Seventeen magazine – tell me; is he flirty or friendly? you must not condemn me; male decency is so alien. is it the chick-flicks? we’ve been pumped since kindergarten; if he pulls my hair – interested (rape culture is coded within our moms’ advice). is it the fan fiction consumption? or about the way we […]
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[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-18 10:49:10
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[post_content] => Seventeen magazine – tell me;
is he flirty or friendly?
you must not condemn me;
male decency is so alien.
is it the chick-flicks?
we’ve been pumped since kindergarten;
if he pulls my hair – interested
(rape culture is coded within our moms’ advice).
is it the fan fiction consumption?
or about the way we look like the “before” versions,
about the girls who’re good at math,
(and clever about boys [chastity]
[let’s bring that sacred temple down])
must one never gratify fornicating?
did my grand-(times-infinite)-mother reach 1000 °C in Salem?
daddy – how are babies made?
with a little help from the marriage bond, Ruth Anna
[I’d date you, if you weren’t my daughter]
if witches fly with broomsticks,
do they swim with dustpans?
[post_title] => Make Abstinence Great Again
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the first-prize winner in the August challenge #4 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
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[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Alara Egi
[slug] => alara-egi
[content] => Alara is the first prize winner in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019, on Young Poets Network.
)
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[1] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20545
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-18 10:49:07
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:49:07
[post_content] => After Caroline Bird
Have you changed the way
you write your soft letters,
like m and c and s? Made them harsher,
perhaps, to offer no hiding spaces?
When you wake up,
do you have to weed your eyelashes?
At dinner do you see a thatch of hands
writhing in the vomit of your lamb mince?
At parties do you feel like
you are at a different party
or like you are stuck
in the back of the bathroom mirror
listening to a stranger howl in the kitchen?
Are your teeth too loose?
Do you understand
just how useless
your feet are?
Are you crying enough?
Measure your daily output of tears
against the dusty weight
of the deceased’s spectacles.
At night
do you press your ear to the wall
and hold your breath
until you hear running water?
Have you tried running?
How do you feel
when it rains?
[post_title] => Grief Counselling
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
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[wpcf-rights-information] =>
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 18987
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Ellora Sutton
[slug] => ellora-sutton
[content] => Ellora is the first-prize winner of the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Mari Hughes-Edwards, and celebrating Duffy's legacy as Poet Laureate. She is also the first-prize winner of Bailey Blackburn's 2018 August challenge #2 on found poems. Ellora is also the second-prize winner in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019.
Ellora is commended in: the 2019 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard; the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge, written and judged by Bee Rowlatt of the Mary on the Green campaign; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; the Golden Shovel challenge, judged by Peter Kahn; the Bletchley Park challenge, judged by So Mayer; the W. S. Graham challenge judged by Rachael Boast as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations; and Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK.
Her work has been published by The Cardiff Review, Blue Marble Review and Nightingale & Sparrow among others. She was commended in the Winchester Poetry Prize.
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[2] => stdClass Object
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[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-18 10:49:04
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:49:04
[post_content] => WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
My name was spat out of a laughing river.
It is lips of salt,
it is soaked in sunlight,
it is without god.
HOW OLD ARE YOU?
I am old enough.
You can count the tree-rings on my torso if you cut me
in half.
HOW IS YOUR HEART?
I wish you wouldn’t ask me that.
I never seem to know these days.
My heart is a diseased fruit, mellow to the touch.
Does that make sense?
WHY ARE YOU HERE TODAY?
I am toxic fallout. I am ample
love. I am loyalty of a dog.
I am here to find out what is wrong with me.
HOW DO YOU WISH TO PROCEED?
Warily.
[post_title] => Hound
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
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[post_password] =>
[post_name] => hound
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[wpcf-rights-information] =>
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 19629
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Tallulah Howarth
[slug] => tallulah-howarth
[content] => Tallulah is commended in Bailey Blackburn's 2018 August challenge #2 on found poems on Young Poets Network, and commended again in Kara Jackson's 2019 August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation.
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[3] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20556
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-18 10:49:01
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:49:01
[post_content] => Based on questions from the civics portion of the naturalization test for United States citizenship.
What is the supreme law of the land?
ask me where I'm from // go on / ask me // don’t / be afraid // I’m harmless
What does the Constitution do?
ask me where I’m really from // go on / ask me // I have no weapons / in my single suitcase // no money / no clothes / no food // only my voice // my voice // made for answering
The idea of self-government is in the first three words of the Constitution. What are these words?
ask me if I’m one of you // open my eyes / to the people // ask me / if I / can call them countrymen // don’t stop first / to think // if I / can turn the words / out from beneath my tongue / to give them // this nation // “indivisible” / “under god” // go on / ask me
What is an amendment?
ask me if I bought a return ticket // because this country / welcomes change // ask me / because you know // the answer // ask me / because I swore // to tell the truth // ask me / because you think // I’m lying // ask me
What do we call the first ten amendments to the Constitution?
but you won’t ask // you / take one look / & drive away // dust / sprinkles itself over my / uncreased eyelids // you laugh / roll up the smudged window // cocoon yourself / in leather & down & bullet casings // while I // linger // alone // under some heartless highway bridge
What is one right or freedom from the First Amendment?
you won’t ask // because you know the answer / & won’t hear it // because you swore / to tell the truth / & don’t know how // maybe I should ask you / where you’re from // I wonder / if you’d answer // honestly
How many amendments does the Constitution have?
the silence between us ////////// rapturous // maybe it's because you fear / I’ll make your language / foreign
[post_title] => allegiance
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[post_name] => allegiance
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[wpcf-rights-information] =>
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20448
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Maggie Wang
[slug] => maggie-wang
[content] => Maggie is commended in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2019; in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019; and in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019, on Young Poets Network.
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[4] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20551
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-18 10:48:54
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:48:54
[post_content] => Is this something that humans can do?
I guess you could drop your iPhone X
but that wouldn’t give me more time with you.
How do you freeze time?
Is that something that we could achieve?
You could always send a photo to the wrong person
but maybe I’m just being naive.
How do you freeze time?
I really must figure this out,
perhaps if you gave me some really bad news -
but that’s one I’d rather go without.
How do you freeze time?
I don’t have the brains for this stuff,
but if there’s one thing I know for certain:
A lifetime with you isn’t enough.
[post_title] => How do you freeze time?
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
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[post_name] => how-do-you-freeze-time
[to_ping] =>
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[post_modified] => 2019-10-18 10:48:54
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[ID] => 20552
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Megan Mumby
[slug] => megan-mumby
[content] => Megan is commended in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019, on Young Poets Network.
