Tag: Atrium Poetry

Featured Publication – This Poem Here by Rob Walton

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Our featured publication for April is This Poem Here by Rob Walton, published by Arachne Press.

When Rob Walton went into lockdown, he didn’t know that he would also go into
mourning.  Here he writes about the life and death of his dad, and how sadness seeped
into various aspects of his life. He also manages to find cheap laughs, digs at the government, celebrations of the young and old, unashamed sentimentality and suddenly disarming moments of
tenderness.

“Walton is a master of musical, looping, refrains as he gets closer and closer to the troubled heart of
things.” Deborah Alma

“This unusual collection, is, in its well-crafted way, a parcel of the sad, funny, unfair and beautiful
aspects of ordinary life… as irreverent as it is poignant, this is the ideal collection for you if you want
your deepest forebodings about the state of the UK confirmed, with a side helping of big belly
laughs.” Kate Foley

“Walton’s lines are expressed neatly and sparely, yet hold such purity and poignancy beneath them
that they stop you in your tracks.” Jane Burn

…

this poem here

Christ, if I went through all the regrets
I have about my dad and the things
I could and should have done
I’d write poem after poem after book
and it would be a full collection
dissected in some online journal
or some blog and recommended
to someone’s 167 twitter followers.

God, if I went through all the regrets
I had about my dad when I was a full-grown adult
it would make an award-avoiding pamphlet
that one person would ask me to sign
and I’d spell their name wrong
even after I’d carefully asked them.

Jesus, if I were to write about the fact
my dad saw me in some strange pantomimes
and acting the goat on other stages
and even telling so-called jokes on the boards
of Kinsley Labour Club and how I regret
he never saw me reading poetry
never saw me reading poems
in celebration of him and my mum
well that

That would be a poem.
That would be this poem here.
That he’d never read.
That he’d never hear.

…

and in lockdown

and in lockdown
it seems perfectly reasonable
to get tearful
over the Jersey Royals
untouched and forgotten about
in the cupboard under the sink

and now the girls
have gone back to their mum’s
you’ll have the Jersey Royals
on your own
on their own
or with a bit of butter
but snide Lurpak
won’t help them pass
the lump in your throat

…

June 1 st

What did you do on your first day back, darling?

Lick Yusuf.

Oh, right, and what did Yusuf do?

Nothing. Him on top of Shira.

Mmm. And did Ms Key do anything about this?

Couldn’t. Twins stuck on her legs.

The Alton twins?

No, them in helper’s hair,
play with him mask.

And how do you feel about going back tomorrow?

Stay home. Watch stupid men on telly.

…

Prime Minister’s Questions

Are there any other countries you’d like to break?
If you grow it out a bit, would you like me to cut it into a bob?
Do you miss the good old days of racist newspaper columns?
Is the dandruff cultivated to evoke sympathy?
Will you answer the question about the inflatable Cummings?
Do you understand the difference between a million and a billion?
Who’s your favourite bully?
How about a nice lie-down?
Who’s spaffing now?
Could you tell the House which of his houses your dad is in at the moment?
Is it the Ready Brek that makes you glow inside?
Have you got Brexit done?
Do you miss the good old days of the zip wire and the flags?
Are there any other countries you’d like to break?

…

like in the olden days

I want my daughters’ friends to come for tea
I want to serve them uninteresting pasta
with a jar of Aldi tomato sauce
and some veggie parmesan
and maybe
I don’t know
a coke float
or an ice cream
or pretty much anything really
I just want my daughters’ friends
to come for tea

like in the olden days
you know
like in the olden days

…

Scunthorpe-born Rob Walton lives with his daughters in Whitley Bay.  His poetry is published by The Emma Press, Strix, Butcher’s Dog, Culture Matters, Atrium and others.  His short fiction is published in the UK, Ireland, USA, Canada and New Zealand.  He collated the New Hartley Memorial Pathway text.  Twitter: @anicelad.  

This Poem Here is available to purchase from the Arachne Press website.

The Appointment – Angela France

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The Appointment

The room is decorated in muted colours,
a thick carpet to muffle the feet, a bed
outline softened under downy quilts.

She’d expected a blank room, a steel table,
a solemn figure behind a mask to draw
the white sheet back and uncover the face.

She didn’t expect the velvet armchair
angled close to the bedhead, a lamp
pooling subdued light over the pillow

which swelled like cumulus either side
of the quiet head. She didn’t expect
to see the arm laid over the quilt,

as if waiting for a hand to hold,
two rings shiny on her third finger,
a papery-white sleeve fluted at her wrist.

