Tag: Atrium Poetry

Pkhali – Nancy Campbell

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

Pkhali

for AZ

You’re holding flowers, dark as skeins
of beetroot dug up in the sun,
dark as the earth they came from.
The buds open, shaking out shadows
that could not dye them deeper.
The beetroot you prepared last night
only seemed dark as these flowers
until you skinned and sliced the bulbs,
tumbled them in a bowl. Then
such colour! Even now we’ve eaten
it can’t be hidden – the bowl stained pink,
your hands, flushed by the juice;
your hands, that tremble as they hold
these dark flowers.

 

Nancy Campbell’s books include Disko Bay (Enitharmon, shortlisted for Forward Prize for Best First Collection 2016) and The Library of Ice (Simon&Schuster). She was the UK’s Canal Laureate in 2018, and is currently Literature Fellow at Villa Concordia, Bamberg. www.nancycampbell.co.uk
@nancycampbelle

Mars Girl – Katherine Stansfield

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

Mars Girl

She woke one morning & said she was going to Mars.
She was twelve & wore kitten pyjamas.

Her dad was over the moon & mars-
halled the press. In an exclusive Skype call with Newsround

she announced, ‘I’m going to be the first to land, because Mars
says I’m Mars Girl so I’m changing my name. Dad,

don’t call me Fiona anymore. Mars
won’t like it.’ She swapped her kitten pyjamas

for some with red planets – the new Mission to Mars
range from M&S: perfect for pre-teen space cadets.

She tweeted @NASA to say she was their go-to girl for Mars
& @NASA replied, ‘Start training now.

You have to play the long game if you’re Mars
Girl’. So she studied hard for her planetary SATs,

with papers on the climate (chilly) & orbit (687 Earth days) of Mars,
signed up for space camps in deserts, practised,

twice a day on a trampoline in the garden, her mars-
upial bouncing moves for zero-gravity, made lists

of food for galactic pioneers, plumping for mars-
hmallows on the outward shuttle flight:

light on the stomach when the trip to Mars
was so long & lurchy through asteroid fields.

NASA kept her in the loop about Mars
missions, and she grew older. She studied astrophysics,

told talk show hosts she wasn’t mad: Mars
was her destiny. Her foot would be the first to touch it.

Her pyjamas were a blue velour spacesuit with Mars
Girl in glittery red thread. Her dad re-mortgaged the house.

‘Mars,’ she whispered at night, ‘I’m coming. Don’t forget me.’ The Mars
race between China & India heated up

& for a while it looked good for Mars
by 2040 if she changed her citizenship, but computer-simulated

landings still ended in fiery disaster. The funding for Mars
research dried up. She got ill then well again

& Mars burned less brightly on the news. No one cared about Mars
any more, it was all black holes. Her dad died

still believing she’d be the first on Mars
but her pyjamas were whatever was in the sale.

She got ill again & her Mars-
shaped heart couldn’t save her.

She didn’t need NASA & their Mars
mega bucks then. She just closed her eyes & there it was.

Not cold or windy like the books had said. She didn’t need a Mars
suit, only her kitten pyjamas.

‘It’s Mars Girl,’ she said. ‘I’m here.’
‘What took you so long?’ said Mars.

 

Katherine grew up in Cornwall and now lives in Cardiff. Her poems have appeared in The North, Magma, Poetry Wales, New Welsh Review, The Interpreter’s House, And Other Poems, and Butcher’s Dog. Seren will publish her second collection in 2020.

The Son – Tim Love

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

The son

She told him that the pain of dying was
like giving birth – it wouldn’t last forever.
She didn’t want drugs to numb the feeling.

For the funeral he ordered flowers
with long stems because the hospital
could use them after, because tulips,

unlike roses, will not boast about love,
the love that dries them out through
long winters. Their bulbs are poisonous,

not like onions, which only make him cry.
Like all lilies, they need cold shocks
to bring out the best in them.

From then on he wore hope like superman
wears underpants because Kryptonite lurked
in every playground and waiting room.

He kept her jam jar of buttons, each one
a teddy-bear’s lost eye, shaking it nightly,
staring in as if it’s a kaleidoscope.

The sun shone like the moon.
Even the stars believed him now.
He’d give it a year like he promised.

