Forever You Said – Fiona Munro

Tears fill the valley between us

Fiona Munro is a late comer to poetry and loves rhyme and metered poetry. She has been commissioned on many occasions for poems and prose. These are to make listeners laugh, or to evoke emotion, and are mainly for retirements and leaving speeches. She now seems to have become, in name only, the poet laureate of Eastbourne police. Thank you Fiona.

Forever You Said

I lay next to you
I watch you sleeping, I hear your breath
Memory of your touch still lingers from the past;
I cry silently
Tears fill the valley between us
I am invisible, translucent in your world
Forever you said love is all
My forever is everlasting yours forever short
I have a journey to let my heart let go of you

Fiona Munro, Eastbourne

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5 Days a Businessman – Jonathan Brocklehurst

Another day grind for tonight I unwind

Jonathan Brocklehurst is a British-Brazilian trainee Podiatrist with an enthusiasm for Poetry. His scope for creativity also includes musicianship in the Trumpet and Piano. His previous ventures with Poetry have included a published poem in the ‘Poetry Games’ anthology and Young Writers award for Creativity. In his poem: ‘5 days a Businessman’, Jonathan looks to paint the picture of the hectic nature of a week in the world of Business. Thank you Jonathan for your support.

5 Days a Businessman

Monday

Conduit fittings mar short breakfast sittings,

‘till seasoned gym kitting resists the sweat.

Oh diamonds you hurt me, ambition you dawn,

Only look left and scurry, for peace full withdrawn.

Restless my crease, cappuccino decease.

Failed pitches must pass, else minds will grow hard.

Effortlessly jitter through window’s best fitter.

Don’t fret, the tube’s near, your day has grown thinner.

Pass me a glass. Stop. I must last.

As the rim of my thoughts, the week will pour fast.

–

Tuesday

Ponder the notes of riches foretold,

The dragons of London eye soft prey to hold.

The fire breathing nature of judgement unfold,

Coins will flip lives to traumas untold.

The den of angst brews much horrible news

A mindset shift beckons to peacefully met cues.

The screen clouds my mind to number mankind,

Another day grind for tonight I unwind.

The Chat shows amuse my thrill-seeking drive,

Let dopamine rule and confusion arrive.

How can tomorrow best boredom today,

Lest pleasure my ego to lead me astray.

–

Wednesday

The middle of time. Wish it were ‘friendsday’.

Laugh at my banter, can you tell it’s a Wednesday?

I need some light moods, stop talkin’ ‘good foods’.

Intense, I seem rude. The language is rude.

The harder I try, my neurons will cry,

The quicker I speak, white lies could I leak.

Emotion can tower and relationships sower.

The discipline hour can nurture a flower.

Respect to the leaders divides from the pleasers.

To learn is to change, great fear to assuage.

–

Thursday

New day new dawn,

Renew the paint worn.

Restore events past

Sincerity will last.

A human heart yearns to mend a past hurt.

Let closure be closure to stamp on the dirt.

Look forward to sunset, the weekend is near,

A day left of data to redo and steer.

The facets of life, both work and within,

Will chisel out gold dust to grind out the win.

–

Friday

From the fresh dreams of Trinidad, the bed is my beach.

The Island for two days awakens a treat.

The weeklong of words whirled on faces of numbers,

Responded self-worth reduced to mere slumbers.

The art of made meaning in business today,

Plays tricks on our children to throw love away.

Sums of unseen steal lifelong made dreams,

The grafting and crafting paints

The thought of tomorrow inhabits today,

So, don’t let the money make you pay.

Jonathan Brocklehurst

A Cup of Two Teas – Zyra Álvarez Claudius

splendid music starts my soul to stir

My name is Zyra Álvarez Claudius. I am nineteen years old, and a student at Bristol University studying Mathematics with Study in Continental Europe. During the Summer I have been home in Falmouth, Cornwall, writing poetry and working in a shop.

Thank you Zyra for your decision to support our project and share your talent.

A Cup of Two Teas

While she speaks, I am struck

by the beauty

of the act.

–

Each idea is astoundingly astute

and sharply perceptive,

and the eloquence

of their conveyance

is marvellous

in and of itself.

–

It’s true her meaning’s wondrous like the woods,

yet soon my sense is carried high above

(the gist her words transmit) towards their song,

and splendid music starts my soul to stir.