As if she should believe death is nothing
to concern us; as if it is temporary,
a hiatus to be easily mended.

…

Angela France’s publications include ‘Occupation’ (Ragged Raven, 2009), ‘Lessons in Mallemaroking’ (Nine Arches, 2011), ‘Hide’ (Nine Arches 2013) and The Hill (Nine Arches 2017).  Angela teaches creative writing at the University of Gloucestershire and in various community settings. http://ninearchespress.com/publications/poetry-collections/the%20hill.html

Articles de plage – Kate Noakes

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Articles de plage

Lilos, speedos, rubber rings, flip flops, hats,
noodles, towels, sun cream, paddleboards, boules,
loungers, umbrellas, espadrills, mats,
sun glasses, beach shoes, bikinis, canoes.

Outside the shop an Italian girl is scared
of a herring gull on a delivery van.

Sea rushes in, sea glass, surf, waves, sea,
the rock and roll tumble of striped pebbles
under turquoise and indigo, small weed, sea,
clouds, so-blue sky, the canary ferry, sea.

Deep breaths with today’s sore lungs.

Here is the clarity of air you only see when
a crack in the weather lets in the wind.
Ground based ozone, its sulphur
and grey, is banished to planet B.

I know the Arctic ice has all melted this year.
A predictive map shows sea level rise
will submerge this Riviera, making cliffs
of the Alps Maritime.

An inflatable unicorn is fanciful.

…

Kate Noakes’ most recent collection is The FIlthy Quiet (Parthian 2019). She is a PhD candidate at the University of Reading. Kate lives in London acting as a trustee for writer development organisation, Spread the Word.

Slip Stitch – Kay Ritchie

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Slip Stitch

Skelpt leather, pin-cushion-punctured,
I thought it a fish, named it ‘haddock’,
hung it from my neck, played tramcar clippie,
pillowed it beneath Betty, my rubber doll
turned yellow when Grandpa made her smoke,
poked pencils in its holes &
only when I grew, learned it was
the makkin belt, a knitting tippie
granny wrapped round waist to
trap pins in while sitting, knitting
his silk waistcoats,
needles dancing furiously
as she had once, to the beat of his reels
when he played fiddle in a band.
Her anger cast on & off, in purl & plain,
pain ravelled, my mother tangled,
ripped out, frayed,
so when she taught me
all we could knit were knots.

…

Kay grew up in Glasgow and Edinburgh, lived in London, Spain and Portugal, worked as a photographer and producer.  She has appeared in anthologies and magazines, has performed at various events and likes to dance, paint and walk.

A’Chomraich – Marjory Woodfield

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A’Chomraich

He says it isn’t far
to walk. A walled garden
and café. To beat the rain we take the bracken path,
earth lichen-green and faded gold.
Skye’s swathed in cloud,
stone walls hold tangled branches.

I picked her lilies once. Today, low-branching
trees hold this sanctuary close. So far
away the memories cloud.
I gathered roses from her garden,
now home fades, leaves turn to gold
along another path.

Downhill, our path
meanders. Branches.
There’s a sign. Gold
fruit lies on the ground. We order coffee, sit in a far
corner where orange flowers flow over garden
beds. Hold hot drinks close as sky darkens, overclouds.

Shore Street & Applecross Inn. Clouds
part. Rain on the foreshore, pebbled paths.
Judy cuts kale from her garden,
makes soup. Adds a small branch
of thyme. Parsley sprigs. This inn, small street and church. So far
away. Leaves fall and turn to gold.

Kelp gathers on the sand. Neptune’s necklace, tarnished gold.
Black-faced sheep, crofting cottages on clouded
hills. Clachan Church. Swallows nest under eaves, fly far
away. Neat rows of tombstones. Her name. Bare branches.
Briar rose. Brambles against a wall. A green garden
set in stone, held safe by hills and sea. We choose another path.

I pick up shells. I’ll place them in my garden
when we’re back. The sun sets gold.
Light draws lines through seashore branches.
Waves are wild, sky taut with cloud.
At Milltown we turn to take the path
back to the inn. It’s straight and far.

We leave the gardens, Inn and Clachan Church. Low cloud
on Bealach na Ba. An ancient cattle track with burns and bracken paths.
Leaves fall from branches, turn to gold. We’ve come so far.