 

Tim Love’s publications are a poetry pamphlet “Moving Parts” (HappenStance) and a story collection “By all means” (Nine Arches Press). He lives in Cambridge, UK. His poetry and prose have appeared in Stand, Rialto, Magma, Unthology, etc. He blogs at http://litrefs.blogspot.com/

The Day I Turned Into a Bear – Joe Williams

~ Claire Walker ~ 2 Comments

The Day I Turned Into a Bear

There were funny looks at the station, and
gasps as I clambered onto the train.
I was pleased to secure a double seat,
and that nobody checked my ticket.
I had a perfectly valid one,
and don’t know of any rules that say
you can’t have bears on a train, just
I don’t like to cause any trouble.

At work we agreed it was probably best
if I didn’t see any customers, so
I spent the day answering emails,
making the tea and filing.
I took a longer than usual lunch,
which gave me time to go to the woods,
find a few berries and plants to eat,
and attend to some personal business.

By the time I got to Sainsbury’s, I
was getting used to being a bear.
With a satisfied growl I flipped a fish
out of the fridge compartment.
The queue dispersed. I said that I didn’t
need a bag, or help with packing,
thanked the cashier for their help, carried
my dinner home in my teeth.

I wasn’t intending to go to the pub,
but there was nothing on television,
nothing that would appeal to bears,
so I dropped in for a pint.
I knew I would get a ribbing, of course.
Everyone there was taking the piss.
I lost count of the number of times
I heard the “long paws” joke.

In the morning I was relieved to find
that I was no longer a bear, but
my porridge was far too cold, and I had
a very sore head.

 

Joe Williams is a writer and performing poet from Leeds. His verse novella, ‘An Otley Run’, published by Half Moon Books, was shortlisted for the Best Novella category in the 2019 Saboteur Awards.
www.joewilliams.co.uk
www.anotleyrun.com
@JoeWilliamsPoet

Red Pencil – Jonathan Humble

~ Claire Walker ~ 4 Comments

Red Pencil

I am six years old, my pencil breaks
mid-word in Mrs Foster’s class.

So I turn to my friend Martin,
show him the pencil and whisper,

‘Martin, Martin, my pencil has broke.’
‘Use this,’ he says and passes a substitute,

secretly under our desk.
‘But it’s a red pencil, Martin,’ I say.

He smiles a smile. It is an ‘it’ll all be ok’
sort of smile and so I carry on,

copying lines of words I cannot read,
but which I try my very hardest

to replicate, as neat and true to the original
as I am able, at six, to do.

At the finish, I look down at my page
of writing; my teacher’s lines above,

with mine in red below and I wonder
about the words I have written.

I am happy with the result of my effort;
especially the esses which are

smooth and curvy and flowing and lovely.
They are the best I have ever done.

So, I walk twenty paces to Mrs Foster’s desk,
clutching my paper with pride,

and return ten yards with a slapped arse,
my work in shreds in a basket,

having a brand new perspective on the way of things
and on the reliability of my friend Martin.

 

Jonathan Humble is a teacher in Cumbria. His poems have appeared in a number of anthologies and other publications such as Ink Sweat & Tears, Obsessed With Pipework, Atrium, Riggwelter, Amaryllis, Eye Flash and Picaroon. His short stories and poems for children have been published in The Caterpillar and Stew Magazine.

Web: https://northernjim.wordpress.com

 

If I’d smuggled you through the Search Tank, past the dogs – Avril Joy

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

If I’d smuggled you through the Search Tank, past the dogs

persuaded them, made them listen in their offices and their conference halls
bought a bicycle and a Tannoy, made the streets ours.
If I’d taken up your letting cup, tipped blood backwards to your veins
ironed your crumpled skin like a skirt smooth at its seams, like a skirt for dancing in.
If I’d opened the prison gates and let them swing
torn down fences, dug tunnels like POWs.
If I’d given you a notebook of swanskin embossed with your name
if we’d sipped tea together from porcelain,
the space around us grown to cathedrals.
If I’d shown you the lacing pattern of leaves, the still pillow of night over hills
bought the day like heroin and banished dreams
if we’d eaten papaya and mango fresh from their trees.
If we’d swum in the Indian ocean
thrown ourselves at waves resisting undertow.
If we’d stood on stilts like stilt fisherman, like Jesus on his cross
guarding the children lost; at sea.
If I’d shown you how the world can sometimes be.

