This anthology showcases poets whose work was chosen for publication from Leaves & Leaving free submission window, 1 September — 7 October 2023
Alphabetical list of poets
Abigail Ottley, Adam Ali-Hassan*, Bethan Manley
, Dave Wynne-Jones, David Birch, David Willis, Frank William Finney, Howard Timms, Jacqueline Schaalje, Jonathan Ukah, Kate Copeland, Kerri Simpson, Lana Silver, Leslie Tate, Lucy Dyer, Marilyn Timms, Mary Anne Smith Sellen, Minoru Soma, Samantha Terrell, Simone Mansell Broome, Wendy Webb, Yvonne Crossley
indicates one audio of a poem * the poet prefers not to have an audio
Cofio
brambles hold my tongue
hostage every mile
I drive further from my mother
tongue they press harder
each thorn begs me
i gofio
I gave a ghost my tongue
she returned it afraid
tied in Welsh-knots
nid oes gennyf
ddim ar ôl i’w roi ichi
I bleed apologies
try to break free
I can’t forget
cofiwch Dryweryn
cofiwch Aberfan
cofiwch Senghennydd
I’ve made a tombstone
of my tongue
yma gorwedd
my ancestors
my gwlad
fy iaith
Cofio – remember
I gofio – to remember
Nid oes gennyf ddim ar ôl i’w roi ichi – I have nothing left to give you
Cofiwch Dryweryn – remember Tryweryn
Cofiwch Aberfan – remember Aberfan
Cofiwch Senghennydd – remember Senghennydd
Yma gorwedd – here lies
Gwlad – country
Fy iaith – my language
Mottled Fingers
bony fingers sprout
from clay-heavy mud
reach for low flying birds
wings skim over fingertips
leaves tremble at the touch
feathers fall between knuckles of bark
arthritic fingers toy with the sun
keeping track of the day
as it slips between them
ivy wraps rings
around each finger
mottled bark creeps
away from its joints
age a secret
its hands won’t keep
across dying grass
and trampled flowers
branches reach for lovers
spend years trying
to plait themselves
before someone
cuts them down
Hiraeth
a distinct feeling of missing something irretrievably lost
I drive over memories
tombstoned by the A40
skeletons break through tarmac
leave fingertips as cat’s-eyes
hook hands onto wing mirrors
I shiver into a haunting
that was once home
use lane dividers
to stitch old wounds
they still bleed
I thank them for still bleeding
they scar over a home
with no address
made foundations of my bones
made windows of my skin
left the rubble in my veins
Bethan Manley is 24 and studied an MA in Critical and Creative Writing, achieving a distinction, at the University of Gloucestershire. Her poetry has appeared in The Phare, Ink, Sweat and Tears, and Snakeskin. Her first pamphlet, Goodnight Cariad, was published by Frosted Fire in September 2022.
Leaf
You were just one leaf
And though storms swept over dark
Your tunes are crisp dawn ז״ל
In memory of Salamone Rossi, a Jewish composer of Mantua, which fell in 1630.
Shu Qin’s Lament
Let me sit by the river, and watch it go by,
Let me watch the leaves on the water,
The leaves not me, let me, let me.
The mountains far away are green with
Leaves growing eagerly, cool mist lingering.
I am in longing, longing,
For days that aren’t these,
Skies that are a blue I can love.
Sweet leaves will never hurt me,
Always coming and going,
Let me build my house under their pitying eyes,
Till no more tears of mine are flowing.
Let me go down to the river,
Let me watch the leaves on the water.
Listen to 独影摇红 by Liu Tianhua
Leaves
Look how tall it’s grown
The tree where she hung her harp
She’s come far since then
Written long after Psalm 137
Adam Ali-Hassan is a student at Oxford doing Assyriology with Biblical and Rabbinic Hebrew. He has lived in England since he was thirteen, before which he lived in Singapore. Other than poetry, his interests include philosophy, music, and religion. Facebook: Adam P Ali-Hassan
Leaf-fall
Leaves are my measure of Autumn:
the single spies ’midst summer’s green battalions,
or little knots that chase one another
eddying in playground patterns,
chaotic as ragamuffin children;
then in beech woods where
through dappled shade and lazy light,
without a breath of wind,
leaves fall, turning gently
like slow copper snowflakes
through the evening air;
and then the final rags are torn
from scarecrow trees by howling winds
and the shotgun scatter of hard rain.