)
)
[5] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20555
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-18 10:48:51
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:48:51
[post_content] => Why is there dissonance
within music?
Must a pianist's chords
clash and release,
like tide shattering a
hermit crab's home?
Why do trees fall?
Are their roots too fine
in holding their dignity of years?
Or do our axes force gravity
upon them?
Must a story always end?
Should pages be written
in indelible ink or phosphorus,
so that words glow like embers,
only to be rekindled
when a new voice speaks them?
Why do we live in a box of uncertainty,
never opening it,
our answers remaining in the dark?
And we, like moths
struggling to find the flame
and running around aimlessly?
Does sleep even count
as the closest to a near-death experience?
Is there is nothing closer to
the pleasure of succumbing
than savouring it temporarily?
[post_title] => Best Left Unanswered
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => best-left-unanswered
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-18 10:48:51
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:48:51
[post_content_filtered] =>
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[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #4 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 13563
[forename] => Iona
[surname] => Mandal
[title] => Iona Mandal
[slug] => iona-mandal
[content] => Iona is commended in the Wish List challenge on Young Poets Network and a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Haibun' and Reading Agency challenges. Iona is also commended in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019.
)
)
[6] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20559
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-18 10:48:47
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:48:47
[post_content] => Should I seal my singing lips so as to not wake others’ demons?
Should I lock my rattling voice box and let all my unexpressed opinions choke me?
Should I remain a ventriloquist’s puppet and speak others’ words?
Should I hold my breath and stay under water, lest the free air liberates me?
Should I stay on the wrong side of the mirror so no one can see who I really am?
Should I swallow the conformity pill and forget who I am?
Should I rip my heart out and count down as it pumps to 3, 2, 1?
Must I really die - not to live - but to survive?
[post_title] => Whispers Carried By The 3AM Winds
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
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[post_name] => whispers-carried-by-the-3am-winds
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the August challenge #4 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #4 2019
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20560
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Hania Habib
[slug] => hania-habib
[content] => Hania is commended in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019, on Young Poets Network.
)
)
[7] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20562
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-18 10:48:46
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:48:46
[post_content] => do I remain when I leave for good,
huddled in the corner of your brain,
unwanted, chained,
quick, quick
lock her up get rid
am I embraced do you have a
synapse
dedicated to my name that sparks
heady glutamate when I am mentioned
casually
in conversation, do you
linger on the way I tie laces
am I mute am I your voice of reason,
do I ever move unexpectedly
take you by surprise
in dreams, just when you were about to
forget my existence
do I age do you update
me like software or am I
still young in there, do you hold me
undying
from nostalgia or indifference
who is that girl
that lives on when I leave
is she irritating inspiring
how does she speak
or is she just blue eyes
glancing away, a smile on a
dark day, am I whole or am I
broken
do I remain at all
unspoken
a breath a lingering refrain
do you ever say
I wonder who this belongs to
I wonder if it was that girl
I once knew before
forgetting again
[post_title] => The other
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => the-other
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-18 10:48:46
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:48:46
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[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #4 2019
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[ID] => 17073
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Amy Wolstenholme
[slug] => amy-wolstenholme
[content] => Amy is the first prize winner in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2016 and commended in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2019 on Young Poets Network. She is the first prize winner in August challenge #1 on photographic poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Andrew Pettigrew in 2019; and the second prize winner in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019. She is the third prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge, and a winner in the Ways to be Wilder Poetry Challenge, in association with People Need Nature. Amy is also commended in the Bletchley Park challenge judged by So Mayer; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; and in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019.
)
)
[8] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20512
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-16 16:11:58
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:11:58
[post_content] => pssssssssssssst.
pssssst. hey
i heard maybe
you wanted
to talk. no
no its okay im
not busy whats up
man im sorry to hear it.
you need space?
wanting words?
wanting poems
that know
what is up?
how about
even at night
in the garden
the birds fly.
the stars
are incapable
of grief,
and the rising sun
is proof you’ll be
okay.
you dont believe it?
too wrong, too far? no
no its cool
its only been a week
i know.
loss shivers
like your stomach
is a timer,
and your longing
is the sand,
there is an end.
one day,
it will not hurt.
closer, you reckon?
whens her funeral again
oh god dont cry just
no i know you will
feel better no i know
that this will end no-
oh,
oh i think i get it.
death crawls
like a spider
up your back,
and grief
is when you
splutter
on the cobwebs.
[post_title] => pssssssssssssst
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => pssssssssssssst
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-16 16:41:16
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[wpcf-date-published] => 2019
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the first-prize winner in the August challenge #3 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => 1st prize, August challenge #3 2019
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[ID] => 18889
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Felix Stokes
[slug] => felix-stokes
[content] => Felix is the first-prize winner in the Nearlyology challenge on Young Poets Network; he is also the first-prize winner in August challenge #3 2019 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey, and the third-prize winner of the W. S. Graham challenge as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations.
)
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[9] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20517
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[post_date] => 2019-10-16 16:11:55
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:11:55
[post_content] => Leave the poem where you found it. It was never yours,
and besides, it has a dangerous song. Can you not hear
the blade in that soft, serrated edge where you casually
scrape your thumb? Listen to the way the light screams
when it comes to rest on these bands of black and white.
A poem is not a feather, nor was intended to provide wings.
But then, it was the siren song of flight, always, that reeled
them in. Perhaps you came to the page in wonder at that hook,
or to discover how it is a hand makes music by bleeding
through a pen. But I found you instead. For you also have a
song, just there, just beating in the sweet pulse of your head.
Together perhaps, or maybe it was just you, or most probably me,
(with slippery guilt)
Somewhere later in your room or by the fire, we dipped the tip
of the feather in the ink, to stir up those hidden lyrics, to try to find
meaning in words, but, leave it.
(There was never meant to be one.)
Alone in the wide, dark book, your shoulder blades are a chit
owed to the beast, and I will make them split with wings. So take
the only worldly sound you own, your quavering voice, and sing.
There was tune too,
(did you hear it? I did), in the page that spoke
of the tree that grew, and was cut down. Now simply background.
Perhaps this is where we should have begun, not with the feather
but with the bird, but still we stumbled on through in reverse,
so all that will remain, all that will stay to define the shape of you –
the poet, tightly circling, scraping
the last crumbs from the ground.
But you and your sound were already somewhere else by then,
somewhere that I could not follow. You, with your stolen feather
in your fist, imagining how it would be to fly. You shout the word
that signifies you to the sky, and in that undying song,
in that deep ballad of your name, I place mine,
(always)
in your careless echo.
