Tourist To The Sun – Virginia Betts

hurtling to the light fantastic

Virginia graduated from Essex University with a degree in Literature, and later gained a postgraduate degree in teaching English. She taught for 15 years, then set up her tuition business, Results Tutoring, where she indulges her passion for literary analysis whilst helping her students to achieve their potential. She is a passionate advocate for neuro-diversity, particularly as she is autistic herself. Alongside this, she writes poetry, articles and stories, making her publishing debut in The Weird and Whatnot, with her short story, The Rented Room. Following this, her poem, An Afternoon Walk, was published in the September 2019 volume of Acumen Literary Journal. The written word creates a visceralsensation in Virginia; poetry is her preferred method of emotional expression and stories often come to her in dreams.Her other obsessions are swimming and violin playing. Virginia is married, with one son, aged 18.

Tourist to the Sun.

Fired-up for take-off,

wearing my asbestos suit, designed to deflect,

I bring with me a cabin full of un-marked baggage for the hold.

Wing walker without a rope,

hurtling to the light fantastic,

untethered.

First to sign up

to step off the map;

where even the silvery surface is marked by dark spots;

even the brightest star is already dead.

With outstretched arms I

surrender to the sun,

glide, star-shaped, licked by flicking tongues of flame,

into the white-hot core;

white heat devouring sound,

eclipsing time,

searing conscience and

annihilating thought.

Not arrogance that brings me here,

but fear.

The elemental need to fly, unfettered,

to pilot my own craft;

to pierce reality,

and seek the truth behind it,

and, in seeking, half expect to find it.

And thus, avoiding bird-strikes,

negotiate safe water-landings

when at last I am earthbound;

within my hand,

a brand to fire my piece of earth’s story

when I return

scorched and burned.

Virginia Betts

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Moonchild – Emily Ash

I’m a second year English student studying at the University of Nottingham. I use lots of music to inspire my poetry- this piece was inspired by Kim Namjoon, a South Korean rapper.

Moonchild

by Emily Ash

does it hurt, moonchild?

it doesn’t anymore, I’m defiled

with positivity and persuasion.

can you survive, my raven?

no, not without pain.

I stand here, sinking in the rain,

drowning in a glass pane,

confidently insane,

and yet for you I must remain.

will you fight, dark knight?

with trees and stars and kites.

I’ll fight with daffodil sprouts

and smiling at the sunshine.

I’ll rally around the lovely,

and wallow in the strange.

I’ll walk amongst the dancing lights,

rub my knuckles along a werewolf’s snout.

Smile at the soft and the serpentine-

what will be left, sweet sorrow?

myself

and the happiness I can ne’er find,

but must excavate slowly from the cracks in my mind.

Emily Ash, Nottingham

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

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

Books – Hannah Darnley

To escape my frustration and despair

My name is Hannah Darnley I am 27 years old. I live in Canterbury Kent. This my poem “Books” below.

Books

I read books to escape. I come alive in them. My heart pounds and I’m no longer there, I’m the story, it’s me. I am living these lives of pain and pleasure. I am sick when I stand after reading, still foggy from the world I’ve left. Nauseous for a long time. My limbs are buzzing and I’m tense. Reality and unreality are mixed. I like the blurred feeling between make believe and the real. It’s addictive and I never want to leave. I wish I were made of books, made of stories to live and re live. To be reborn again and again as in books. To escape my frustration and despair at the nothingness that is my life. My sadness leaves me, my life is not wasted, youth not disguarded but living breathing and vital. I am free as I wish to be, flying high above my fears and worries, all forgotten. They have done the hard work for me gone past the fear of freedom, skipped the hardest step. So I’ll keep reading and maybe one day I’ll slip into the pages unnoticed and live them for real.

Hannah Darnley, Kent

Fragile as Wicker – Laurence Morris

I want to get drunk on air

Laurence Morris is an Academic Librarian of Leeds Beckett University, a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and an active mountaineer. He has climbed peaks in the Andes, Arctic and Rockies, with his poetry focusing on the connection between people and landscape.

Fragile as wicker

There is a hole in the sky
where the willows used to be
fragile as wicker
holding back heaven
and less useful than a fence.

I want to get drunk on air
and laugh like water
feel leaf and stone like loving
and know that all which ever
lived and breathed is holy.

Laurence Morris, Leeds Beckett University

Voice note from a lover in summer – Luke Grey

When the city is nearly silent

It is a poem taken from a Whatsapp Voice note sent by a lover.

The author, Luke Grey, is a writer. He lives in London.

Voice note from a lover in summer

“One of the ways in which I love looking at clouds

Is to see them bisected by wires.

One of the most beautiful sights of the summer,

This late in the day, is when clouds take on

Their deeper tones.

Sometimes more intense, even, than the brightly lit sky.

When sat, or stood, or (now) walking on a platform

And looking up at the wires, the suspended wires:

Gliding towards each other,

Crossing, ending, held aloft, hitting a pole,

Marked out by the thinner wires than hold the thicker ones apart

And yet together.

That web of energy, stretching far across the city,

Only a few metres above me and the rail tracks,

Never meeting.

That web measures itself out between me and the sky,

And sometimes, sometimes, at the most exciting moments,

When the city is nearly silent,

And you stand on the platform and look up at the wires.

You can hear them fizzing.

Fizzing in a sky full of high, lunging, soft and smooth clouds

That sashay upwards and northwards.

Pink on their undersides, lit by the setting sun.

A dark lavender on their edges, and then above them

A pale, duck-egg blue.”

Luke Grey, London