Stir – Lisa Franklin

Everything changed with a phone call

Lisa Franklin is a poet and theatre maker based in the Midlands. Her work typically explores the relationship between nature & the digital and attempts to challenge the role of audience.

She is one half of theatre company; Gertrude & one piece of poetical music troupe; The Mechanicals. She is currently on tour with ‘The Righteous Jazz’ – a piece of theatre studying the life and works of poet Philip Larkin.

Stir

Always moving

House

To house

To house, to house, to house

To house

House

Everything changed with a phone call

Sent to Coventry

A trip to the hospital

Not moving

I couldn’t leave

And now,

I don’t want to

House to house to house to house

Home

Lisa Franklin

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Pump – Steve Singleton

Two days in, confined to my room

Pump

Tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a,

tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a.

The never-ending soundtrack, to my days

and nights.

Before, tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a.

I was free to roam unrestricted, unchecked, unrestrained.

But the more I hear,

tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a.

The more poison enters my system,

the more my world contracts.

First, confined to the ward,

tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a,

A Prisoner in every room

each shackled to the wall.

Caged with their own fear and pain, unwilling to share,

anxiety etched on their faces.

Dead, flat eyes stare into their personal oblivion,

but not mine.

Tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a,

I wake to the noise, but

as the ward awakens it slips to the back ground,

lurking unnoticed, overpowered by routine,

medic’s in and out,

trollies, squeaky shoes, conversation in hushed tones,

the hospital revving to reach a crescendo of noise.

Tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a,

Poison, overwhelming my defences, it betters me physically,

it rips out my humour, my bravado

but not my determination.

I cling to ’this is temporary, it will pass’.

Two days in, confined to my room,

food I cannot face.

Tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a.

Three days in, all I can do is close my eyes, to hope in sleep

I reach a state, where waves of nausea

will not find me.

All to soon I visit Mr Armitage and Mr Shanks

who have seen it all before.

The day wains

tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a,

roars back.

Silence trying to creep through the hospital,

never quite snuffs out the sound.

Tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a.

Day five, the small hours, its contents discharged

the last bag hangs empty from my skinny friend.

The pump silenced, the rhythm stops.

No more,

tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck-a.

A few short hours, unmolested sleep follow.

Discharged home, a pale shadow who looks like me.

Empty, retched and exhausted, but

still standing,

unbowed,

still fighting.

Steve Singleton, North West London

The balance of our relationship – Kevan Taplin

I fell even lower

The balance of our relationship

In the beginning we hung like a Calder mobile

In perfect balance,moving slowly

Then shapes began to drop from your side

NO.

First the red triangle of passion fell, I plunged.

NO.

Now lower, trying not to see the imbalance

One more shape dropped from your side,

I fell even lower.

NO.

Finally the circle of trust fell.

The concept of balance was lost forever.

NO.

I plunge towards the toxic mercury fountain of bitterness

beneath me.

The balance gone forever…

Kevan Taplin

It is Spring – Melanie MacLennan

I will spoon-feed you peaches

I’m a 19 year old Literature student from the Highlands trying to fall back in love with writing and words.

It is Spring

If there is still a life

to be grasped at,

then Spring will

bring it to back

to you.

–

If there is still

a ragged breath somewhere

inside of that

chest,

then I will nurse

it quietly into a song.

–

I will tuck you in

and I will water you.

I will spoon-feed you peaches

and love

and open up the windows

again.

I will change the sheets.

I will keep you safe

until your suffering

falls asleep.

I will bring flowers

to the grave of

the person

that you were,

before you were

somebody that is really,

really

sick.

–

It is Spring and I

know that you think

that you’re dying.

–

It is Spring and

the April light is still madly

in love with your

delicate hairless

head, your

veins still

furiously alive beneath

tender skin pumping

drugs that will

break you before

they will build you.

Your sticky honey

hands still clenching mine;

your child. I am your child.

Your child.

–

On the worst days,

I will bring you entire

gardens of growth.

I will show you how

the earth unwraps itself

every single year to reveal

fresh layers of hope.

–

Listen, I know.

I know that you want

to die with dignity,

that you

want to write the profound

letters and sink

softly into the sky.

–

There’s no dignity

in digging yourself

an early grave.

There’s no dignity

in leaving me behind.

–

It is Spring and I

know that you think

that you’re dying.

–

But the birds fly quietly

through the clean blue air.

–

They come back home

again and weep

with joy and relief for

their matted wings,

and all of the

different places that there are

in the world.

–

And you watch them

up there,

in their small arrow formation,

from the dirty old window

beside sick bowls

and needles

and you laugh with amazement.