[post_title] => To the reader (from a poet, with love)
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => to-the-reader-from-a-poet-with-love
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-18 10:35:36
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:35:36
[post_content_filtered] =>
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[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
(
[wpcf-published-in] =>
[wpcf-date-published] => 2019
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the second-prize winner in the August challenge #3 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => 2nd prize, August challenge #3 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 17073
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Amy Wolstenholme
[slug] => amy-wolstenholme
[content] => Amy is the first prize winner in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2016 and commended in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2019 on Young Poets Network. She is the first prize winner in August challenge #1 on photographic poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Andrew Pettigrew in 2019; and the second prize winner in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019. She is the third prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge, and a winner in the Ways to be Wilder Poetry Challenge, in association with People Need Nature. Amy is also commended in the Bletchley Park challenge judged by So Mayer; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; and in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019.
)
)
[10] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20520
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-16 16:11:50
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:11:50
[post_content] => after Ocean Vuong
i restart this sen tence, i edit edit my
life off these fingers these words
they ask me how do i do i feel i
feel none nothing i am
trying to h ave
them built me a
sound a sound of
a finished
gavel of the
bathtub water
bubbling with your
lungs drowned
underneath the sky
gray-blue a torn cloth
from the hem of
night my father
came home
begging for
beggin g
for joy your uncle
’s thighbones
crushed under
the weight of
gravel inside
this sterile
light
Trâu was scraped out of your
mother
your grand
pa where
where
is he now
ông ơi ông
ơi climb
out of this
dirt i’m building
you a new one
here this page i need
i need lurching
beneath the soft an
imal of your face
your brother’s
face our hard flesh
melded into quiet our sweats trickling
beneath the glow of
ghosts hardening inside our
palms my palms two pools of
salted grief the page
with sweatshops &
metaphors these purpling
adjectives the hurt
revised
inside
this flat
boat of
paper
this
margin
of
drafted
lives i have lived
so
long so long so
tired sometimes
the page rustles
into a heartbeat
brewing december snow inside these
papers where i fold them
paperplanes like hail like
blizzards everywhere
the graveyard of the sky
this is where the
dead relives into sawdust the vinyl
records playing
outdated blues
where i coffin first
loves where i left
bodies to seasoned
wheatfields o paper
o page i am hungry
for ou r second
chance in mars i’ve
re ached the
knifed edges i’ve
reached the en d & those c
uckoos’ wing
s being unfolded a
fter all that all
that my ink has been white.
[post_title] => The page is also the night where i climb out of
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => the-page-is-also-the-night-where-i-climb-out-of
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-17 11:07:51
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-17 11:07:51
[post_content_filtered] =>
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the third-prize winner in the August challenge #3 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => 3rd prize, August challenge #3 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20539
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Duy Quang Mai
[slug] => duy-quang-mai
[content] => Quang is the third-prize winner in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019, on Young Poets Network.
)
)
[11] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20522
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-16 16:09:16
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:09:16
[post_content] => being just a poem & not a body on the
operating table, I never expected you to
cut me open & tear me to pieces—never
thought you would take your scalpel &
carve my abdomen up like the last virgin
forest & twist my organs into knots in
your quest to cure me (I was never ill)
being just a poem & not a dish served
at the dinner table, I never expected you
to prod me with your fork & lift me from
the (page/plate) & into your mouth—
never thought you would chew me up &
spit me out again “in your own words”
being just a poem & not a petty thief or
traitor or arsonist, I never expected you
to hang me in the town square for the
amusement of children—never thought
you would let me choke on my own words
“until dead” so they might remember my
crimes (I have no lessons to teach them)
being just a poem, I never could have
known how you would break down my
doors & flood my eyes with light not my
own—never thought you would pick me
apart & put me back together again with
my syllables all jumbled up—
but of course you would, &
if I had known, I would have asked the
poet who wrote me to keep me locked up
in her tachycardiac heart & never let me
whisper loudly enough to drown out that
anxious, too-fast beat-beat-beating—
[post_title] => being just a poem
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => being-just-a-poem
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-18 10:33:07
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:33:07
[post_content_filtered] =>
[post_parent] => 0
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[menu_order] => 0
[post_type] => poems
[post_mime_type] =>
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[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
(
[wpcf-published-in] =>
[wpcf-date-published] => 2019
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the August challenge #3 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #3 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20448
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Maggie Wang
[slug] => maggie-wang
[content] => Maggie is commended in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2019; in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019; and in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019, on Young Poets Network.
)
)
[12] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20526
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-16 16:09:11
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:09:11
[post_content] => Today, I wrote a poem.
I let a wasp outside.
I made a coffee, set out sugar.
When the wasp returned,
I gave it sugarwater.
I invited you in, changed outfits
to make a statement.
I made us dinner, made conversation.
I suggested a walk.
You taught me the words for how sun is filtered
by a forest: sunblush, sunfleck, shivelight.
I remember that the air was fresh.
[post_title] => Brazil sends army to tackle Amazon Fires (BBC News, 24th August 2019)
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => brazil-sends-army-to-tackle-amazon-fires-bbc-news-24th-august-2019
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-16 16:09:11
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:09:11
[post_content_filtered] =>
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[menu_order] => 0
[post_type] => poems
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[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
(
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[wpcf-date-published] => 2019
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the August challenge #3 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #3 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 19742
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Jack Cooper
[slug] => jack-cooper
[content] => Jack is the third-prize winner of the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Mari Hughes-Edwards, celebrating Duffy's legacy as Poet Laureate. He is also commended in the Bletchley Park challenge, judged by So Mayer; commended in the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; commended again in the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge, written and judged by Bee Rowlatt of the Mary on the Green campaign; commended in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2019; and commended in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019.
)
)
[13] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20529
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-16 16:09:08
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:09:08
[post_content] => So, here we are:
you, you’re sitting in your highchair,
looking all smug.
God, you’re so cute
that I could just eat you.
Right. Here comes the aeroplane?
Remember
that one?
That’s what we’re
going to do.
See? Mummy’s got the food.
Dinner, din dins. Din sure does.
You had existed for a handful of seconds
before you, you alone, put “din” in the dictionary.
Anyway.
Here, a spoonful:
adjectives from the womb of Romantics,
metaphor to sing the cacophony to sleep.
Try swallowing that with your half-tooth,
that pathetic,
milky brine.
Don’t spit out the tone when
it touches your tongue.
You’ve already forgotten the
aeroplane thing?
It’s okay. So have I.
