the man who held your heart in his hands
did he have……. a……. steady touch?
did he handle it ………….like a flower
or…. a grounded…………. fledgling?
was it….. a butter-block…………melting
in his palms? or did he ………..not need
such metaphors? ………..did he. believe
it could be fixed?……… did he …….know
how many times it had been….. broken?
did he feel its……… fitful ………rhythm
quivering …….like down…… between
his fingers? ……..was it ……….the first
or one of many feathers…… in his… cap?
did he imagine how much it loved me?
did he fear….. its beat…… would….. stop?
Natalie Scott is an internationally published poet and Creative Writing lecturer. Her latest award-winning collection Rare Birds – Voices of Holloway Prison, published by Valley Press on International Women’s Day, 2020, received ACE funding for a West End performance.
Free booze and hanging mistletoe
had lit our touch papers, sent us
flying into a dark corner.
We exploded across dance floors
like two speeding Catherine wheels
—burning brighter than all the rest.
Stopped at red lights too far from home,
I see you pushing buttons, and pause.
The rain across the windscreen’s filled
with fireworks from neon shop signs.
The hot potato of my heart
tells me not to go back.
Mat Riches is ITV’s poet-in-residence (They don’t know this). Most recently he’s had work in Wild Court and Finished Creatures. He co-runs Rogue Strands poetry evenings and has a pamphlet out with Red Squirrel Press in 2023.
Twitter @matriches Blog: Where The Fox Hat.
In Praise of Disney Villains who Refuse to Retire
This is for the women who disguise their frowns with flames, the dusk of
your eyelids and opera of fingertips constructing churches and knocking
It’s for mothering that rook on your shoulder, a praise for crows’ feet and
your mirror of hecklers, the hours of boiling lost loves into lipstick and mist.
It’s for your pageant of age, strapping a crown over horns. This is for
peeling a lonely night off the window and wearing its cloak, ripping your
to kibble left out for wolves. It’s for your disgrace, putting on that black
dress, letting it flow like a dozen bridesmaids holding the night.
If age is just a number, this is for calling it in the small hours and breathing
do me into its ear. It’s for making each stumble a dance with lightning and
showing us a cane can conduct skies.
Here’s to you, for making purple a sports car and sharing the map that lets
us go roaring into the dawn.
Angela Readman’s poetry collection The Book of Tides is published by Nine Arches. Her chapbook Cooking with Marilyn, poems after Marilyn Monroe was published by Blueprint Poetry in 2020. She also writes fiction, her novel Something like Breathing came out in 2019.
What I learnt in woodwork
That a spice rack makes a cradle for misery.
That you can saw for days without reaching
enlightenment. That left-handedness counts
as a curse from God. That carpentry is an art
practised by priests in overalls with a cigarette
and alcohol habit who select a wall plug
as if their whole life’s creed hangs upon it.
That a lathe may rob you of an arm.
That hewing starts with a child asleep
inside a trunk. That you can go against
the grain but the grain will always haunt you.
That you can age a severed tree
by its rings yet some moments leave you
with their smoking brand.
Jon McLeod lives in the North West of England. His poetry has appeared in the The North and The Frogmore Papers. His work also featured in a recent anthology of poetry on the theme of running.
I remember when I walked out onto a surgical ward
for the first time, dressed in the blue of a student nurse.
I remember the not-yet-knowing, the smell in the throat
the top-down view of allotments from the sixth floor.
I remember sister-tutor, in her burgundy uniform-dress
edged with white, who cajoled my group out of shyness
showing us the way to shake down the mercury
with a determined wrist-flick and telling us how, in her day
the cost of a broken thermometer would be deducted
from a nurse’s monthly pay. Let’s do a set of obs, she said.
First of all, take a pulse. So our team of four spread out
in the bay, one for each man in fresh pyjamas
seated by his neat bed. Mine smiled kindly, put out his wrist
for my nervous grip. A hairy hand and arm, but the underside
where I placed my fingers, below his thumb, was smooth.
I remember how his pulse rippled beneath, full and slow.
I remember how it made me blush.
Sarah is a writer of poetry and prose, a nurse and a keen amateur photographer. She is interested in words, words for well being, people and nature and the connections between these aspects of her life.
My Imaginary Mother
My imaginary mother has eyes that clock all,
whispers down from lavender clouds, warns
me away from crocodiles with stapler mouths,
says never trust a taxi driver in a dicky bow –
speaks the language of local birds, gossips
about randy bees in flowerbeds, mouse-hunt
all-nighters frequented by cha-cha cats and
foxtrot foxes; shoplifting habits of squirrels.