Irrevocably they remind me
of what’s undone, not done,
or may never be done,
fallen by the wayside
as even I
now fall into the sere.
Leaving
When the woman that you love
extends her working day
and emails, phone calls, fill each empty evening
with people you don’t know, and office intrigue,
then you watch the conversations
and wonder where she’s going
and if you’re going to go there with her.
When the woman that you love
turns your home into her workplace
where there’s neither time nor space for you and her
then wearily she tells you what she thinks of you
but you don’t recognise the telling or the teller,
then you’re left wondering where she’s going
with this; and if you’ll go there with her?
Yes, you wonder where she’s going
what’s in all that excess baggage
when all you have is just forbidden items
why your ticket’s lost, your passport’s not in order,
why she’s walking away across the runway?
Then you wonder if she’s ever coming back.
Dave Wynne-Jones left teaching for health reasons, gaining an MA in creative writing at MMU, then writing articles for outdoor magazines and organising expeditions for time-poor mountaineers. He’s published two mountaineering non-fiction books and two poetry collections, whilst his poetry has also been anthologised and appeared in magazines
Light falls, sedums rise
Is September the cruellest month?
greeting us with hope that lasts all year
provisions of Eden’s garden best
flooding memory with scents and sights
of dying glory, like a bird hitting the glass
to lie down and die
seasonal craft fayres, gift ideas
luxury treats to wrap and keep
for family scattered far as a postman’s sack
For me, it’s birthdays wrapped in nostalgic parcels
inside my brain
tears and sighs where children play
dahlias glowing flash shades of dying
reliable asters gently gleaming
stars’ universe inside each sedum bloom
apples falling from trees promising future blossom
as drunken wasps die happy
robin’s full stop eyes as feet land on spade
breast glowing like pyrocantha berries
waiting the rewarding worm
Closing living room curtains
completing last jobs before serious wind fall
putting away tools, bringing plants inside
turning up heating at night
harvesting squash and sweetcorn
sitting with a cuppa to watch last light
of earlier heat cool down to night.
Happy Birthday, World, its Michaelmas Education.
Wendy Webb experiments with many modern and traditional forms and reading historic poets. She ran a small press poetry magazine; won some awards; and is recently published with Reach, Sarasvati, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Seventh Quarry, Frogmore Papers and online through Wildfire Words, Littoral, Lothlorien, and Autumn Voices.
Life skills (after Elizabeth Bishop)
Some skill at leaving – no, it’s not that tricky;
start small, (those little things drive folk insane),
sodden towels, that toothpaste lid – watch it get sticky.
Then let go all thoughts of pleasing, sympathy, tea and biccies:
admit it – others’ problems are just so mundane.
Leave Kleenex, a caring shoulder – you’ll find it’s not that tricky.
Drop etiquette and compliments. Aren’t they all so very ‘icky’?
Life’s simpler, more refreshing once you’ve rewired your brain.
Let down, leave in the lurch – don’t care if it gets sticky.
Before you do a double-take, or think I take the mickey,
remember to focus on self – must I remind or explain?
Unsheathe your skills at leaving; it’s really not that tricky.
Forget, renege, leave in the lurch – I dare you. Pull a sickie.
If the boot were on the other foot, you bet they’d do the same;
when you’re cornered, leave truth out, or things could get quite sticky.
Leave any cloud that threatens you; take pride in being picky.
You’re so worth it! Close your ears if anyone complains.
Leave duty, friendship, love as attachments could get tricky.
Leave life pure, porous, fluid; spurn all that clings, is sticky.
Simone Mansell Broome lives in rural West Wales and writes poetry, children’s fiction and prose for adults. She enjoys performance and believes in accessibility, tolerance and communication. Her recent publications are listed on www.simonemansellbroome.com
Taking Care
My mother teeters at the white lip of the bath,
precarious on legs she can’t rely on
wears a fluffy pink hand towel draped like a shawl.