I just wish you would eat,
poor, kicking, flailing child of mine,
and not wail at the same
three notes.
Here comes the airy strain
of your scream,
trapped potential in a soft sack
of pink wobble,
flightless feet holding
the beginnings of babble.
[post_title] => Raising a Poem-Baby
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => raising-a-poem-baby
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-16 16:09:08
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:09:08
[post_content_filtered] =>
[post_parent] => 0
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[menu_order] => 0
[post_type] => poems
[post_mime_type] =>
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[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
(
[wpcf-published-in] =>
[wpcf-date-published] => 2019
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the August challenge #3 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #3 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20530
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Evie Collins
[slug] => evie-collins
[content] => Evie is a commended Foyle Young Poet of the Year 2018. Evie is also commended in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019.
)
)
[14] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20532
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-16 16:09:03
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:09:03
[post_content] => stares at its feet/ my poem is an orphan/ is a stray kid that went missing from the science class/ doesn’t have a birth certificate/ residence permit/ didn’t grow around books/ or other kids that looked like it/ my poem hid behind the broad shoulders of prose/ it has no permanent postcode/ sounds like three cities/ in one broken language/ loves crawling on stage/ and trying to find its feet/ so when poems/ in monocles/ and top hats/ say go home/ it says/ I am
[post_title] => My poem sits next to fifteen poems at the workshop table
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => my-poem-sits-next-to-fifteen-poems-at-the-workshop-table
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-16 16:09:03
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:09:03
[post_content_filtered] =>
[post_parent] => 0
[guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=20532
[menu_order] => 0
[post_type] => poems
[post_mime_type] =>
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[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
(
[wpcf-published-in] =>
[wpcf-date-published] => 2019
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the August challenge #3 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #3 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20019
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Fathima Zahra
[slug] => fathima-zahra
[content] => Zahra is the first-prize winner of the moon poetry challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Nii Parkes, and the third-prize winner in the Golden Shovel challenge, judged by Peter Kahn. Zahra is also commended in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019.
)
)
[15] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20534
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-16 16:08:57
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:08:57
[post_content] => we are on the beach and my mother
is telling me how poetry isn’t practical
anymore. that my writing has to be an act
of violence, a way to earn in a world
that wants to eat me alive. I am sure that
she is right
this poem, like those before it, is useless:
an alphabet of dead jellyfish, my own name
written over and over again in miles of muddy
sand. MATILDAmatildamatildaMATILDA matil—
my surname never meant anything,
you know.
just two people holding hands. I wanted so badly
to stand on their shoulders in ways that mattered,
climb up through my great grandparents’
sacrifice into the daylight. poetry is a pointless
autopsy of my family shrubbery, a fickle way to
navel gaze.
if I could sell my words, the survival would be made
a lot less metaphorical. (you know, you should do it
for the love of it.) it looks a lot like self-obsession,
all this lack of capital letters. my mother tells me
I should be less bitter, that this would make friends
so much easier.
Oh God, this beach doesn’t seem to end. Oh God, how right
she is.
[post_title] => Promise it’ll be my last
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => promise-itll-be-my-last
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-16 16:08:57
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:08:57
[post_content_filtered] =>
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[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
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[wpcf-published-in] =>
[wpcf-date-published] => 2019
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the August challenge #3 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #3 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 16682
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Matilda Houston-Brown
[slug] => matilda-houston-brown
[content] => Matilda is a first-prize winner in the Wish List challenge on Young Poets Network and runner-up in the Namedropping challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield. She is also a commended poet in the secondary category of the Agincourt 600 Poetry Competition, and commended in the Timothy Corsellis Poetry Prize 2018 on Young Poets Network.
)
)
[16] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20535
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-16 16:08:31
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:08:31
[post_content] => 1. sit
on a clear summer night on the roof
of a ford, or an acura, or even
a dodge grand caravan.
pop open a beer which runs
down the sides of the car
and puddles into the lush grass.
reminisce on how your life
overflows the boundaries
of summer.
2a. because you have never
touched gently a lover’s sleeping cheek
or devoured their mouth
with the voracity of starving
ants-
3. (pretend you are knowledgeable about ants
or lovers, or animals
or kissing lovers
in an animalistic fashion)
2b. write an ode to your goldfish.
like so:
your scales shine bright as ripest oranges
no, brighter than the stars, like an orange
untouched, like snow, or Christmas oranges…
4. get there, then
realize you and your goldfish are not close.
you forget to feed it.
5. decide you will never be a poet.
throw out all your notebooks.
bury yourself
in your Chemistry 11 text.
7. is this a poem?
[post_title] => be poetic:
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => be-poetic
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2019-10-16 16:08:31
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-16 16:08:31
[post_content_filtered] =>
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[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
(
[wpcf-published-in] =>
[wpcf-date-published] => 2019
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the August challenge #3 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #3 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20537
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Jewel Cao
[slug] => jewel-cao
[content] => Jewel is commended in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019, on Young Poets Network.
)
)
[17] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20491
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-15 15:45:38
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-15 15:45:38
[post_content] => How-to guides contain illustrations.
A guy bent over a chair.
You can see his wife in the background
wringing her hair.
Cursing their choice to not use IKEA.
‘I told you you couldn’t do it!’
How-to guides have multiple rules
that end up merging like rivers.
Screw A lives next to Screw D, but not Screw B.
Screw B is nowhere to be seen.
The cellophane empty like his eyes.
How-to guides do not provide
a backup plan.
When the hot water bottle you made
is used to make a cup of sweet tea.
When her partner returns, pockets bulging.
Full of stolen chocolates from Thorntons.
Humorous husband turned mindless thief.
Purchases a safe
to store her shame and grief.
This how-to guide is not a remedy.
But it is a start.
Time to relearn the things you never knew.
How to be a Dementia Friend.
Step one: The sacred word is yes.
‘You’re my sister, Shelia.’
(You’re actually his wife.)
‘You work for the Government.’
(You work as a low-key civil servant.)
Step two: Embrace their wonderland.
Upon visiting you ask,
‘What did you have for dinner?’
‘Peanuts,’ is his confident reply.
To deny this is to deny their truth.
To deny their truth leads to frustration.
There is no need to challenge, just smile.
Step Three: Reinvent yourself as a saint.
They cannot help being broken records.
Like children who can never satisfy
their ignited curiosity,
they cannot stop their urge to repeat.
‘Do you want a cup of tea, She?’
‘Do you want a cup of tea, She?’
‘Shall I put my socks on?’
‘Okay…’
‘Shall I put my socks on?’
Step four: Indiana Jones eat your heart out.
