Coming Out – Maddie Forest

~ Claire Walker ~ 1 Comment

Coming Out

This secret wants to escape through my vocal cords,
so I hide it in my underwear drawer.
Then I give it to my dog for him to hide it
like he hides the pigs’ ears we give him.
I get a step stool and hide it between bed sheets
on the top shelf of my parents’ walk-in closet.
Or I stick it in the back garden, in that little crook
at the foot of the big spruce tree.
Maybe I bury it under a begonia when Mum and Dad
plant them in the flowerbed under my bedroom window.
I place it with the dust under the grey couch
that hasn’t been moved in ten, fifteen years.
Finally, I wrap it in shimmery red paper,
tie a green ribbon around it,
then write a name tag, For the whole family,
and place it under the Christmas tree.

…

Maddie Forest is a writer and poet in her early 20s, originally from Finland but currently studying Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. When she is not completing assessments, you will find her either talking to animals in parks or singing Taylor Swift songs in her room. She tweets @ItsMaddiehbu

The Pissing Contest – Charles G Lauder Jr

~ Claire Walker ~ 3 Comments

The Pissing Contest

Little boys with their penises in hand
gathered about a porcelain trough,
the drain a silver dome,
when all they know of politics
is what they overhear their parents declare,
so though they know nothing of Watergate
and eighteen minutes of missing tape,
nor of Ehrlichman and Hunt, Mitchell and Dean,
they know ‘Nixon’, with its hard ‘ks’ lump,
and Congressional hearings, the long, droning table of men
in a dark wooden-panelled room
and the high smack of a gavel,
broadcast on all three TV channels,
stealing away afternoon cartoons
and Mothers’ soaps for weeks on end,
they stand there, penises grasped in little hands,
following the biggest boy’s lead
and aim their streams at the silver dome drain:
Look at me! I’m peeing on the Capitol!
Only a few of the arched golden flows
have the strength to splatter against the dome,
burst through its holes like a water cannon
against windows, offices and corridors flood
with desks and sofas floating away in the foam,
interns and PAs swim to get clear.
It doesn’t matter if they really meant
the White House, or Congress,
or Washington in general,
this is for Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck,
and, if their mothers were here,
The Guiding Light and As the World Turns,
little boys peeing until penises run dry
and the pee drains away,
leaving a stink and a stain,
the little boys are proud of their new game,
as penises are waved and shook, then tucked away.
This before the days of separate urinals,
like older brothers and fathers already use,
where they’ll stand, distracted by size,
and brag to one another that the water is cold,
and the biggest boy will reply, And deep too.

…

Charles G Lauder Jr grew up in Texas and has lived in south Leicestershire since 2000. He has two pamphlets Bleeds (CCC, 2012) and Camouflaged Beasts (BLER, 2017). His debut collection is The Aesthetics of Breath (V.Press, 2019): https://vpresspoetry.blogspot.com/p/the-aesthetics-of-breath.html

Psalter – William Thompson

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

Psalter

i.

A podcast has me listening to Leigh Chislett,
HIV nurse at St Mary’s in the mid-Eighties.

I think of Gunn, who trained both barrels
at men like me in ’92. Then try imagining Wilfred,

still writing ‘I with who another ghost am lain’,
but then surviving late into his nineties.

Just long enough to see yet another cause
of ‘vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues’

or to summon the will that saw him fighting
‘like an angel’ at the moment he ‘came out

to help these boys […] to speak of them as well
as a pleader can.’ And then, of course,

…

ii.

Housman – whose ‘fear contended with desire’
– who leant across his lectern in ’33 to say,

‘as for a verse in in the forty-ninth Psalm:
But no man may deliver his brother, nor make

agreement unto God for him; that is to me
poetry so moving that I can hardly keep my voice

steady in reading it.’ And so I try imagining
the three of them watching over Leigh, just as

he worries for a patient, who’s signed up
for a dodgy drug on an experimental trial,

only to receive reply: ‘I’m going to die anyway.
This is for those who will come after me.’