She has dwindled down so small.
I am testing the temperature, warm not hot.
She waits to receive this weekly blessing.
Shower head in one hand, shampoo in
the other, I ask if she’s ready to begin.
Then her head is in my hands, her small
frail skull. The bones of it are bird-like.
Her dark hair is feathers, sparse as a fledgling’s.
When she trembles I think she might take flight.
First published by Impspired 2019
The Ageing Woman as Alchemist
Dry souls are wisest and best. – Heraclitus
These days, more and more, I wear my pointed hat
and care nothing for those striplings who would mock me.
Close-closeted, by night, I inscribe my coded symbols,
hear the voices of my ancestors whisper on the air.
I prepare, I prepare.
By slow degrees I engage in the piece work of starlight.
Projects, novelties excite me less as the children of Nyx draw me in.
And in time too I will build me a fire of dry twigs and the skeletons of leaves.
I will burn off in clouds of simple steam all that great weight
of the too long unforgotten that pulls me ever deeper down.
So many passions that bit deep, the well-spring of old griefs
that pollute my noisome soul with their clamour.
No more will I be tethered to this teeming swamp.
Hollowed out, my heart burnt out, now I am for burning away.
And as old glue dries to dust I find I cannot adhere to things.
Left without substance, without juice and flesh the bones of my being are laid bare.
Stripped of my follies, my prides, my tears, I am reduced to the rock salt of knowing.
I fear a few grains are all the wisdom there is.
See. It is blown upon the air.
First published by Silverbirth Press, August, 2018
Silent Night, 1962
Slippered feet in the garlanded hall.
Muffled exchange of hoarse whispers.
Voices solemn as Sunday prayers
insinuating themselves up the stairs.
Crouched in the shadows I suck in my breath.
Little pigs may be listening.
I don’t let on. Later they tell me.
Grandad has gone to be a star.
Abigail Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance.
The Permanent Way
The bridge deep in the wood rears
above you on the sunken lane, as you push
through nettles and foaming cow-parsley
to stand beneath the sea-bound track.
The trains are gone: it bears no weight.
Curling ferns cling to the railings and slanting
beech boughs screen the brickwork, feathering
with green the detail of the sculpted vault.
Precise geometry this – the skew arch
above the diagonal track and, up close,
the sharpness of the bricks, cold-chiselled
to fit the rising arc towards the keystone.
All that craft to cross a neglected path, before waves
of breaking green reclaimed the permanent way.
The Squirrel in the Loft
Sunlight slanting through the window
illuminates the lime-green lady’s-mantle
and the deep purple daubs of the sweet peas:
electric intensity in a blue vase.
A domestic stained-glass scene,
relieving the humid grip of a late summer afternoon.
In an empty playground the swings are still,
unmoving in the stifling warmth.
The gates are locked.
The incessant scratching
of the squirrel in the loft
and the bright flicker
of butterfly wings
against the glossy laurel
are the only hints of movement.
We are held in lockdown,
in a collective and endless
holding of breath:
canaries in the mine.
Your hand
When I take your hand this morning
as I have every day these last three weeks
I see that someone has cut your nails,
carefully, as if it really matters at this stage,
which of course it does.
Your grip is firm,
as though all your strength
has been gathered
for these wordless moments.
I see your hand
in its construction of arpeggios
in its delicate grasp of a paintbrush
in its deft push of a needle through fabric.
When I take your hand this morning
and return the pressure of your grip,
your skin under my fingers
ripples like a gently retreating tide.
David Birch’s poems frequently explore the relationship of people and their landscape. He is fascinated by what is handed down within our families and communities.
Big Guy on a Big Red Bike
A big guy
with a scarlet face
rides a big red bike
past the Red Lion Pub
holding a tiny umbrella.
(Guess what colour?)
Oh, what a wicked
thing to see
as I wait in the rain
for a London bus
while still half-asleep
in Connecticut.
A Tryst in Tucson
Footsteps. Voices.
Rolling wheels.
A muffled knock.
The bolt unlocked.
A wobbly fan
whirred over the bed.
He complained
the room was hot.