You laugh because you’re

still alive to see the

birds coming home.

–

It is Spring

and the grass has

never been this long.

The bees never so excited.

The sky’s bursting

and the plants are

singing, loud

and gentle.

–

It is Spring.

–

It is Spring,

and you still have

so much

growing to do.

By Melanie Maclennan

This Is How The Sun Will Destroy The Earth – KR Pearce

Seasons blur December daffodils

K R Pearce is a 44 year old Sussex born and bred Poet who has written both comedy, poetry and short stories throughout his life. From his late teens to his mid-twenties he performed around the UK both as a poet and with a band. He then shelved his performance poetry to only write for his own pleasure due to putting his family and work commitments first. His works have remained unpublished, but he now feels ready to embrace sharing his work again as part of his recovery from work related stress. Many styles and topics are covered including everything from politics and the economy through to the environment, demanding children to 1970’s cold war spies!

This is how the sun will destroy the earth:

Lithium ions
Taming lions
Solar farms
Spinning yarns
Combustion factory
Licking the battery
This is how the sun will destroy the earth

–
Selling ice to the Eskimos
Before we know it
Hiding C02 emissions in our pocket Trading them to worldwide friends
To carbon neutralise
Into power socket credit
This is how the sun will destroy the earth

–
Dead seaside towns
Hide Bedford ice cream vans
And high street tango tans
Taxed by the minute
But still Stacey glows
In her flannel clothes
Stepping in her credit limit
Like it isn’t dog shit
This is how the sun will destroy the earth

–
Palm tree oils
Massage developing worlds
Seasons blur
December daffodils
When autumn falls
Colour loss seen from satellites
As we take our weekly flights
This is how the sun will destroy the earth
K R Pearce 2020

Heartbroken Addiction – Sarah Louise Rennie

replacing love with glass bottles God

My name is Sarah Louise Rennie, I recently graduated from Edinburgh Napier University after studying English Literature for four years. I have suffered since I was thirteen-year-old with Rheumatoid Arthritis which lead me to go down the dark road of depression. I understand a subject like this is very sensitive and might not be suitable for the poetry competition, but I have had a passion for writing all my life and if you cannot be honest in your writing then what is the point in making art?

Heartbroken Addiction

by Sarah Louise Rennie

Rip my heart out, replace it with liquor,

the way it burns down barley makes me quiver.

Not living, just existing, broken and numb without you,

replacing love with glass bottles God, I hope I pull through.

Replaying made-up fairy tales of you returning in my mind,

and me putting down the alcohol finally leaving it behind.

–

My joints are all swollen and so are my eyes,

I’ve tried to move on but I can’t seem to cut these ties.

So many hospital beds I’ve lay praying to wake to your face,

so many intimate relations, yet you I still can’t replace.

Bottles, pills and all these cheap thrills have nothing on your love,

still searching, still wondering why in the end I wasn’t enough.

–

Intoxicated on streets trying to blur out the past,

you were the one good thing in life, how stupid to believe it’d last.

I’m crippled, I’m on my knees, I’m shattered like broken glass,

struggling, self-medicating, my thoughts are racing, it’s way too fast.

My lungs cannot breathe, you’ve sucked out all the air,

Even now I know that you’re gone, I’d like to think you’d always be there.

–

Recovery from heartbreak, addiction, Lord I don’t think I’m ready,

everyone has got to start somewhere, even though they’re highly unsteady.

When you see light, you see hope,

and when you start to fight you begin to cope

So, I’ll go on and I’ll roll up my sleeves, I’ll show all my battle scars,

farewell to these substances of abuse no longer will they keep me behind bars.

Sarah Louise Rennie

Strawberry – Tamsin Brown

Persevere, persistence, positivity is key

My name is Tamsin Brown, I’m 24 years old and work as a nursing apprentice for the NHS. My poem is about mental health. I’m also a huge Beatles fan and find that music has played a huge part in my recovery, so there’s a little reference in there and my inspiration for the name of the poem. Thanks for reading 🙂

Strawberry 🍓

Living through eyes closed,

Ignorance is bliss.

Desolate individual, a little optimism wouldn’t go amiss.

The antidote is within you, no one else.

The drive for the recovery of your own cerebral health.

The expedition to the impeccably, imperfect me.

Persevere, persistence, positivity is key.

When will this end? How will I know?

Patience, patience… embrace the odyssey of the lesson.