…

William Thompson is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Bristol. Born in Cambridgeshire in 1991, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Wild Court, The Honest Ulsterman, Lighthouse, Ink Sweat & Tears, Quince and The Best New British and Irish Poets 2019-21 (Eyewear).
Twitter: @willthompson237

Mel in the Trees – Mark Russell

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

Mel in the Trees

‘Hey,. Mark!.. Have you had eye surgery?’.. ‘Hi, Mel.. No,. my. glasses are
right here in my top pocket.’. ‘But you can see me?’. ‘Of course. I’m short-
sighted.. You know that.’. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes.. You’re standing. right in. front of
me.. I can see you as clear as a bell.. But if you went. and stood over there,
I’d have. to put my glasses on. to recognise you. as anything other.. than a
multi-coloured. blur.’. ‘Wow.. That’s fascinating,’,. he said. and moved. off
over to. the. line. of. trees. behind. the. fence.. ‘Can you. see me. now?’. he
called.. ‘This isn’t fascinating, Mel!’. I shouted, but he couldn’t hear me.. I
snatched. a loud hailer. from. a tree protestor. and turned it on.. My voice
became tinny and broken, but very loud.. ‘Come back, Mel,. this is stupid.’
Mel. looked behind him, to see where. my voice was coming from.. All the
tree protestors joined me in waving him toward us.. Eventually, he got the
message. and. staggered. back...‘Good grief,’. he. said,. ‘I think. I’m. going
deaf.’. ‘No Mel,.. you. walked a long. way from here.. I had. to use this loud
hailer,. and still you were.. too far. away..’ He took it from me.. ‘Wow, that’s
fascinating!’ He began to make his way to the line of trees, but this time he
ran due to. the excitement.. ‘Let me see if. I can do it!’. The tree. protestors
were grumbling and wanted their loud hailer back. I suggested they follow
him and force him to hand it over, but they said they were against all forms
of violence. In the distance,. Mel had his back to us. and was addressing an
empty field. to the west,.. but we. couldn’t. make. out what. he was. saying.
‘Shall. we go and. rescue him?’.. one of .the. tree protestors. said... Mel was
jumping. up and down,. but not in an agitated way.. ‘Let’s wait,’. I said.. ‘I
think he’s enjoying himself.’

…

Mark Russell won the 2020 Magma Poetry Judge’s Prize. His poems have appeared in The Manchester Review, Stand, The Fortnightly Review, Blackbox Manifold, Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal and elsewhere. @mark59russell 

The Doctrine of Triangles – Mathew Lyons

~ Claire Walker ~ 2 Comments

The Doctrine of Triangles

I look up at the tent’s converging walls, their apex
just out of arm’s reach. There is nothing to do

but watch the slow passage of the hunters’ moon
across my torso, watch my body become a map

to track us with beneath the first surveillance satellite
—we dreamers, we moving targets, we stars in transit,

we people of docksides, caravans and container parks.
Bleached skin peels with each passing cloud

as if time were scouring my shadows, my other selves,
from the world. Beneath the moon’s old gaze I am visible

and invisible, naked and meaningless, a thing
of surface only. What does a satellite know of sleep

or the comforts of darkness, of hope and home
and safety: the heart’s grand trigonometry.

…

Mathew is a London-based poet and writer. His work has been published by Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Lake, Dust, Dawn Treader, Visual Verse and Nine Muses.

Purple Jeans – Rowena Knight

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

Purple Jeans

When I bought the jeans he was alive.
I was so excited to find jeans
in the perfect shade of purple,
right size and length.
I was on my way to a meeting.
I was killing time when the jeans caught my eye.
A few hours later I had purple jeans
and a white-hot piece of knowledge.
I wonder if I’ll ever wear the jeans now
or if wearing them will always make me think of Dave dying
– as if the jeans had murdered him!
As if denim has anything to do
with chasing yourself down a blind alley.
Was he wearing jeans when he stopped being alive?
Did he slide his belt from the loops holding it in place?
Did the person who found him hate that belt
for forgetting its purpose
and becoming extraordinary?
He couldn’t carry any more, not even
the weight of his own body.
He will never wear jeans again.
He will never go through the dull
but soothing morning routine.
In a bathroom somewhere
a toothbrush is waiting for his mouth.
His glasses are cold on the bedside table.
Someone needs to tell them.
Someone needs to inform his suits.
They’re waiting so patiently
for the privilege of being worn by him.