She complained
that he was not,
and left
before the birds sang.
Frank William Finney’s poems have appeared in Door is a Jar, Drawn to the Light Press, Metachrosis Literary, Orbis, Wildfire Words, and elsewhere. His pamphlet The Folding of the Wings was published by Finishing Line Press in 2022.
Fall
Left under a bell glass, the flowers keep their colours, and woody brown-green leaves surround, the petals face skyward. She admires shades from above but turns back to the garden where useful tools are left about, from left to right, the rakes and spades embraced by a camouflage door, pottery catches the flaking paint. She fills a teacup with seeds, kneels to pick some parsley and sage, thoughtlessly. The fountain is full of dead leaves, they circle in cold glancing light, but she knows no water will ripple them back to life, and goes back in.
The house has grown silent now he left, windows still abundantly emerald, wide open to the red bougainvillea he surprised her with, as if to ignore another season, but she will leave dates open in her diary, wants to leave regrets behind. The cat in the corner chair blinks at her tears, she picks at the table cloth and follows the strange shapes of palms, unearthly colours, and pictures him riding the bus on Southbank, where plane trees preserve the turns of Thames, a turning of life, now she is left under a bell glass, running down short nights; her long, long days.
Note to you, leaves
When I am unable to stop a heavy heart from carrying away,
on heavy legs, more deciduously during winter, where love
combines a bare cold with longing water –
When I feel somehow quicksandy, trying to catch a shadow’s
sparkle in his green eyes, a bright blend with blues –
Then is when I set my head back to see the crisp-cripple sky
covered in leaves, regaining strength for new spring to come.
There is where I see a goddess painting green around white
lavender, and if you want to know what I truly feel, take note:
I find collections of cloud, a cornered park with precious days
ahead, I write songs in which beeches sing of horizons.
I find more than one love in life, keep more of you, leaves, to
learn to hold on to roots, despite the cold air. I promise to stay
close to the longing place and take notes.
Plantology
You showed me the blue petal-plants in our watchtower park, conveyed you would stay, with me, and I pretended to feel a same way. I showed you my favourite flowers in return, took your mother to Kew Gardens. I shook at empty oaks, box-ball plants, not knowing why I did.
You bought me Christmas roses, every winter, a promise you would listen, to me, and I pretended to be all ears. But I danced to Dreams, booked flights to México, a maximum stay, knowing why I did.
You flew tracks, you did, and tried and travelled along my nature. You leafed through the atlas and revealed an interest in temples, masks, the waterweeds intrigued us both,until we travelled through jungle, where ferns turn a dollar green.
Then is when you showed me, how promise turns paper-thin if spoken later, and the dark-beryl leaves we took for shelter, turned deciduous. No evergreen words for gardens, no home left to live.
Then is when I moved near dunes, without blue bells but the air is silent, and dark-grey clouds blow out the last leaves. Come and stay for tea, I will show you the marram in my backyard.
Kate Copeland’s love for language led her to teaching & translating; her love for art & water to poetry. Find her pieces@The Ekphrastic Review, Wildfire Words, Meta-worker, AltPoetryPrompts & https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems (a.o.) Kate is editor for TER & runs workshops for IWWG. She was born@harbour city and adores housesitting@the world.
Autumn
Spent leaves fall like sepia tears.
I watch as you drift off to sleep.
You dream of spring as autumn nears.
Memories made; not yours to keep.
I watch as you drift off to sleep.
I love you ‘forever and a day.’
Memories made; not yours to keep.
Time, a thief, stole you away.
I love you ‘forever and a day.’
Your presence is a gift, much missed.
Time, a thief, stole you away.
A call unanswered; a cheek unkissed.
Your presence is a gift, much missed.
You dream of spring as autumn nears.
A call unanswered; a cheek unkissed.
Spent leaves fall like sepia tears.
Kerri Simpson writes light-hearted fiction as Holly A Harvey. She has written three novels with dogs on her lap (Karma, Crushed and the forthcoming book, Fresh Heir) and is also an award-winning poet.
Find her on X, Threads and Instagram as @HAHarveyAuthor and on Facebook as Holly A Harvey.