…

Marjory Woodfield appears in The Blue Nib, The High Window, London Grip, and the 2020 Ver Poetry Competition Anthology. She gained third prize in the Yeovil International Literary Prize (2020), was shortlisted in the Cinnamon Literature Award (2020), and the Bath Novella-in-Flash Competition (2020).

From Bridlington Harbour – Harry Gallagher

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From Bridlington Harbour

It’s the comings and goings.
The lobsterpot people,
the inrushing tide,
the glide of hungry gulls,
the ice cream floats
from the Cash Only cafes.
Men testing the engines
of little fishing boats,
railway sleepers snoozing
on the old harbour wall.

The happy yappy dogs
looking for a battle,
the rattle of tincans
landing in the litterbin.
All life and death is here
in best midmorning bluster.

The fishing rod boys
casting off to the coast’s
northblown clouds,
the oyster catchers’
insistent shrill whistling,
brittle as a herringbone
on the deck of the pier.

We are all Yorkshiremen
today.

…

Harry Gallagher has several books, most recently ‘Moulded From Ferrous – Selected Early Works’ (Black Light Engine Room Press, 2020). He’s also been published by Smokestack, Orbis, IRON, Prole and elsewhere. He runs the north east stanza of The Poetry Society.

Changing bag – Joanna Ingham

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Changing bag

I am nothing if not capacious, cute with foxes
stripped of teeth. I have forgotten how many
pockets line my innards, sticky at the bottom,
regurgitated apple, seeped Calpol, nappies
in bunches. I swing from the pushchair handle,
swollen as an udder. Sometimes you’ll find me
slumped beside the highchair, dreaming myself
a diamanté clutch. Or simply a leather cross-body
in teal or burnt orange, only big enough for strolls
around a university town, a woman alone with
a lipstick, a bank card and a paperback.

…

Joanna Ingham’s pamphlet Naming Bones was published by ignitionpress in 2019. She won the Paper Swans Press Single Poem Competition in 2020. Her poetry has appeared widely in journals and magazines and has also featured in The Sunday Times.

Birth Poem – Caleb Parkin

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Birth Poem
for Z

I’d so love to tell you how I brought forth
your mewling body from my own. But you
are no-one’s child – and all I can offer is

consistency and conditioning; treats and trips
to an open field; a version of freedom within
its fenced bounds. I can’t tell you anything

about anything; didn’t even meet you as a pup.
Nonetheless, I must conjure this tale for you:
some arthouse or Caravaggio on a backstreet

of Bucharest. You and your wiggling siblings a
clutch of squidgy strays, flanked by a host of
vagabond dogs. The reality is: we picked you up

from a small-town car park, received a carrier
bag of toys; your foster human driving away, waving
as she wept. Now we’re a pack, here in suburbs where

foxes roll and crash outside, like recurring nightmares
/dreams, that sometimes wake you, yowling, in the night.
And when you run off, yes, we fret, picture some pale-

faced driver crouched over our phone numbers,
glinting at your neck. Or, worse still, imagine you in
a new adventure – wild hair matted, collar tattered

as you feast on scraps. These two men left leadless, lost.

…

Caleb Parkin is a day-glo queero techno eco poet & facilitator, based in Bristol. His debut pamphlet, Wasted Rainbow, was published by tall-lighthouse in February 2021; his debut collection, This Fruiting Body, will be published by Nine Arches in October 2021. From 2020 – 22, he’s Bristol City Poet.

Tweet: @CalebParkin | Insta: @couldbethemoon | Website: www.couldbethemoon.co.uk

Playing Cards with Vicky’s Dad – Wendy Klein

~ Claire Walker ~ 1 Comment

Playing Cards with Vicky’s Dad

Rolly Rolicheck came from a place so strange
that my friend Vicky, his own little girl,

could not pronounce it. His cheekbones were high
in his puffy face, pressing his eyes

into narrow green slits like pistachio nuts half-split.
Dodie, his wife, worked at the soda fountain

in the bus depot, her great breasts just the right height
to rest on the counter as she drew us ice cold cokes

on our way home from school, her pink tongue flicking
a flake of tobacco stuck in her fuchsia lipstick —

bottom lip, Pall Malls — unfiltered. But it was Rolly,
home from work early, who welcomed us

onto his big lap, both of us at once, taking out
his special playing cards

that showed us coloured photos about what men
and women did with their clothes off.