…

Rowena Knight is a queer feminist living in Bristol. Her poems have appeared in Butcher’s Dog, Magma, The Rialto, and The Emma Press Anthology of Love. Her poetry pamphlet is All the Footprints I Left Were Red (Valley Press, 2016).  Twitter: @purple_feminist Instagram: @purple_feminist_

Snide – Ava Patel

~ Claire Walker ~ 1 Comment

Snide

I hear ‘I do’ and choose to roll amid some confetti filled gold balloons,
the confetti pieces smaller than I remember in the gold balloons.

Something will go whoosh past my ear soon,
maybe the helium let out of a small, gold balloon.

I see nothing at this wedding but hear badgers humming the truly madly deeply tune.
My mother and I had no one to dance with because soon

we’d be left alone with the empty bar, the two of us all on our own.
My gnarled fingers promised to always be alone,

even in her slightly less gnarled ones—
the whale fell through into our fourth moon.

Wrecking ball, helium wrecking balloons
wrecking wedding cakes, I am the ruins.

The snide rabbit mutters, his voice high from confetti filled gold balloons.
‘Always the bridesmaid,’ he says. ‘I’m never the groom.’

…

Ava Patel graduated from the University of Warwick with a First in an MA in Writing.  Her debut pamphlet ‘Dusk in Bloom’ has just been published by Prolebooks and she runs an Instagram poetry page: @ava_poetics.Her pamphlet is available to buy here: https://prolebooks.co.uk/

Stallion – James McDermott

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

Stallion

trudging through norfolk… fields… I find
a lone horse… a bag… on its mouth
and I’m thirteen again
in the farmyard… of the school… changing… rooms

a tall… muscly …stallion
kicks me… to the floor… I land… on all fours
he forces my… head… into his… gym bag
to sniff… his salt… sweet… shorts

he snorts… stamps… brays… trots off
to the showers… I hear the slam
of locker doors and… picture prisons… but
it’s a gate… being closed

in this field… I walk on… thinking of that
animal… praying… he has been… put down

…

James McDermott’s debut poetry collection Manatomy is published by Burning Eye. James’s poems have been published in various magazines including The Gay and Lesbian Review, The Cardiff Review, Popshot Quarterly, Ink Sweat and Tears, Spelt, Confluence, Bitchin’ Kitsch and Dawntreader.  Twitter: jamesliammcd  Order copies of Manatomy here: https://jamesmcdermott.bigcartel.com/product/manatomy-signed

Advice – Neil Fulwood

~ Claire Walker ~ 1 Comment

Advice

Come on, give yourself
a talking to. Bad thoughts
are the playground
of other types, those

you were told to keep
away from. Your psyche
is the clean reception area
of a village constabulary

where you popped in
with something home-
made for your uncle
the desk sergeant

not this ungodly precinct
smelling of piss
in a broken neighbourhood.
This isn’t who you are.

Look at yourself. Repeat
the mantra: good family,
good school, good
prospects. Now turn round,

go home. Breathe slowly.

…

Neil Fulwood lives and works in Nottingham. He has published two collections with Shoestring Press, No Avoiding It and Can’t Take Me Anywhere. His third, Service Cancelled, is forthcoming in June.

Inside Out – Sheila Jacob

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

Inside Out

So you’re not from this way?
a new neighbour asks
though I’ve lived in the town
for thirty-odd years,
tell her the bus times
and when the bins are emptied.

She’s spotted something
and I’m aware of it, suddenly,
like a petticoat hem
blushing below my skirt.
Soon she’ll know
all my underclothes

are labelled Made In Birmingham
though I won’t mention
the hiraeth I feel
when I recognise the accent.
I won’t mention last week
and the delivery man

who stopped to ask directions.
His depot was in Telford
but he came from Great Barr
where my Uncle Fred used to work.
Things weren’t the same, we agreed,
since they rebuilt the Bull Ring.

I deciphered his invoice:
the village typed first
above the misspelt road
and the road a cul de sac.
He still puzzled the names.
I explained that Maes

meant field, Hyfryd meant
nice or pleasant and Rhosrobin
was a red robin.
So you’ve learned the lingo?
he laughed and I laughed too,
said I supposed I had.

…

Sheila Jacob lives in North East Wales with her husband. She was born and raised in Birmingham and uses her childhood, adolescence and  Brummie ancestry as a source of inspiration. She has had a number of her poems published in U.K. magazines and webzines.