Whispering reeds
Whispers of a leaf
In its half-remembered sleep
Like boats rocking back and forth
In a central port
The leaves are bare, authentic as they get
Their leafy colour is not the shade of regret
It is the same as the stress that gets thinner
When green paint gets thicker
We are not empty yet.
We are taller than trees
When we harbor self esteem
And smaller than bees,
lying dehydrated on the street.
We are whispering reeds
We are ducks that play throughout the day
And quacking sounds on a sunny wave.
We are feather dusters of future dreams
And with war, climate change and cost of living,
imagination is the cheapest thing that works.
Lana Silver lives in Cardiff and is studying a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. Her poetry lives in a few anthologies including Renard Press’ Spectrum: Poetry Celebrating Identity, Secret Chords from the Folklore Poetry Prize, and Barbican Young Poets anthologies. She was commended in New Voices First Pamphlet Competition 2021 and 2023, and longlisted for two entries in Frosted Fire First Pamphlet Competition 2023.
Fragile Men
The angle of his arm and thrown-out hand
is a bird of paradise flower where the sunbirds land.
She’s in orange and black. In a blue-green softness
of love burning down, the hotness
and ache of blanched skin are he/she/they
seen through a glass darkly. If this is the way
of all flesh, root and flower of unnamed self,
then with what wings do angels dance their death?
Unseasonal
This just-arrived hyacinth,
sprawled across concrete
is an early Spring showUnseasonal
already dropping flesh.
In a fast-track world the rain beat it down.
The climate can’t wait.
It’s an overwound clock,
or a lock that’s been forced.
Now back to the wall and all puffed out
this flower’s in a sweat.
The blue burns black and unfolds.
Our seas on is closing.
The Road Less Travelled
The snowballs hurt.
Scooped from walls
and rolled like dough
they had V-2 powers
to home in on their target.
The boys called them ammo.
Each hit was a small step,
a call inside and walk to the block
while outside he was Oates leaving the tent
to head towards God
turning into history.
Leslie Tate is the non-binary, UEA-educated author of three novels about love, generational shifts, the child within and climate change. Leslie interviews creative and community-active people weekly on Dacorum Radio and in writing at https://leslietate.com. Leslie was shortlisted for the Bridport, Geoff Stevens, Wivenhoe Prizes and is a climate activist.
Summer Leaves
Summer leaves
as autumn leaves
surrender, fade and fall
Autumn weaves
our winter sleeves
with golden crunch of fall
Winter grieves
spring harvest thieves
the shoots who once did fall
Spring believes
summer deceives:
she didn’t leave at all.
Lucy Dyer is an Oxford graduate of French language and literature. She started writing poetry this year after returning from travels in Japan. From an unpublished collection she has recently written called ZOOM OUT, she is pleased that Cigarette is the first of her poems to have been published.
My Last Fox
I stare until my eyes hurt.
Thinner than he ought to be,
burnished by a failing sun,
a fox slinks into my garden.
Repeat aloud, Vulpes vulpes
kissing cousin to dog and wolf.
Watch him probe the shrubbery,
interrogate dustbin and bicycles.
Don’t move, he’ll see us.
Catalogue this moment!
Eyes like oranges. Marmalade fur.
Black-stockinged limbs, walking on point.
Tail, thick and bushy; balancer and blanket.
Fox circles the lawn, growing in confidence.
A white bib under his chin echoes a flourish
of white on his retreating brush.
Triangular ears edged with black. Narrow muzzle.
Wide, white whiskers. His mouth, half-open, smiling,
Tiny paws, deftly placed one before the other,
inscribe a single line across the snow.
Crouch. A spring to the dry-stone wall.
Fox walks capstones like a ballet dancer,
drops out of sight to the field beyond.
I ache with love but cannot protect him.
Each night I dream of shouts of View Haloo!
Slash of hooves on turf.
Slather of teeth. Hellish tug-of-war.
Blood, feeding the empty land.
I shed a tear, rehearse a memory.
