Author: Claire Walker

I'm a poet based in Worcestershire, UK. My poetry has appeared in print and online magazines including The Interpreter's House, Prole, Ink Sweat and Tears, And Other Poems, Clear Poetry, and Amaryllis, and in anthologies such as The Chronicles of Eve (Paper Swans Press). My first pamphlet, The Girl Who Grew Into a Crocodile, is published by V. Press. I'm a Poetry Reader for Three Drops Press, and Co-Editor of Atrium poetry webzine.

Living Garment – Matthew M. C. Smith

~ Claire Walker ~ 3 Comments

Living Garment

At this moment, when we’re alone,
we bring out the living garment and hold it to the light
witnessing, still, its lustre of yesteryear.

We don’t know how we made it, how it came to be.
We see its threadbare elbow, an unstitched seam,
a cuff that frayed itself to thread, unravelling.

And we look closely at threads. How they fur between finger and thumb,
their loose microscopic weave; how strands hold in the twist
noting differences in colour. Even in darkness, a stitch gleams

with any gifting photon. We count on thread, stitches,
textured to a weave holding together our living garment.

…

Matthew M. C. Smith is a Welsh poet, published in Barren Magazine, The Lonely Crowd and Icefloe Press. He one half of the Dylan Thomas Birthplace podcast and editor of Black Bough poetry. Twitter: @MatthewMCSmith Insta: @smithmattpoet Also on FB.

Who? – Beth McDonough

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Who?

Aye. Ye do. She pops in quite often.
The wumman wi the handicapped son.
Sometimes he shouts oot during Mass – what a laugh!
Canon doesnae mind of course – the young lad says things
we cannae quite make oot. Funny, even so.
But that’s ok. God’s fine wi fun. Bless them aa.
They say God gies you nuthing ye cannae manage.
Eh believe that too. They’re special, folk like that.
They’re verra nice. Usually they sit
twa pews up frae Mr McNee the St James heedie
and Susie, his docter wife. She knit s such lovely hats.
Somewhere near to Jean. Jean frae the cafe at the docks.
Ken she’s bought a new caravan at Inver?
He’s getting right big now. Bigger than her. And strong.
But they urr strong, urren’t they? The handicapped.
When they decide to go, they damned well will!
Well, must be hard. He’s gettin a gey big lad.
Eh see them (her an her man), catch him
by the rucksack straps when he’s breengin for the front.
He wears yon pack a lot. No, Eh’ve no idea why.
Must be a struggle in that hoose. But bless them aa.
Lovely folk. Been in this Parish for, uh… years.
In fact they had him Baptised here.
I see he takes Communion now. Oh bless.
God is good. Part of oor Church femily.
Aabuddy kens his name. We aye say hello.
Never make a difference. Ken.
I see her recently daein stewardin duty.
The young lad isnae ayeways there.
It’s guid they get a break.
Eh like to ask her fur her son. Ken she’s pleased.
You ken her fine. The wumman wi the handicapped son.

…

Beth McDonough’s poetry is widely anthologised and published in Magma, Gutter and elsewhere. Lamping for pickled fish is published by 4Word. She swims year round in the Tay, foraging nearby.

Storm Arwen – Zoë Green

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Storm Arwen

It was six countries, twenty-four hours
and fifteen hundred miles away that we
dined upon lamb jalfrezi,
paratha with fenugreek,
smoked tandoori aubergine,
and aloo matar with cardamon rice, whilst you
were buried in the dark. Afterwards,
I awarded Bombay Palace 5/5 on the app:
‘Really appreciate you delivered so far out’ –
and settled to a del Toro flick, the dog on my lap.

My mind’s eye sees you rootling through cupboards
searching for candles and paraffin, and watch
the fire’s flames kindle your parchment face;
hear the squeal of the red kettle
on the huffing stove as the wind
tantrums the petulant trees and the waves rush
against the teeth-gritted rocks and Ken’s dinghy
spooks her chains in the harbour.