 

Avril Joy’s poem Skomm won first prize in the York Literary festival, competition 2019. Poems have appeared in Strix, Ink Sweat&Tears, Dream Catcher and Snakeskin. She is currently writing a sequence of poems reflecting on twenty-five years spent working in a women’s prison to be pub in Sept 2019 by Linen Press wwwavriljoy.com

lipstick feet – Frances Jackson

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

lipstick feet

as a child she would have
given just about anything
for shoes like this

bright red
almost indecently so
flat but dainty
somewhat impractical
in the rain

she can hear her mother’s voice
the wise counsel
that was the soundtrack of her youth
what d’you want something like that for
they’ll only scuff and pinch your feet

it makes her feel rebellious
and out comes the purse
can’t wait to try to them out
take them for a test spin

walks to the shops
buoyantly
a slight spring in her step
proud of her shiny new shoes

hobbles back
of course
blisters on her feet
red angry welts
as if the colour had rubbed off
smudged like the lipstick
that other girls’ mothers wore

 

Frances Jackson is originally from the northwest of England, but now lives in Bavaria. Her translations and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in places such as B O D Y, Nine Muses Poetry, The Missing Slate and Your Impossible Voice.

Watching a Fish on a Cutting Board – Amanda Oosthuizen

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

Watching a Fish on a Cutting Board

Tipped, no fingers,
onto a white, plastic cutting
board, utilitarian,
not like the fish at all, it lies,

a glamorous bulging muscle;
silky, black fan of a tailfin; lipless
mouth; wiry tiara gills and a silver-
rimmed, lidless eye. An envelope slit

along its belly, awaiting
tarragon, seasalt, pepper,
a splash of balsamic, maybe
a dollop of crème fraîche.

It never lurked amongst swaying
ribbons of weed or battled the wash
of the river. It sprang to a feeder
with five hundred others.
One measly life with a plastic,
cutting board
destiny.

 

Amanda Oosthuizen’s creative work has appeared in Under the Radar, 3:AM, Ambit, on the London underground, in galleries, Winchester cathedral, and Humanagerie amongst others. She earns her living by writing/arranging music and teaching woodwind. www.amandaoosthuizen.com @amandaoosty

Museum of Illness – Angi Holden

~ Claire Walker ~ 1 Comment

Museum of Illness

Exhibit One: The Symptom
………….Last year’s exhibit has been removed for conservation.
………….The temporary replacement is an unseen symptom.
………….Place your hand in the feely-box.
………….You may experience some discomfort.

Exhibit Two: The Referral
………….Paperwork suggests the need for examination
………….and further investigation. There may be a delay.

Exhibit Three: The Consultation
………….Please take a ticket from the dispenser.
………….Viewings are strictly in numerical order and time-limited.

Exhibit Four: The Diagnosis
………….This may be figurative or abstract.
………….Select your gallery in accordance with preference.
………….Be prepared for ambiguity.

Exhibit Five: The Treatment
………….There is a range of guidebooks and postcards
………….available from the shop. Plastic bags are disposable
………….and charged at 10p, proceeds to charity.

Exhibit Six: The Outcome
………….The final gallery is close to the exit.
………….Please close the doors as you leave.

 

Angi Holden writes adult & children’s poetry, short stories & flash fictions. Her work explores family history and personal experience. Spools of Thread – winner of the Mother’s Milk Pamphlet Prize – was published in 2018.

Diving – Tim Love

~ Claire Walker ~ Leave a comment

Diving

The diver’s head then legs split the arms’ shaft
like aft oars breaking the stitched scars of the first
or an old junkie fearing detection, having to go deeper
until too scared to open his eyes let alone look up
he wrestles bubbles at the bottom.

Miming death he rises into brightness,
bruising not breaking the skin,
part of the mirror until he feels again
the edge he longed for, smoother than alcohol,
concave and clinging to the steep sides.

 

Tim Love’s publications are a poetry pamphlet “Moving Parts” (HappenStance) and a story collection “By all means” (Nine Arches Press). He lives in Cambridge, UK. His poetry and prose have appeared in Stand, Rialto, Magma, Unthology, etc. He blogs at
http://litrefs.blogspot.com/