Many of them will become wanderers.
They will walk for miles with no water.
If you meet such a traveller, stay calm.
If waiting for assistance, ask
open-ended questions about their past.
See how they light up from the inside out.
Cherish the stories as if you know them.
Final step: Always listen.
No matter how tiring your day,
if you have someone with dementia
living at home,
sit down and talk to them.
Buried underneath all the gibberish
and fragmented phrases,
behind the foggy eyes and neutral mouth
is the person you once and still love.
And this guide does not want you to miss
any opportunity to meet them
again.
[post_title] => How to Be a Dementia Friend
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
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[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => how-to-be-a-dementia-friend
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[post_modified] => 2019-10-15 15:51:05
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[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
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[wpcf-published-in] =>
[wpcf-date-published] => 2019
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the first-prize winner in the August challenge #2 2019 on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Fiyinfoluwa Oladipo.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => 1st prize, August challenge #2 2019
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 18689
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Olivia Todd
[slug] => olivia-todd
[content] => Olivia is the first-prize winner in the 2019 August challenge #2 on how-to poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Fiyinfoluwa Oladipo. She is also the third-prize winner in the 2019 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard; the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge on Young Poets Network, written and judged by Bee Rowlatt of the Mary on the Green campaign; in Bailey Blackburn's 2018 August challenge #2; and in the 2018 August challenge #1 on prose poems. She is in addition highly commended in the Young Poets Network Namedropping challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield.
)
)
[18] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20494
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-15 15:39:52
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-15 15:39:52
[post_content] => 1. drizzle oil onto the pan until the specks of heat feel like the blisters on your mother’s feet after a long day at the cash register greeting customers in a profuse thank you thank you thank you
while handing out plastic bags with yellow smiles.
2. saute the rice & ground beef & five-spice powder until they curdle and turn deliciously brown, until they begin to taste like a reminder from home, a reminder of your past self, the body you had once occupied when you were stitched and sewn to another sea.
3. soak the grape leaves in brine & spread them out on the tabletop. stretch them like your mother’s tongue when she first began to learn English, when the only words she knew how to say were sorry and thank you. she is a shadow under the kitchen bulbs, her soft maiden curves blending into the walls.
4. fold dollops of meat & rice into the leaves. mother’s hands work in silence. she sows salt over the rows of dolmehs: the grains sticking to the edges of the pan. she crimps each edge with a fork.
5. let each dolmeh marinate in pomegranate syrup for an hour. wait for mother’s patience to soak into the rice and meat. she is salted into the vein patterns of the leaves, etched onto the stomata, woven through the stems.
6. eat in the silence passing softly over the dinner table, dense enough to hold a conversation for two, but light enough to leave a smile hanging from your lips. your mother’s foot presses against yours. you are searching for warmth in each other’s skin.
[post_title] => how to make dolmeh with your mother
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[ID] => 19575
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Nazanin Soghrati
[slug] => nazanin-soghrati
[content] => Nazanin is the second-prize winner in the 2019 August challenge #2 on how-to poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Fiyinfoluwa Oladipo. Nazanin is also commended in the 2018 August challenge #1 on prose poems.
)
)
[19] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20497
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-15 15:39:49
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-15 15:39:49
[post_content] => i. say ponderosa out loud. it tastes like fresh lemonade and froot loops.
ii. multicoloured jellies for breakfast. yellow jello. the american dream.
iii. when eating sausages slumped next to your m&m pancakes, remember
your father saying:
they put something in the food, you know.
something that makes them fat and tall.
iv. eat cold spaghetti.
it came from the pink fluorescence of club tropicana where geckos scuttled across the path.
they latched onto walls in heavy air that carried the laughter of adults drinking something beginning with a.
v. why was it cold?
vi. lick rubber and snort rainwater:
it tastes like the first time you went snorkelling
in a faux-medieval fountain.
vii. roll maryland around on your tongue whilst sitting in a hot tub.
viii. garlic bread will forever taste like being searched at olive garden
whilst sen. john mccain sat a few tables away.
ix. in an emergency,
such as tropical storm faye,
a plastic bag will suffice as a raincoat.
x. don't go back.
[post_title] => ten floridian commandments
[post_excerpt] =>
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[post_name] => ten-floridian-commandments
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[ID] => 18171
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Emily Hana
[slug] => emily-hana
[content] => Emily was commended in the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2016. Emily was also commended in the meme challenge, written and judged by poet Rishi Dastidar, on Young Poets Network, and the W. S. Graham challenge as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations; she is also a winner in the Winter Poems challenge. She is the third-prize winner in the 2019 August challenge #2 on how-to poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Fiyinfoluwa Oladipo. She is a winner in the BBC Proms Poetry Competition 2017.
)
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[20] => stdClass Object
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[post_date] => 2019-10-15 15:39:40
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-15 15:39:40
[post_content] => Be punch-worthy
Be a boxer
Be a punching bag
Be someone with a lot of big promises who doesn’t follow through
Be with your clumsiest friends at all time
Be in a group of actors who do stage fighting
Be that person behind someone about to be punched who ducks at the last minute
Be the walls of a room filled with people who have anger issues
Be undeserved of a punch
Actually you can do anything and be punched so just be yourself
[post_title] => How To Be Punched
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
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[post_name] => how-to-be-punched
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[post_modified] => 2019-10-15 15:59:46
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[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #2 2019
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[ID] => 17352
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Jennie Howitt
[slug] => jennie-howitt
[content] => Jennie is a top 15 winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2016 and is highly commended in the Young Poets Network Namedropping challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield. She is also commended in the 2019 August challenge #2 on how-to poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Fiyinfoluwa Oladipo.
)
)
[21] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20498
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-15 15:39:39
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-15 15:39:39
[post_content] => [Intro: why you want to study your chosen subject]
Firstly, stop longing / for the figure at the bus stop
You have been interested in Love since that girl, I know, but stop
& focus on me / for once / don’t linger
Your eyes must be blind / to the flutterings / of winged annoyances /
Angels / she calls them / well size me up instead / then, paring,
Wreck me / hoping
Not to wreck your hopes of wrecking yourself in the principal studies
Of how to wrap your heart in a latent chrysalis.
[Main paragraph: what you’ve gleaned from your studies and supercurriculars]
Line the inside of your mouth with acerbic wit /
You are a telomere away from an angel. From Poems you have learned
To compare yourself and others is a fruitless task / and that flowers /
Mean nothing / unless you can hear their taste in your mouth.