Tamsin Brown

I Am Me – David A. Stansfield

I was like a day that was refused a dawn

I was born in Liverpool in 1968, and was unfortunately abandoned by my mother. I spent the first 18 years of my life in and out of children’s homes and foster care. I always felt alone, without anyone who I truly trusted, or who I could talk to. That is how I originally got into writing poetry. It was the only way that I could release my emotions and thoughts, even though I never shared my poems to anyone at the time. Now, I enjoy sharing my poetry with people. I hope that my poems will inspire, guide, and support all those that read them.

I AM ME

I was abandoned by my mother at two hours old,

Fighting for my life for the first two years.

Going through Hell, whilst being brought up in care,

Falling asleep, most nights, in tears.

Most days, at school, I was ridiculed and bullied,

Rarely getting praised for good work I’d done.

Playing truant, for me, was my only escape,

Because being alone, was almost fun.

Even when I was placed with foster parents,

I felt like I was always second best.

I never felt like I was part of the family,

More like a social experiment, or test.

It seemed, to me, for my first eighteen years,

There was nowhere for me to belong.

I was like a day that was refused a dawn,

I was just like a non lyrical song.

Then one day I had an epiphany,

Everything became suddenly clear.

A realization that broke through my darkness,

For the first time in so many years.

I was a victim of circumstance, not a victim.

My whole mindset had been so wrong.

I am a survivor, I am a fighter,

I am emotionally and mentally strong.

I have done many things that I am not proud of.

I haven’t yet become all I can be.

But I can look in the mirror with my head held high,

And be proud to say “I am me”.

By David A. Stansfield

Confession – Huda Javed

When she had hair that shone in the blistering sun

My name is Huda Javed, I’m 16 years old. This poem was inspired by my observation in the difference between the generation of British-Pakistani’s, who grew up within a new, modernised culture, compared with that of my parents, who grew up in Pakistan. It highlights that the youngerBest generation values different things and aspects of life compared with previous generations. I used the object of hair as it is a symbol in Pakistan, among women, of youth. The poem expresses underlying tones of nostalgia and an ignorance to what we possess when we are young.

Confession

My mother cried,

When I cut my hair.

–

When she saw the dark locks,

Littered on the white tiles

Of the bathroom floor.

–

It was just so heavy,

Like carrying a sack,

Laden with stones.

–

Too weighty to pile atop my head,

Too much to let loose,

Too wild to set free.

–

A creature of its own, that battled me daily –

It clawed as I combed,

Snarled when I gathered it roughly,

Forcing it into a knot –

That I knew wouldn’t hold.

–

When I washed it with water,

It yowled and it yapped

When I tamed it with oils and sweet-smelling ointments,

It scowled and it snorted

At my futile attempts.

–

I gave up on my efforts,

Left it to grow and bask

In its short victory –

The ends grew wispy, rough and neglected,

Split with confusion and weak with dejection.

The wild mass grew tired and lost its spirit,

–

The fearless black, of a starless night sky,

Faded, into a cloudy dusk.

–

Holding my scissors,

Before I could hesitate and think of

The severity of this cut,

At the missing cape that fell to my waist

At the fresh strands that would brush my shoulders

And the plait that wouldn’t snake down

My spine

But tickle my neck with starker ends.

–

I looked at the floor,

And saw what my mother would see,

Not dark locks covering my feet

And the white tiles

Of the bathroom floor.

But a rejection –

Of a gift,

Of the motherland

She left behind –

When she had hair that shone in the blistering sun

And sailed past her waist,

That whipped in the wind

And flew in her face.

–

Hair that was her pride

And her fading grace –

That she lost

When the strands grew limp and tired with age.

She put up a fight,

Caring and nursing

With oils and ointments that came from the garden

Trying to preserve

The rich dark river

That flowed down her back,

Burdened with honour and gladness.

–

The missing weight,

That used to drag at my head –

A reminder to her

Of the step that I took,

Away from home –

–

A lesson

For when the strands go limp and tired with age,

–

Of the dark, fearless cape,

Of a starless night sky

That once brushed my waist.

Huda Javed

Streets of Hockley – Emma Wing

The rainbow road leads to the forgotten shops

My name is Emma. I live in Nottingham

The Streets of Hockley

The rainbow road leads to the forgotten shops. You have bookshops, restaurants and even a cow outside a café.

These little streets have so much for everyone. Bargain books at Bookwise. Bargain at Sue Ryder and even something for Goths at Jugglers.

These little streets are so vibrant. Something for everyone. Even crystals for the spiritual at Ica Nine. Which has been serving Nottingham for a good few years.

After all your bargain hunting at the shops. Take a rest at one of the many pubs or independent cafes. Especially the one with the famous cow outside.

Support our local businesses before it’s a dying trade.

Emma Wing