Her voice is beauty. Full and fluid rush

it’s ebb and flow, it’s rise and fall of pitch,

it’s choice delays —

which add suspense to the tune,

which are the shade to the light of her voice,

whose presence is needed to appreciate the noise from which they’re carved —

and meaning’s mere and left behind as soars

my raised attention borne on wings of sound.

–

The music demands,

and of course receives,

graceful and sensuous dance.

At each select fermata, her lips

are held — slightly apart — poised

to lightly kiss and once again

cavort to the tune of her

words. They couple,

uncouple, and twist

into a captivating smile,

which has the effect of teasing

at that which it guards: Her tongue,

occasionally stroking air, only to abscond

itself as a skittish faerie in the moonlight

once more behind its softly joining

and enjoining ingress.

–

Each —

her meaning,

her music,

her dance

— passionately overshadows,

and at once succumbs

to the other two; as the ingenuity of her

observations renders all but her

meaning obsolete,

so too the rush and trip of sound

controls and beats away all sense and motion, and the

salacious dance of scarlet flesh

obliterates exactly that which it conceives.

–

In the midst of this trinity

of woven style and substance

my attention is frantically

changing, shifting,

but still

motionless in awe. Is it any

wonder then that, in this impossible,

primordial duality of awareness,

there are born ideas

and feelings which — coming

at once from nothing as from impossibility

itself — give rise to humanity’s most

contradictory and impossible dimension

in a deep and unguarded

corner of my heart?

Zyra Álvarez Claudius, Falmouth

Reminiscing Senses – Mina Yakinya

Warm moments of the past I once loved

My name’s Mina Yakinya and I am a uni student studying broadcast journalism at NTU. This is a poem about the senses that bring a feeling of nostalgia and remind us of things from our childhood and other moments in one’s past.

Thank you for sharing Mina.

Reminiscing Senses

While sitting on the bus looking out the window,

Or walking along my way to the store,

Warm moments of the past I once loved,

Come to visit me

Lingering smells, sounds and sights,

Reminding you of even the subtlest times of happiness,

Are of a bittersweet nature,

That disappear within an instant

Unknowingly waiting for those senses,

In a bid to preserve what once was,

I hope to meet you again

Like the scent of a perfume,

Or a music box tune,

Or even a glance at a familiar stranger,

These time capsules drift by waiting to be spotted

Delicate memories that come and go momentarily,

Like presents given to us on meaningful days,

I stand by to catch a stage in time,

Just like I had yesterday

Rather like a splendid dream,

That never quite leaves your mind,

Senses appear to us just as a new season comes by

So, to these beautiful senses,

That capture all my beautiful past’s,

I welcome you to visit more often,

Particularly in the most mundane of times

Thank you

Mina Yakinya, Nottingham Trent University

The Blinkin’ Cursor – Elinor Clark

he wasn’t kidding when he told us all to watch the ”blinking cursor”

Elinor Clark is a recent philosophy graduate hailing from the cold and rainy North. She now works in London as a media analyst, and writes obsessively; it really is her lifeline and sustaining force. Thank you very much Elinor for sharing your talent.

The Blinkin’ Cursor

I did a double-take as the man at the front with

his combed back hair and his well-fitted blazer

and the badge on his tie which said some

words in Latin about achieving and excelling

and such things that people wouldn’t know

unless they’d been to a school with a motto.

This man who talked about maximising output

with words from a textbook in a voice he had

stolen from an American film he must have

watched about British people, suddenly, from

out of nowhere, said a word I pictured pouring

out of my Granny’s mouth, as she’d sit in her

chair, waggling a ciggie and she’d say “blinkin’ ‘eck”.

But he wasn’t kidding when he told us all to watch

the “blinking cursor”, didn’t even seem to notice

that he’d said something funny as he carried on

talking about his output and his input and the

arrow flashing on the screen, his shirt somehow

still smooth and creaseless even as he waved

his arms in wild swinging circles cutting through

the air like a fresh painted windmill.

Elinor Clark, London

01 – Alina-Gabriela Sandu

I chose to be a “poet” so I could sleep under the bridge

Many thanks to Alina-Gabriela Sandu for her entry. Alina-Gabriela is a passionate writer and has ‘been writing for as long as she can remember, on different subjects, sometimes with a more dark view on things, sometimes in a more pastel way, passionate about symbolism, which can make the writing a little bit tricky and left free for interpretation.’

I’ll cut pieces of my courage out while calling myself “Satan of my life”.