Chase to sharpen / that acute sense / when an argument isn’t logically sound /
Explain you want to study what you lack / because tu vero cruciaris
& so am I, overworked / like qixi nocte /
Be faithful to me. I am your Pokémon / I am envoy to the news that will
Touch your lips / in the cold heat of January / this interview will sell out like
Pigeon songs / like tomorrow will come cawing / in the wake of Orihime
& you / held abridged with treasury tags from tanabata two years ago / maturing
Into a monocarpic debutante / looking for luce stellarum.
[Transferable skills from other subjects]
Ctrl+C as follows: you
Learnt how to trade cheap garlands in Accountability /
Your A Level in Discretion has prepared you for Society; Critical Thinking is evident
In the way you wipe culpa mea from your eyelashes / salt-crusted / like Iphigenia by the beach house altar.
Long to be monocarpic. See / science, that’s terminology / that’s coronary
Infarctions in bubble baths /
Suture through the “dark silence of your forehead” /
Prise open your geocache of ambitions from two minutes ago.
The “white limits of a fable” dizzy with 3am
Hold up the Bacchic pursuit of caffeine.
Lacunae sopor / watch as
Nymph fluid bathes your cells; running on 45% battery /
Everything is going
To be alright.
[Hobbies, part-time and societies]
Your part-time work with Cupid will help you out here. Don’t linger;
List your victims, don’t you dare go listless on me now,
Bulk me out with delicious ambitions. / Bite
Into the apple. I’m
Provoking you / into the hazy days of November.
“Your interest in me started / with this first of 47 lines” /
Let this not be the Outline for my intro / but a truth you reject from conception;
Living / for my completion / like I am your Monster
Squinting at your twin passions / of arts and sciences.
[Conclusion]
I have always been / hidden in the scuffed pads of your fingers,
Which taste like I am nestled in haemoglobin / I redden / with ethene /
Like you / ripen / at the drop of her hat / scuffed soles, inflamed /
Like tomorrow will come / ready or not / & you will be / & so will I /
Ripe / to wait for the envelope / in the mouth of the blue orchid.
[post_title] => How To Write Me, Your Personal Statement
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[post_modified] => 2019-10-21 16:54:33
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[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #2 2019
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20500
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Tae Suzumiya
[slug] => tae-suzumiya
[content] => Tae is commended in the 2019 August challenge #2 on how-to poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Fiyinfoluwa Oladipo.
)
)
[22] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20502
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-15 15:39:29
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-15 15:39:29
[post_content] => Take it from a cup, or bag, or
maybe from behind your ear.
Press down the rounded edge,
not the opening.
Watch the spring compress then relax,
ink building up at the metal tip.
Let it fall onto the fall white surface,
scrape it across the page,
fill the troughs with feeling.
There, now you've used a pen.
[post_title] => Penning My Thoughts
[post_excerpt] =>
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[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #2 2019
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[ID] => 20503
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Elaine Choy
[slug] => elaine-choy
[content] => Elaine is commended in the 2019 August challenge #2 on how-to poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Fiyinfoluwa Oladipo.
)
)
[23] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20507
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-15 15:39:25
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-15 15:39:25
[post_content] => It is 20,000 BC, though, of course, you,
hardy and paleolithic, do not know it.
And you do not wonder how
to be remembered. You are, I think,
still grappling with phonemes
and the complexity of light on water.
In thousands of years, your DNA,
woven and unraveled countless times in time’s nervous hands,
will emerge in some painter’s deft brush strokes,
and that light will dance in oils yet unknown.
For now, do not think about being remembered;
you can wound the world gently, but,
I suppose, that is the same thing. So,
watch the water shimmer, and kill. Have
no qualms, for the Earth is still an abundance,
and you, before daybreak, a struggling thing.
Find, by the riverbank where your eyes
are blinded by white diamonds in water,
a rich treasure of ochre, cool and thick.
Stick your hand into the clay,
and let it soothe the sun’s anger,
and the bug-bites that in thousands of years,
someone’s mother will coat with aloe vera.
Wander back to your cave,
where you and others have learned to live,
sheltered from the wind and the fire
which you turn upon like a spit in the sky.
Wander back to your cave,
red and curious,
and begin to smear on the rock walls,
a drawing, a sketch that will resemble toddlers’
mindless pastiches in another age. You do not know this.
You do not care. But you are beautiful.
And greater than that, you are kind.
And even greater, you are vicious.
And greatest of all, you begin to paint.
Paint a banteng, balanced on stick-legs.
You have seen them in a green world
amongst the karsts - a word you have not yet invented.
Perhaps you have hunted one with spears and friends -
all words that you are formulating, tangling your
tongue around. One day, we will write
the syllables down and name them graphemes.
Finish it. Continue to create:
hunt and gather and love and give birth -
Finally, before you are erased by the Holocene,
you must sign your name.
You forget. It’s okay
One day, I will write a poem about you.
And we will both live on.
[post_title] => How to be Remembered
[post_excerpt] =>
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[post_modified] => 2019-10-15 15:59:35
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[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August challenge #2 2019
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20508
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Anna Westwig
[slug] => anna-westwig
[content] => Anna is commended in the 2019 August challenge #2 on how-to poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Fiyinfoluwa Oladipo.
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[24] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20465
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-14 15:40:57
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-14 15:40:57
[post_content] => I never understood
the fingernails as moons
depiction, but when you g
rabbed my finger suddenly
I was orbiting, (saw a perf
ect pink moonrise crisp as
a sea shell, white curved pa
renthesis gently closing a s
ky) and there was a univers
e in you or you, suddenly t
he universe, a ragged moon
against the black, a lullaby
softly raging, and your brea
thing hit me as forcefully as
lightning (the wonder of yo
u, my love, in your simple e
xistence) and I could have b
een no more astonished had
the moon come drifting do
wn (fragile as a soap bubb
le, still brimming with dre
ams) to hold my hand, say
ing you are one with the
tide and I will move you
beyond all imagining.
[post_title] => Baby
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
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[post_name] => baby
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[post_modified] => 2019-10-18 10:35:36
[post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:35:36
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[wpcf-rights-information] =>
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[ID] => 17073
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Amy Wolstenholme
[slug] => amy-wolstenholme
[content] => Amy is the first prize winner in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2016 and commended in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2019 on Young Poets Network. She is the first prize winner in August challenge #1 on photographic poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Andrew Pettigrew in 2019; and the second prize winner in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019. She is the third prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge, and a winner in the Ways to be Wilder Poetry Challenge, in association with People Need Nature. Amy is also commended in the Bletchley Park challenge judged by So Mayer; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; and in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019.