I’ll hear on the news tomorrow how, in Inverbervie,
gusts reached 81 miles per hour,
which means that particles of smoke
from your fire, or flakes of dandruff, or a fragment of leaf
from the beech hedge by your door
could have reached me here about the time
I set off on my morning run.
But the wind blows another tune;
the air stays sullen and snowflakes run through it
like lice, and now my phone’s gone quiet
so I have to imagine your voice.

We have weathered storms before:
Charleton Maternity, 1978, the snow’s plumage so complete
it wouldn’t let Dad register my birth.
Or Ardmore campsite, 1989;
after the fray, ours the only tent standing.
And now we weather storms apart.
Is the red kettle boiling yet?
Please, pick up.

…

Zoë Green was born in Scotland, and now lives and works in Vienna and Berlin. Her writing has been published in the London Magazine, Harpers and Queen, bandit fiction, and New Linear Perspectives.

Monsters – Jean Atkin

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Monsters

Now there is only the sound of the street lamps
for those who can catch the breath of them

hissing, like cats doing build-up to a fight.
They bend their long necks and look for us.

In the sitting room the all-night rage
of standby lights so commonplace, we shrug

and blank each mad red eye, put out the bin,
take up a cup of camomile to bed.

Overhead we know the space stations are circling,
those slow hyenas of the night. We bank on it all

put right, our night-terrors extinguished by the sun.
Although it never tells us how much time is left to run.

…

Jean Atkin published ‘Fan-peckled’ (Fair Acre Press) and ‘The Bicycles of Ice and Salt’ (Indigo Dreams) in 2021.  She has won competitions, been commissioned, anthologised, and featured on BBC Radio 4. She works as a poet in education and community. 

Featured Publication – In an Ideal World I’d Not Be Murdered by Chaucer Cameron

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Our featured publication for March and April is In an Ideal World I’d Not Be Murdered by Chaucer Cameron, published by Against the Grain Poetry Press.

Chaucer explains: In an Ideal world I’d Not Be Murdered is part memoir part fiction. The poems explore the impact of prostitution. Each character has their own story to tell. The sex industry has its challenges, it is a contentious area and is deeply divided. One of the aims of my work is to bridge the gaps and enable conversations to take place, by addressing some of these difficult issues, through poetry and poetry-film.

“These poems ring out like gunshots in the night; they will wake you from your sleep. Yet despite its distilled directness, this book is lifted by both mystery and surprise. Listen for the songs emerging from the dark centre of this transformative work of experience and survival.”  Jacqueline Saphra.  

…

In an Ideal World I’d Not Be Murdered

In an ideal world I’d buy a bigger place, a place where us girls could
work together. There’s safety in numbers. Not afraid of getting busted
or being murdered.

I refuse to compromise my safety, said Crystal, inviting strangers back
to her room. But nights were always hard for Crystal, there’s a safety
in jeopardy, ain’t there?

Crystal loved art. Her bedsit covered in posters from the sixties.
Blondes, semi nudes, mostly murdered women. Her favourite chair,
just a knock-off imitation, she called her Keeler chair.

Crystal could’ve been a hoarder, but in fact she was a hooker. She
was lucky, never murdered, she understood erasure, turned it into
artforms, pinned it to the walls.

Crystal knew what she wanted and that was somewhere quiet, but
not so quiet I get murdered. Then she’d giggle, try to disarm you with
laughter, but not really.

…

Cartoons

It’s funny what you think of when you’ve had a near miss/ I
don’t think my nose is broken/ could’ve been much worse/
no time to check it out/ it doesn’t hurt/ anyway.

It’s funny what you think of/ when you’re gagging/ for your life
when you hear the car doors/ click/
when the music is turned up/ and you put on your disguise.

Tonight/ it was the Flintstones/ I watched them as a kid/ you
can watch it on YouTube/ it’s a sort of animation/
they used to call them cartoons/ but I can’t tell the difference.

