insomnia

These sleepless nights where I do find,

The ghosts of memories I’ve left behind,

The face of her, the one I loved,

The gentle breeze, the softest touch,

The love once lost, the time spent up,

The fears I have, now I’m grown up,

These sleepless nights where I do find,

The ghosts of a youth, that I left behind.

Liam Hickson

Grey Skies – Ian Moore

Like a ghostly apparition

I am Ian Moore from London and I am over fifty years old. I have always enjoyed reading narrative writing and poetry but only recently have I turned my hand to writing poems. I like poems that have a rich language, a strong imagery and conceal a deeper meaning using symbolism.

Grey Skies

by Ian Moore

A grey sky mopes

despondently,

Drifting across the hills.

Scourged by years of rainfall,

Trickling down the face of the hillside,

The upland rocks

Have been dragged to an inevitable end.

They lay prostrate

In a vale

That has been withered

by time.

Boulders battered by coastal winds

Tumble after –

Into the cervices below.

Everything is hidden

In a veil of mist –

Concealed behind a lace curtain of rain

Or secretive

Like a ghostly apparition

Sweeping across the ridge.

Sprigs of heather

Scattered amongst turfs of grass

Emerge cautiously.

A lone seagull swooping

across the murky sky,

Hitching a ride on a gust of wind,

Scours the land – a fruitless search.

Beneath the hilltop,

In the valley below,

ancient border-lines

Vanish into a grey horizon…

–

Yet, in the distance,

Adorning the hillside

In its radiant splendour,

a slither of sunlight

Slices through the darkness,

Lifting the grey clouds,

Momentarily.

Ian Moore, London

Keeping Busy – Jessica Wortley

time weighs differently

Jessica is a published poet and teacher of creative writing. She is currently working towards a PhD in creative writing at Teesside University, where she is researching nature writing. Her poetry pamphlet As If We Were The Trees was published in 2015.

Keeping Busy

Clean more thoroughly than usual;

the top of the picture frame, the grooves in the door.

Sweep the garden path, dead-head lupins.

Clear weeds from cracks before

pulling chives one-by-one

for a dinner you may or may not eat.

Walk everywhere,

notice that between your house and the cliff tops,

time weighs differently.

Feel it in your rib cage, in your ears, in your gut.

See the family of starlings on the wire,

and hear what they say,

wonder at which is the oldest,

and at where they go to when they need to feel peace.

Jessica Wortley

Seeing – Catriona Patience

Perhaps these are half shadows

I am an aspiring artist and occasional writer who usually lives in Edinburgh but sometimes lives on islands.

Seeing

Blinded by uncertainty

Carving half truths

Out of ephemeral

Fickle

Light

Seeing it clearly

Or at least you think you do,

Perhaps these are half shadows

Of that ever fickle

Truth?

Dreaming,

groping in the dark

You brush against the future

Then wake suddenly in the half light

Paralysed.

Catriona Patience

Shazam – Grace Rafferty

Will anyone come from above?

My name is Grace Rafferty I am 11 years old and I go to Townsend church of England school.

Shazam

In the midst of the night,

Darkness fills the air,

And Villans take flight.

No one can stop their reign,

Only one,

Someone so incredibly insane.

Where is the master?

The one who knows the way,

The one to fix this disaster.

Is there anyone out there,

To save all of us,

Someone to clear this wicked air.

We start to forget how to love,

How to be ourselves,

Will anyone come from above?

When all hope is gone,

When no one believes,

Something in the dawn.

Could this be the one?

The mighty leader,

Maybe he can fix what has been done.

He sweeps down,

And with one fist,

Repairs all the around.

And with the snap of a finger,

All is done,

And the mighty silhouette is nowhere to be seen.

Grace Rafferty

Fairy Tale – Lucy Savage

There once were sights of breathtaking beauty

I’ve always enjoyed writing and having dabbled with creative writing groups for years finally decided to concentrate on developing my poetic style by joining a class this year. Themes for me include the natural world and also the restrictions placed on disabled people by society’s attitudes and lack of inclusion.

Fairy Tale-

There once was a princess with extraordinary dreams

There once was a castle that constrained her

There once was an ordinary village round the castle

There once was a real and enticing forest

There once were tracks leading nowhere and somewhere

There once were sights of breathtaking beauty

There once were traps all around to catch her

There once were surprises to be discovered

And the princess longed to keep roaming

There once were elves to accompany her

There once were goblins to frighten her back

And the princess did her best to ignore them

And she blocked out the sounds of their roaring

There once were kings and queens telling her to stay home

There once was a prince who sometimes encouraged her

And sometimes the princess wandered out on her own

There once were foreign courtiers lighting her way

There once were powers telling her the paths led nowhere

There once was a voice encouraging her freedom

And the princess sometimes thought it was unreal

she sometimes felt like giving up her wandering

she sometimes felt too tired to keep walking

But somehow the princess knew roaming was right

somehow she wanted to explore forever

somehow she thought she would get where she wanted

Lucy Savage

Fate’s guiding star seems dimmed – Lukul Selavy

my love; a star who shines only for day?

