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

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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

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

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

The Window Seat – Karen Middleton

Looking like a modern-day snow white

My name is Karen Middleton I am a performance poet from the North east I have 6 poetry books published. I also love writing short stories I look forward to seeing the results.

The Window Seat

Ticking, all the right boxes,

Flicking, through the pages,

Auditioning,

For the role of book worm,

On a mission,

Turning pages,

Seeking reason, reading from centre stages.

Potentially, reading on the window seat

Now she is residing, hiding,

Wrapped up finding her purpose,

Waiting until motivation peaks

This month, this moment, this week.

Remembering incentives,

The source, the provocation, the basis,

Stopping, selecting, marking pages

Keeping places, with bookmark, an indication.

To mark her place

To locate in case inspiration breaks

Another brainwave,

Another creative creating, another creation,

Looking like a modern-day snow white

A basket of clothes at her feet

Did she carry on writing

Or did she fold the clothes

Well ,you’re listing to a poem.

Karen Middleton, North East England

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

Sarah Elizabeth Jones – John Gallas

Sarah Jones is knitting the sea

John Gallas : NZ poet living in Markfield, Leics. Published by Carcanet Press. Orkney St Magnus Festival Poet, translator and librettist.

Sarah Elizabeth Jones

Sarah Elizabeth Jones d. April 23rd 1960 aged 90

(Master Mariner Jones drowned 1907 aged 44)

Aberdyfi Graveyard Memorial

Sarah Jones is knitting the sea.

It purls

down

from her

house on the hill

like Golden Syrup

over the lych-gate

and the road,

the marram-dunes

and the salty

fifteenth

green.

O Captain Jones,

collect thy bones,

climb out of the sea

and climb the woolly hill to me.

I have been alone for fifty years,

and I am sick of tears.

Only the needles’ click clack click,

my teapot, and your walking-stick.

John Gallas, Markfield