Wrapped tight in his hairy arms, we would giggle. Folks said
Dodie Rolicheck was a tart, pitied poor old Rolly,

but when they disappeared that last summer,
I missed my friend, Vicky.

…

Wendy Klein has 3 collections: ‘Cuba in the Blood’ and ‘Anything in Turquoise’ (2009, 20013, Cinnamon Press), ‘Mood Indigo’ ( 2016, Oversteps), and a selected ‘Into the Blue’, High Window Press (2019).  An illustrated film of her recent pamphlet, ‘Let Battle Commence’ appears on You-tube https://youtu.be/L2JlbpAdUcU

Featured Publication – Something so wild and new in this feeling by Sarah Doyle

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Our featured publication for March is Something so wild and new in this feeling by Sarah Doyle, published by V. Press.

“In these inventive and adventurous collage poems, Sarah Doyle presents Dorothy
Wordsworth’s exuberant feeling for life and language in a fresh fabric of her own making.
Sympathetic and insightful, tactful, and imaginative, Doyle’s compositions refract the
energies of Dorothy’s writings through the subtle medium of her own sensibility, and the
result is at once daring and illuminating.” Gregory Leadbetter

“In Something so wild and new in this feeling, Sarah Doyle has taken Dorothy Wordsworth’s
journals and developed excerpts into poems, finding felicities of phrasing, musicality, and
ideas. Doyle’s skills in pacing, use of the line, and the possibilities of form help us appreciate
anew Wordsworth’s habits of thought and close attention to the natural world. With
Wordsworth and Doyle, the reader hears the birds singing in the mist.” Carrie Etter

…

A heart unequally divided

My heart was so full that I could hardly speak.
Every question was like the snapping of a little
thread about my heart. I sate a long time upon
a stone at the margin of the lake, and after a flood
of tears my heart was easier. The lake looked
to me, I knew not why, dull and melancholy,
and the weltering on the shores seemed a heavy
sound. My heart dissolved. I could not help
weeping, I was sick at heart. In my walk back
I had many of my saddest thoughts, and I could
not keep the tears within me. My heart was almost
melted away. My heart smote me, prevented me
from sleeping. I was melancholy, and could not
talk, but at last I eased my heart by weeping.

…

At play chasing a butterfly

Upon the sunless hill, we saw miles of grass, light
and glittering, and the insects passing. The hum
of insects, that noiseless noise which lives
in the summer air. The bees were humming
about the hive. I saw a robin chasing a scarlet
butterfly this morning, flying all about us. I used
to chase them a little, but I was afraid of brushing
the dust off their wings, and did not catch them.

…

Among the mossy stones

When we were in the woods beyond
Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils
close to the water-side. We fancied
that the sea had floated the seeds ashore,
and that the little colony had so sprung up.
But as we went along there were more
and yet more;
………………………..and at last, under the boughs
of the trees, we saw that there was a long
belt of them along the shore, about
the breadth of a country turnpike road.
I never saw daffodils so beautiful.

They grew among the mossy stones
about and above them. Some rested
their heads upon these stones, as on
a pillow, for weariness, and the rest
tossed and reeled and danced, and
seemed as if they verily laughed
with the wind,
………………………….that blew upon them
over the lake. They looked so gay, ever
glancing, ever changing. This wind
blew directly over the lake to them.

…

The distant prospect

The shapes of the nearer trees
and the dome of the wood
dimly seen and dilated.

The shapes of the mist,
slowly moving along,
exquisitely beautiful;

passing over the sheep
they almost seemed to have
more of life than those

quiet creatures.
The unseen birds
singing in the mist.

…

Sarah Doyle is the Pre-Raphaelite Society’s Poet-in-Residence, and co-author of Dreaming Spheres: Poems of the Solar System (PS Publishing, 2014). She is widely placed and published, being a runner-up in the Keats-Shelley Essay Prize 2020 and the Keats-Shelley Poetry Prize 2019, winning the Wolverhampton Literature Festival poetry competition and Holland Park Press’s Brexit in Poetry 2019, and being highly commended in the Forward Prizes 2018. Sarah is co-editor of Humanagerie, an anthology from Eibonvale Press, shortlisted for a British Fantasy Award in 2019. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from Royal Holloway College, University of London, and is currently researching a PhD in meteorological poetry at Birmingham City University. More at sarahdoyle.co.uk or Twitter: @PoetSarahDoyle

Something so wild and new in this feeling is available to purchase from the V. Press website.