The Flintstones were a family/ there was Fred and Barney/
Wilma/ and a Betty/ I had a crush on Betty/
what a beauty/ lovely legs/ she was a real animation.

Fred and Wilma had a kid/ every family had a kid/ named
their daughter Pebbles/ oh/ there was a Bamm-Bamm/ I’m forgetting/
Bamm-Bamm/ they found him on the doorstep/ then took him in.

I loved that show/ I loved the way they loved their kids/
it’s funny what you think of/ when you’ve got a dodgy punter/
bloody Flintstones/ bloody Pebbles/ hell/ a broken nose.

(Peyton)

…

Coup de Maître

I lay you on your back, twist off your claw-legs,
crack them with a heavy implement.
I will not allow you to shatter into small pieces, yet.

I will extract the bones of you,
place them with care into a metal bowl.
I will insert thumbs on the base of your body
push upwards to release you from your carapace.

I will pull away and discard your lungs –
they are only dead man’s fingers;
you know them intimately, don’t you?

I will press your mouth with such force that it snaps
from its shell. I will raid your stomach-sac,
cut you in half, scoop out the meat of you,
fork out the white from your carcass.

You will be left hollow, your cavities
will shimmer thinly, rocking back and forth,
open, empty, ready to be stuffed, dressed, put on show.

Then we will dine. You will be picked, hand-held,
lifted high on a fork, ready to be savoured
by tongue, swallowed down into the gut,
where you’ll rest for a moment, before clawing
your way back through every orifice imaginable.

…

128 Farleigh Road

I find him at the bottom of the stairs, the strange thing is
his eyes are blue with flecks of grey. I could have sworn
they were brown, a dull sort of brown, but then again
the mask, which often hid his eyes and always hid his face.
Apart from one-time years ago when I caught him naked
and alone. Now in death that face looks so serene,
clean almost. I’d often worried that the rubber marks
on his jawline, forehead and just beneath his eyes,
would pit his skin so deep he’d be scarred for life.
But here we are, just he and I gazing at each other
the way dead people do when caught together intimately.
One thing troubles me. I say this in a whisper so not to disturb
the dust that’s gathered. How did this come to be?
This flat, these walls, they’re crawling with dead girls.

I know the rules: no names, no dates, just numbers.

…

Chaucer is author of In an Ideal world I’d Not Be Murdered (Against The Grain 2021) Her poems have been published in various journals. She was shortlisted for Live Canon 2021 International Poetry Competition. Chaucer is creator of Wild Whispers an international poetry film project. Website: http://www.chaucercameron.com Twitter Chaucer @ChaucerCameron
https://againstthegrainpoetrypress.wordpress.com/chaucer-cameron/

Copies of In an Ideal World I’d Not Be Murdered are available to purchase from the Against the Grain Poetry Press website.

Pleasure Yourself Whilst I Watch – Wendy Allen

~ Claire Walker ~ 1 Comment

Pleasure Yourself Whilst I Watch

It is the way you don’t buy my favourite chocolate anymore,
it is on the list of specified items, but you say it is out of stock –
that it must be Brexit, or the fact we are over.
That night, we eat milk chocolate, and it is the purple of the wrapper
which makes me taste copper circled resentment when
I think about the red wrapping of our first night.
In bed, I look at your eyes fucking me, I break into six squares,
and I want to say you forgot my chocolate bar,
you forgot my chocolate bar,
but you are too busy in your own orgasm to notice.

…

Wendy Allen is studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Oxford Brookes. Her first pamphlet was published as a Legitimate Snack by Broken Sleep and her poems published in Northern Gravy, Dear reader, and Poetry Wales (Winter 2021)

Obituary – Tamsin Cottis

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Obituary

Subbing memories. Below the man.
Friends and lovers knew. In letters.
They told me. Your words and music.
Their children. You gave them.
Attention and time. I mined sentences.
Adapting. 87 years into 400 words.
Remembering. I imagined your pride.
Once. You said to newly published me.
The girl’s got it! I stored your words.
In my thesaurus of ways. To describe.
Love you mostly did not show or tell.
Cutting. Through the view of you.
At piano or desk. Back turned.
Hour after hour. I chipped at syntax.
Looking for you. Indent line-break edit.
Insertion omission errata. I made.
More from less. Though I lost you.
At the end of breath. I found you.
Dad. In the full stops.