)
)
[25] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 20467
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-14 15:35:55
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-14 15:35:55
[post_content] => [audio mp3="http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/A-poem-for-a-moment-with-you-Eisha.mp3"][/audio]
Sat in your arms, listening to the sound of you breathing
A park bench, a rainy Thursday afternoon
Nervous to turn my head to face you, to look into your eyes
I don’t want to let myself believe that this moment is real
I tell you that this feels like a dream, you laugh
But it really does, because for the first time in forever I finally feel seen
You turn to me suddenly and you say, “I like you, like fully”
I say, “Same,” momentarily speechless, in disbelief
It’s so underwhelming and weird and I hate myself for it
Is this really the way a first love should be?
My head is on your shoulder now, our arms are intertwined
You slowly lean your head towards me, resting it on top of mine
It’s so overwhelming but so comfortable and I love you for it
It feels like I’ve waited my whole life for this exact moment
I didn’t know I was before, but I know it now
I was waiting to meet you, to know you, and to fall in love with you
Soon I’ll have to break the silence, let you know I’m expected home
And we’ll walk back the way we came, hand in hand
“Until next time,” you’ll say, and we’ll kiss before I reluctantly turn to go
As I walk away I realise I still don’t know how this should be, but I don’t care
I know just how loved you make me feel
[post_title] => A poem for a moment with you
[post_excerpt] =>
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the second-prize winner in the August challenge #1 2019: Photographic Poetry - Capture the Moment on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Andrew Pettigrew.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => 2nd prize, August challenge #1 2019
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[ID] => 20469
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Eisha Tandon
[slug] => eisha-tandon
[content] => Eisha is the second prize winner in August challenge #1 2019: Photographic Poetry - Capture the Moment on Young Poets Network, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Andrew Pettigrew.
)
)
[26] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 20472
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-14 15:30:30
[post_date_gmt] => 2019-10-14 15:30:30
[post_content] => It was January, there was no snow,
and the sky was baptised in smoky grey.
I went to a funeral in my school uniform,
in a creased blazer that smelled like
pencils and sweat and cheap perfume.
I remember that the coffin was flooded with flowers;
stars of butter and pearl and blood and hoarfrost.
The coffin looked sort of liked woven straw -
I ached to reach out and touch the knobs
like a blind girl hungry for stories in Braille,
to trace them like the bumps of a starving child's spine
that she, in her anorexic madness,
had coveted so well. We went inside.
The lights were bright and whitish-yellow
as the cartoon suns I knew so well from childhood.
I heard all the things I did not know about her and felt
myself shrinking, dissolving, like water on a dynasty
of desert sand. I was glass - brittle and sharp
and ready to shatter into a thousand glittering shards,
a vicious rainbow power smaller than the ashes
that are all that is left of her now.
[post_title] => The funeral of half a stranger
[post_excerpt] =>
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[title] => Morven Grey
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[post_date] => 2019-10-14 15:23:32
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[post_content] => Salt rests on my tongue, my eyes, my ears, the nostril where I got the piercing just so everyone could hate it. The other people on the beach mine the sand for treasures like a parent should for nits in hair. Their bodies combs, their smiles jagged. I sit still. The waves lick me with their rough tongues - like a kitten, I want to be nursed. A seagull is my only visitor; we stare each other down knowing one of us will lose. I throw it a crisp because you never know, once you have planted a seed, where it might grow.
[post_title] => Eating Pringles on the beach, alone
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[title] => Elspeth Wilson
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[post_date] => 2019-10-14 15:23:30
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[post_content] => Let’s go back to the moments
you get four-ish times a year,
when you’re laughing and you’re sugar-filled,
and suddenly your life has turned from semi-skimmed
to full-fat milk, the ones where you wonder
how the melodies of worry could survive
in this beautiful orchestra of joy
and companionship, consciousness sitting
behind your laughter-filled ears,
and you wonder at your normal self,
who always seems to care so much about
everything. Surely it could live here,
in this place of unthinking life,
where your looks and your dignity,
the elegance you crave in the mirror
can finally leave, and you realise
why anyone does anything,
for moments like these.
[post_title] => Moments Like These
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[title] => Emma Rowley
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[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2019-10-14 15:23:22
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[post_content] => My heart begs for you
To come back to me
Oh, how I see you
In my dreams
Standing in front of me.
A smile painted on your face.
I see you cooking,
The crackle of the oil,
The smell,
Ah, lovely. Perfect.
I walk toward you,
To see what magic you’re creating,
You swat us away,
And say “Patience dear”.
Then you’re gone like that,
The day you died
I screamed and cried
For you to come to me.
[post_title] => Grandma
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[forename] =>
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[title] => Reham Younis
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[found_posts] => 682
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Grief Counselling
By Ellora Sutton
After Caroline Bird Have you changed the way you write your soft letters, like m and c and s? Made them harsher, perhaps, to offer no hiding spaces? When you wake up, do you have to weed your eyelashes? At dinner do you see a thatch of hands writhing in the vomit of your lamb […]
Hound
By Tallulah Howarth
WHAT IS YOUR NAME? My name was spat out of a laughing river. It is lips of salt, it is soaked in sunlight, it is without god. HOW OLD ARE YOU? I am old enough. You can count the tree-rings on my torso if you cut me in half. HOW IS YOUR HEART? I wish […]
allegiance
By Maggie Wang
Based on questions from the civics portion of the naturalization test for United States citizenship. What is the supreme law of the land? ask me where I’m from // go on / ask me // don’t / be afraid // I’m harmless What does the Constitution do? ask me where I’m really from // go […]
How do you freeze time?