Marilyn Timms is co-publisher and co-editor, cover designer, and competitions judge for wildfire words and Frosted Fire. More on Marilyn
Autumn leaves
(for Louis MacNeice)
A tree always knows when its leaves have passed their season,
slips them off unobtrusively, lets the wind spirit them away.
Suddenly, all that’s left is a row of empty hangers.
But tricks of memory keep fleshing shapes, expecting colour;
absence is itself a form of presence.
A spider will fling a single silken thread up into the breeze,
wait until it’s caught by a distant, beckoning branch,
then make an unperceived escape across the chasm of the night
to wake gleaming, in the shrouded autumn dawn.
A dying star within a star, fallen from the roof of the sky.
The language of last roses still faintly resonates with love,
heads down and eyes averted, a promise never quite fulfilled.
Yet just enough remains to save a hibernating heart,
their message breathed through barely parted lips –
I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Mary Anne Smith Sellen’s work has been recognised in both national and international competitions, including first prizes in O Bheal Five Words and Sentinel Literary Quarterly, and has also been widely published. She is currently working on her first collection, and regularly reads at events and festivals in Kent.
Autumn
For George Winston (1949-2023), the most beautiful pianist and poet who writes in wordless sounds. May my love for you be sent to where you play now, RIP.
Leaves I step on when I was in Montana, in autumn,
On my way to the farmers market, I remember it was.
Voices of many colorful leaves underneath kept
Ensuring they have prepared the sounds of death.
I never foresaw your leaving six years ago; it was
Shocking when I heard the news that you were gone.
As dead leaves are floated on a river, they’ll dance
Miraculously although our dead bodies never can.
You find those leaves dying and becoming more alive,
Sometimes they bumped each other and that reminds
Them of all their lives and encounters; they discover
Eternal shine of themselves: the vivid flame-burning color.
Reverse, another kind of path, let the colored leaves flow
You and I did live here and parted ways like they do so.
Minoru Soma has been teaching English at public high school since 2020, after graduating from college. At the age of 20, she started writing poetry in English, inspired by American folk or rock songs.
Limitations
I want to write words worthy of being
Chewed up and swallowed –
Clutched in fistfuls
Like purple phlox from
Roadside ditches.
I want to share phrases that settle in
After a start, like
Discovering stability in a rickety chair
Or processed with the subtlety of
A warm breeze through hair.
I want to wrap my arms
Around the world in an embrace,
But my fingertips
Only brush each other
In an unrequited kiss.
Still Spaces
We swirl
Like coffee
Splashed with cream,
Particles dancing side-by-side,
Sometimes never touching –
Other times, merging.
The spaces in which we move
Accommodate our restlessness,
Waiting for us
To come down from a
Caffeine high,
Letting out a creak or a sigh
As if in gratitude
For the fellowship formed by a place and its inhabitants –
Perpetually leaving and arriving – but at last, uninhibited
By over-stimulated
Inattention
That mocks calm, as it mimics distraction.
Decomposition
Winter birds have yet to
Beckon at the bird feeder door,
And leaf litter hasn’t yet
Been tracked in upon the floor.
But summertime is waning.
Down deep, I feel
Days stretching (lengthwise, vertical, diagonal);
pulling apart; decomposing –
The way of nature after weeks and weeks
Exposed, when sun and
Summer wind
Have won their battles,
Wearing all things thin.
Samantha Terrell is a wife, mother, and former manager, living in upstate New York. Her newest collection, Confronting the Elements (JC STUDIO Press), is a collaboration with Jane Cornwell. Terrell’s poetry was shortlisted for the Anita McAndrews Poets for Human Rights Award in 2021 and can be found in: Green Ink Poetry, In Parentheses, Misfit Magazine, Nine Cloud Journal, Open Journal of Arts & Letters, Poetry Quarterly, and Red Weather. SamanthaTerrell.com
Rejection
In your sweet way
you left me again
with nothing to say,
like an idle chatterer on a train.
We were strolling the avenue
when your eyes filled
with petalled tears, and you
turned to me and killed
the dream. I watched you cry
as if from a foreign place,
peeled naked by
the pain upon your face
while, with harrowing care,
you weeded confetti from my hair.
Searching for Particulars
In a brave room with
the heavenly light filtering down
through an ice hole in the church ceiling,
we sang: All things bright and beautiful.