I’m called Lukul Selavy. People often pronounce this weirdly. I am sixteen, I especially like the french symbolist poets. This poem is my first, and so this submission is not due to arrogance but due to hope. I hope it is liked.p.s. the subtitle is not irrelevant and is interconnected with the poem, as the subtitle’s logic (or illogic) would be with any poem of an emotional sort.

Fate’s guiding star seems dimmed

(41 lines – 5 quintains – 2 quatrains – 2 tercets – 1 couplet – Hope – Hope of love – she’s called Maybe)

the girl, that daydream gazes find, i call: Maybe

(lest she is explained as: imaginary).

like a petulant child that tugs on coattails,

presentiments of her urge me, stubbornly

yearning; but, always at heart sadness prevails.

my love; a star who shines only for day?

a dove with feathers going grey?

a song for nobody?

summer night rolls onto her belly her shape

lies star-traced by astral veils from which escapes

cosmic rain yes heaven’s flecked constellation

glazed on my window sultry night her arched nape

her raised chin Fate’s girl of imagination!

outside of my window i see

rose garden roseate coloured

at last, from the earth they tug free

Slowly they start to fall upward

Future knows how Present swoons for what may be

so smooth sheets make jagged peaks over my knee

and moonlight cascades into these spectral deeps

wind whispers through blooms yes voices sing for me!

but hope wilts; mountains tilt; oceans drain; songs sleep.

shall i discover love as the newborn discovers colours?

or be without?

who can love fleshless hope? a vile thief space is.

such evil air, there instead of embraces.

heart – stop your beat. until to her it wakes,

‘till we cross in life’s web of times and places.

soul; to bed. sleep could fill the void waiting makes.

see the full moon incandescent,

slowly growing the night’s black skin,

and so makes the moon a crescent

stretching into a jeering grin

can you hear? can you? Fate’s guiding star seems dimmed.

Future’s love, my star… this prayer’s not speech mark “winged”.

my life’s enjambment untangles through despair

and hope. always my pulse is . caesura pinned;

with hope, despair! and foul runes, wrought for thin air.

my love; a star who shines only for day?

a dove with feathers going grey?

a song for nobody.

Lukul Selavy

Woodland Rite – Tina Pritchard

where the notes of lilting birdsong echo clear and pure

After a life dedicated to re-locating frequently, bringing up a family, taking a social science degree as a mature student, working as a college lecturer, a trainer and more recently a Celebrant, Tina Pritchard at last addressed her burning need to write her debut novel, The Sea Glass Beach. Although not autobiographical, the story reflects aspects of her childhood as the illegitimate daughter of a single mother in Ireland during the 1950’s. Tina believes scratching the surface of ordinary lives can reveal, a rich seam of material. Becoming a Celebrant further validated this view. She feels privileged to have been entrusted with writing unique ceremonies marking significant life events. She has also written a number of personalised poems for inclusion in ceremonies she has conducted. In 2016 one of her poems was selected for inclusion in The Great British Write Off anthology. She also won first prize in a 100 word story competition in 2015. As a member of a creative writing group, Tina has been encouraged by the feedback received from fellow writers during the process of writing her novel. She gains much of her inspiration from walking in the countryside with her badly behaved terrier Horace.

Woodland Rite

Take me to the woods
where the green gnarled boughs rise majestically
from scarred and riven trunks, braced and steadfast.
Noble sentinels, knee deep in fragmenting crumb,
rooted in leaf litter, old as time and humming with life.

Take me to the woods
where the sun glints through the spreading canopy
and sudden heavy raindrops bend flattened leaves.
Shivering their burden, they send a rainbow cascade
of liquid light to beguile the unwary, in this kingdom of delights.

Take me to the woods
where the notes of lilting birdsong echo clear and pure,
borne aloft on a freshening breeze.
A trembling of finches dart through sheltering hedgerows,
tiny chirrups joining the sweet flute of the mistle thrush.

Will you take me to the woods
where the solitary oak serenely awaits my impending arrival,
branches outstretched in welcome.
White ash, fragments of stardust mingle with teeming loam,
a scattering of motes at journey’s end. Elemental as earth I will become.