By Megan Mumby
Is this something that humans can do? I guess you could drop your iPhone X but that wouldn’t give me more time with you. How do you freeze time? Is that something that we could achieve? You could always send a photo to the wrong person but maybe I’m just being naive. How do you […]
Best Left Unanswered
By Iona Mandal
Why is there dissonance within music? Must a pianist’s chords clash and release, like tide shattering a hermit crab’s home? Why do trees fall? Are their roots too fine in holding their dignity of years? Or do our axes force gravity upon them? Must a story always end? Should pages be written in indelible ink […]
Whispers Carried By The 3AM Winds
By Hania Habib
Should I seal my singing lips so as to not wake others’ demons? Should I lock my rattling voice box and let all my unexpressed opinions choke me? Should I remain a ventriloquist’s puppet and speak others’ words? Should I hold my breath and stay under water, lest the free air liberates me? Should I […]
The other
By Amy Wolstenholme
do I remain when I leave for good, huddled in the corner of your brain, unwanted, chained, quick, quick lock her up get rid am I embraced do you have a synapse dedicated to my name that sparks heady glutamate when I am mentioned casually in conversation, do you […]
pssssssssssssst
By Felix Stokes
pssssssssssssst. pssssst. hey i heard maybe you wanted to talk. no no its okay im not busy whats up man im sorry to hear it. you need space? wanting words? wanting poems that know what is up? how about even at night in the garden the birds fly. the stars are incapable of grief, and […]
To the reader (from a poet, with love)
By Amy Wolstenholme
Leave the poem where you found it. It was never yours, and besides, it has a dangerous song. Can you not hear the blade in that soft, serrated edge where you casually scrape your thumb? Listen to the way the light screams when it comes to rest on these bands of black and white. A […]
The page is also the night where i climb out of
By Duy Quang Mai
after Ocean Vuong i restart this sen tence, i edit edit my life off these fingers these words they ask me how do i do i feel […]
being just a poem
By Maggie Wang
being just a poem & not a body on the operating table, I never expected you to cut me open & tear me to pieces—never thought you would take your scalpel & carve my abdomen up like the last virgin forest & twist my organs into knots in your quest to cure me (I was […]
Brazil sends army to tackle Amazon Fires (BBC News, 24th August 2019)
By Jack Cooper
Today, I wrote a poem. I let a wasp outside. I made a coffee, set out sugar. When the wasp returned, I gave it sugarwater. I invited you in, changed outfits to make a statement. I made us dinner, made conversation. I suggested a walk. You taught me the words for how sun is filtered by a […]
Raising a Poem-Baby
By Evie Collins
So, here we are: you, you’re sitting in your highchair, looking all smug. God, you’re so cute that I could just eat you. Right. Here comes the aeroplane? Remember that one? That’s what we’re going to do. See? Mummy’s got the food. Dinner, din dins. Din sure does. You had existed for a handful of […]
My poem sits next to fifteen poems at the workshop table
By Fathima Zahra
stares at its feet/ my poem is an orphan/ is a stray kid that went missing from the science class/ doesn’t have a birth certificate/ residence permit/ didn’t grow around books/ or other kids that looked like it/ my poem hid behind the broad shoulders of prose/ it has no permanent postcode/ sounds like three […]
Promise it’ll be my last
By Matilda Houston-Brown
we are on the beach and my mother is telling me how poetry isn’t practical anymore. that my writing has to be an act of violence, a way to earn in a world that wants to eat me alive. I am sure that she is right this poem, like those before it, is useless: an […]
be poetic:
By Jewel Cao
1. sit on a clear summer night on the roof of a ford, or an acura, or even a dodge grand caravan. pop open a beer which runs down the sides of the car and puddles into the lush grass. reminisce on how your life overflows the boundaries of summer. 2a. […]
How to Be a Dementia Friend
By Olivia Todd
How-to guides contain illustrations. A guy bent over a chair. You can see his wife in the background wringing her hair. Cursing their choice to not use IKEA. ‘I told you you couldn’t do it!’ How-to guides have multiple rules that end up merging like rivers. Screw A lives next to Screw D, but not […]
how to make dolmeh with your mother
By Nazanin Soghrati
1. drizzle oil onto the pan until the specks of heat feel like the blisters on your mother’s feet after a long day at the cash register greeting customers in a profuse thank you thank you thank you while handing out plastic bags with yellow smiles. 2. saute the rice & ground beef & five-spice […]
ten floridian commandments
By Emily Hana
i. say ponderosa out loud. it tastes like fresh lemonade and froot loops. ii. multicoloured jellies for breakfast. yellow jello. the american dream. iii. when eating sausages slumped next to your m&m pancakes, remember your father saying: they put something in the food, you know. something that makes them fat and tall. iv. eat cold […]
How To Be Punched
By Jennie Howitt
Be punch-worthy Be a boxer Be a punching bag Be someone with a lot of big promises who doesn’t follow through Be with your clumsiest friends at all time Be in a group of actors who do stage fighting Be that person behind someone about to be punched who ducks at the last minute Be […]
How To Write Me, Your Personal Statement
By Tae Suzumiya
[Intro: why you want to study your chosen subject] Firstly, stop longing / for the figure at the bus stop You have been interested in Love since that girl, I know, but stop & focus on me / for once / don’t linger Your eyes must be blind / to the flutterings / of winged […]
Penning My Thoughts
By Elaine Choy
Take it from a cup, or bag, or maybe from behind your ear. Press down the rounded edge, not the opening. Watch the spring compress then relax, ink building up at the metal tip. Let it fall onto the fall white surface, scrape it across the page, fill the troughs with feeling. There, now you’ve […]
How to be Remembered
By Anna Westwig
It is 20,000 BC, though, of course, you, hardy and paleolithic, do not know it. And you do not wonder how to be remembered. You are, I think, still grappling with phonemes and the complexity of light on water. In thousands of years, your DNA, woven and unraveled countless times in time’s nervous hands, will […]
Baby
By Amy Wolstenholme
I never understood the fingernails as moons depiction, but when you g rabbed my finger suddenly I […]
A poem for a moment with you
By Eisha Tandon
Sat in your arms, listening to the sound of you breathing A park bench, a rainy Thursday afternoon Nervous to turn my head to face you, to look into your eyes I don’t want to let myself believe that this moment is real I tell you that this feels like a dream, you laugh But […]
The funeral of half a stranger
By Morven Grey
It was January, there was no snow, and the sky was baptised in smoky grey. I went to a funeral in my school uniform, in a creased blazer that smelled like pencils and sweat and cheap perfume. I remember that the coffin was flooded with flowers; stars of butter and pearl and blood and hoarfrost. […]
Eating Pringles on the beach, alone
By Elspeth Wilson
Salt rests on my tongue, my eyes, my ears, the nostril where I got the piercing just so everyone could hate it. The other people on the beach mine the sand for treasures like a parent should for nits in hair. Their bodies combs, their smiles jagged. I sit still. The waves lick me with […]
Moments Like These
By Emma Rowley
Let’s go back to the moments you get four-ish times a year, when you’re laughing and you’re sugar-filled, and suddenly your life has turned from semi-skimmed to full-fat milk, the ones where you wonder how the melodies of worry could survive in this beautiful orchestra of joy and companionship, consciousness sitting behind your laughter-filled ears, […]
Grandma
By Reham Younis
My heart begs for you To come back to me Oh, how I see you In my dreams Standing in front of me. A smile painted on your face. I see you cooking, The crackle of the oil, The smell, Ah, lovely. Perfect. I walk toward you, To see what magic you’re creating, You swat […]