Knows colour maths by rote – brown equals
yellow times red plus blue, plays late-night
cards with poker-faced crows, tells dirty jokes
to adolescent gulls; makes them laugh like drains
at the one about Shergar and rocking horse shite.
Paul Waring’s poetry is published in Prole, Atrium, Strix, Ink, Sweat & Tears, London Grip and elsewhere. Awarded second prize in the 2019 Yaffle Prize, commended in the 2019 Welshpool Poetry Competition, his pamphlet ‘Quotidian’ is published by Yaffle Press. www.waringwords.blogTwitter: @drpaulwaring
Spit On Your Face
He spoke to me with no spit
for the first time in about 10 years.
Each time we’d spoken in the past
he’d showered me with saliva,
passionately making his point
with arse-tight logic and Pythonesque humour.
I never minded. I enjoyed getting washed
with the back and forth of a robust argument.
but apparently he didn’t.
He regretted wetting the world
with his conversation and felt humiliated.
Sometimes when he spoke to me during lunch
there’d be bits of nuts or meat or vegetables in the spit
he’d cover my face with by accident.
Like peculiar acne.
Turns out he took tablets to dry himself out on the inside.
They worked a treat. He didn’t spit any more.
Or talk much for that matter.
I told him to stop taking the tablets.
That I liked the acne in brine
he gave to me and the world
when he spoke.
He said no.
Camillus John was bored and braised in Dublin. He has had work published in The Stinging Fly, RTÉ Ten, The Lonely Crowd and other such organs. He would also like to mention that Pats won the FAI cup in 2014 after 62 miserable years of not winning it.
Conversation with a Cavewoman
No, we don’t get many sabre-toothed tigers,
food stores are reasonable at our local Tesco Extra,
my partner has no need for a spear or knife –
he uses a thing called a Mac to sustain his brood,
and firelighters, individually wrapped.
I have not lost any children to the cold or hunger –
nobody wants to take them in the night or kill them.
My milk didn’t dry up in a drought;
when our son had a cough we drove to the A&E in town
and didn’t have to wait long.
But I lie awake at night,
dread what I cannot stop.
My inability to forage, find fresh water or control my fears –
that my children will live like me, talk like me
be frightened of this world.
I worry I don’t show love as other people do,
that they will need pills or to pay someone
just to talk.
On days when the cloud-base is low, and the list
of what’s needed unravels, as I so frequently do –
I want to swaddle their peach skins
in animal fur, smother them with my scent –
have enough fuel to keep the fire strong
and the glow in their faces, knowing
I can take on the world.
Vic Pickup is widely published and a previous winner of the Café Writer’s competition, the 2020 Cupid’s Arrow Competition and shortlisted for the National Poetry Day #speakyourtruth contest. www.vicpickup.com.
The light hangs low over the table,
glances off the glass-fronted cabinet
where she keeps his childhood photos.
She goes out for butter.
He holds my head, kisses me.
You’re a pretty girl.
So this is what grownups do.
The door opens.
He springs back, winks.
We pick at the bread and cheese.
I glance into the darkness
beyond the edge of the table.
Judith has been writing for 20 years, and has an MA in Creative Writing (Bath Spa). She has taken part in readings in Bath and Cheltenham and has won prizes in the Ottaker and Faber and Gloucestershire Writers’ Network competitions.
seven pewter tankards (engraved) – a box of Swan Vestas (three left, all struck)
– a halfpence piece (bent into a hinge) – a tiny splinter (from kindling) – soot
a paper clip (pulled straight) – a bin liner string (pink) – a milk bottle top (folded
into a half moon) – a recipe for moussaka (torn from a magazine) – peppercorns
a yellow squeezable plastic duck (no quack) – a shower curtain hook (snapped)
– a finger plaster’s backing (peeled off) – nail clippers (blunt and rusting) – talc
a convoy of vintage cars (Dinky) – a porcelain pig figurine (chipped) – a Panini
football sticker for swaps (Ipswich Town captain) – a safety pin (rusted) – sherbet
a white goose feather (missing barbs) – a spare trouser zip on cotton back (black)
a square beer mat for Carlsberg lager (wine ringed) – a gold band (plain) – dust
Paul Stephenson grew up in Cambridge and studied modern languages. He has published three pamphlets: Those People (Smith/Doorstop, 2015), The Days that Followed Paris (HappenStance, 2016) and Selfie with Waterlilies (Paper Swans Press, 2017), He co-curates Poetry in Aldeburgh and interviews poets at paulstep.com. / Twitter: @stephenson_pj / Instagram: paulstep456