…

Tamsin lives in east London. She is a child psychotherapist who has written widely about her work. Her poetry and short fiction has been published by, among others, Mslexia, Atrium, Rattle Tales, Flashback Fiction, Verve Poetry Press and Brittle Star. She is on twitter @tamsin cottis 

My turn – Finola Scott

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My turn

Slowly folding Mum curves
towards foetal
pebble knuckles clutch
the bathroom sink

Her bones now brittle
weary from holding
the looseness of her belly
so often baby-taut

Time-faded freckles hoard
her long summer days,
shrivelled teats remember
my touch.

As I soap the flannel
I feel the tug of return.
She bows her head
accepts this is her time.

…

Finola Scott’s work is published widely, including in The High Window, Prole and Lighthouse. Dreich publish her recent pamphlet Count the ways. More can be read at FB Finola Scott Poems. Finola enjoys zooming, cakes and blue tits, not neccesarily in that order.

Between Mary Berry’s Baking Bible and My Class Enjoys Cooking – Sarah Wimbush

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Between Mary Berry’s Baking Bible and My Class Enjoys Cooking

there’s Modern Practical Cookery.
Rebound with Bero paste and bedsheet ribbons,
you relax on the eBay table,
glad of the rest from all that standing.

Unused for years but read, shelved, read,
you remain on the kitchen shelf.
Each splodge, each blown stain
amber on your frosted cover –

pages so brittle, if I let you slip
you would smash across the tiled floor:
Contents, Hors D’oeuvres,
Empire Recipes; Woman’s Own snippings –

orange sellotape unsticking cuttings,
paper thinned from a million finger turns:
Tripe and Onions, Semolina Soup,
Christmas card bookmarks,

a paper rose, marginalia: ‘my curry’.
Each time, you bustle in reeking
of a thousand crumbles, gingham housecoat,
bombs, birthdays, talc. Kisses

…

Sarah Wimbush has published two pamphlets: Bloodlines (Seren, 2020) and The Last Dinosaur in Doncaster (Smith|Doorstop, 2021). Her first collection Shelling Peas with My Grandmother in the Gorgiolands will be published by Bloodaxe in 2022. 

Walrussey – Bex Hainsworth

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Walrussey

For Wally

They say that you dozed off on an iceberg
and awoke on Irish shores, a Nordic visitor
without a horde, lonely wanderer, far
from your arctic home. Child of ice mountains,
you have ridden these Celtic currents
for months, travelling south, strange sun-pilgrim.
They say that you are lost, gorging yourself
on Cornish clams, preparing for a return journey,
but your continental visits are inscrutable.
Fingertip of Nuliayuk, you bask on beaches
like the discarded glove of an old god,
with your leathery hide, you are your own luggage.
Seafarer, you did not pack light for your odyssey.
Rolling in the snowflakes of the seafoam,
you nose boulders with grizzled whiskers,
snuggle into rocky crevices, coldsick, exiled,
missing the sounds and smells of the herd.
They say that you came to the harbour seeking company.
At night you bob among boats, mourning your lost brothers,
and watch the stars in a black sky, wishing for
a green, kelpy flicker of the aurora borealis.
Perhaps you are a scout from a melting world,
a tusked omen, disaster warning. Dear walrus
of wanderlust, moustachioed philosopher,
you are all of us, floating in an ocean-universe,
with no choice but to go on seeking.

…

Bex Hainsworth currently teaches in Leicester. She won the Collection HQ Prize as part of the East Riding Festival of Words and her poetry has been published following commendations in the Welsh Poetry, Ware Poets, Beaver Trust, and AUB Poetry competitions.