I’m chasing sweet words out of drunk people’s mouths, while the lions are eating their cubs.
I’m not chasing fame, I got a “no one” coat, and believe a lot of things.

Life’s a moment and if you’re lucky and truly see it when you die,
It’s gonna be worth it.
I’m talking about what you want to talk about.
I’m not important, but my friends are smarter than yours.

To be myself is dangerous.
I’ve cancelled any talent I’ve had to write white rhimes.
I chose to be a “poet” so I could sleep under the bridge.
I’ve put my soul in a bottle and thrown in the sea
When it has disappointed me.

Some of you made me hate all of you:
Lions, leeches, octopuses, moths and stupid snails.
I’ve grown up among strangers and saw people dying.
I’m holding springs in my stomach and digested all the butterflies.
I’m writing what I’m writing out of simplicity and because I’m willing to ruin your mood.
I’ve learned to keep my distance from people like me.
If I don’t fight for my life it will be a waste of time and space.
Most of the time I’m feeling that verse butt pposite.

My story started with: “There was once a time”

Sorry for any inconvience caused.

If there is anything else, please let me know.

Alina-Gabriela Sandu, London

To What End – Elen Hughes

a shadow of a memory

To What End

Chop me up and share out the pieces

My flesh is the giver of life;

it was selfish of me to cling to it for all these years.

Of what remains

Burn it. Bury it. Chuck it in the bin.

Leave it to waste and

Remain

only so long as time

In a form

of sorts.

And all the rest means more

(or less?)

To whom it may concern

To whom it may provide

a shadow of a memory,

a ripple of what once was,

a comfort in the remembrance of fondness.

A sham.

The next is not to be dealt with

Or dished out or examined.

It is to be

pure and unfiltered in its falsehood,

naturally poisoned and distorted,

in that way –

Time’s specialty.

Hovering in your mind, interrupting your stories,

somehow more prominent now

Skirting at the edges of your vision,

Buzzing at the window,

not quite me

more than I am

(or less?)

Until

you

too

Elen Hughes

Neuroplasticity – Amy Ndubeze

The trees snake their roots around your waist

Neuroplasticity

Instead of of rose-tinted glasses, you had them swapped out for a thin permanent film

I’m not sure when you got it fitted

But I know no child should excuse what you excused

Cheeks stinging and you whisper

I love you, I love you

Nose bloody

Forgive me, forgive me

The trees snake their roots around your waist

Keeping you stable

(keeping you from running)

Snake their way into your brain, and you rot, as expected

Decaying wood used to keep the fire going

Flames become you, for being alight is the only life you know

If dulled out who are you?

What is a life without pain?

Pain is a mother and she nurtures you

Pain is a sister who playfully belittles you

Pain is a father who gaslights you

So of course it was always your fault

Neuroplasticity

A neat word you learnt in class that made you realize that no matter how many tablets you take

No matter how many therapists you see

It will always be you

The feral child will bark until she dies

And so shall you

Amy Ndubeze

Preposterous Abrasion of Classic Humour – Indiana Bolton

Descend into the madness

Indiana Bolton is a 14 year old poet who lives in London and finds much ‘solace and enjoyment’ in writing poetry. Thank you Indiana for your entry and support!

Preposterous abrasion of classic humour

Humour is as thick as dickens novels context

And complex as a circadian rhythm.

–

But its random acts upon our eyes is troubling

To the mind,

as its daft and shallow which on attempt on jumping

Can break the brains sturdy legs.

–

As speed is not key nor is presentation but the depth is dangerous and must

Be filled by the masses of the crippled minds and dare-devils

Looking for simplicity.

–

I warn the explorer of these misleading shallow waters, come the bank

And let the water absorb you.

As certain few understand that to become famous the

Simple trick to survive a humorous depth is to descend into the madness before you take a swim.

Indiana Bolton, London

Resurrection – Samantha Robertson

I’m one with the sounds

Many thanks to Samantha Robertson for her rousing poem. We really appreciate her decision to support the project.

Resurrection

Rhythms shake my ennui;

allowing a ripple of existence to emerge

from within.

I dance to the Bossa Nova;

embrace the music

until I’m one with the sounds

emanating from the drums.

I’ve been woken from my slumber –

dragged out of the depths of depression

by the sound of song.

Freed to express

the joie de vivre that exists in me –

once hidden, buried deep.

Samantha Robertson