The friendly reverend speculated
on Winnie being a spy in WWII.
She read aloud some memories,
pooled together by close friends and family.
Care home Delicia reflected
that Winnie was a dragonfly,
her own voice fluttering and straining
at the lectern.
And I thought
Winnie had lived a full life
and left us wondering why now and if only?
That’s when we all begin searching for particulars.
Yvonne Crossley lives in Wiltshire and is still inspired by nature and history, self-reflection and the wonder of words. Her recent work can be found in e-zines: Wildfire Words, Littoral Magazine, also in Words in the Landscape Project for Cranborne AONB, You Tube Poetry Archive Now! WordView 2023. She is working towards a personal poetry book incorporating art, collage and poems.
Sommeliers manqué
Oh God.
We’ve become wine bores
whereas how many years before
we’d gladly drink a litre bottle
of Hirondelle Laski Riesling
and be very excitedly happy
for all of £3.99.
We’ve left that simple life
behind.
Falling From the Sky
Shouting at the distant stars
my lips made the wrong decisions
drifting in the whirlpool of my thoughts
tired of squeezing sideways
into this, decrepit, ugly body.
She loves me, not
she loves me not.
The bonfire of our madness
circled the corpse of sanity,
come home to that city music.
Then I’ll look at a life not laid on a floor.
Wading in the deep heart of no conclusions,
welcome to the days of no solutions.
(you’re so welcome).
I’ve put my arms around you
you took my hand, and shagged me over
for evermore.
The things we did to each other,
Oh, my gone lover, the things we did,
to your paused heart and mine.
David Willis is often described as gloomy by observers. A winner of The Ictus Prize for Poetry in 2022, he has a Masters in Creative Writing from Sheffield Hallam University. He writes about his life affected by a dissociative personality disorder as he has a few personalities that influence his poems.
Jonathan Ukah
Leaving a Trace
I make my mark
not on the blood of the innocent,
not on their grieving graves;
Then will blood splatter
all over my body like a sacrifice
and my grave revolt;
I make my mark
not in the wild wind that trashes leaves
through lightning or some other things;
The same wind will shove my home away,
or command lightning to strike my mast,
and make disaster the feast for violent eyes.
Flames will leave for the sea,
the moon will depart for the ocean
or splash light on my way;
I make my lasting mark
not by the casual infiltration of the safe,
who possess their bodies like the air.
Death comes to those without an appointment,
those without audition for leaving,
without any secret grain of decay.
Tricking the breath to stop rolling
or halting the heart from breathing,
is scattering what’s already gathered.
If I can suck away the poison
imprisoned in the wings of the wind
and commit all trees to blossom;
If I can distil the heart of men
where darkness has built an altar,
to pray for the light’s delusion;
If I can decree a thing and it happens,
a miracle to curse sorrow to pale
like a brown-edged leaf;
Above all, to seal up broken hearts
with a kindred kiss of laughter,
then, my love, I’m leaving a trace.
Leaves
I walk through the field,
And watch leaves fall
over pines and twigs.
Some are brown and yellow,
Some bend their tripartite heads,
And others slouch like dying men.
Some are glittering and strong,
Their stalk a bow of war,
Not yet withered by time and age.
I watch trees crack in the middle,
Full of warmth and wild strength,
But the wind bends them all.
I am angry with myself.
When I heard about my friend’s death,
Sudden like a leaf falling from a storm.
I slow down to kick off the leaves,
Strewn on the curb of the walk,
But they fall into the dirty pit.
They fall in the midst of smoke
From burning fires of cigarette stubs,
From revving engines and noise.
There is no law to shield the leaves
From careless hands clutching fires
And tossing them at the helpless plants.
Light of Leaves Leaving
The wind is crashing down.
And the leaves are dropping,
When the rain is fuming,
The trees are bowing; the forest howls,
And the tears of the children
Flush down the debris of yesterday.
When the time is right,
The rainbow will straddle the sky,
And stars will hide their sparks;
When mountains turn to gold,
Leaves will rush down
The slopes, drop on bare grounds.
Oh, Mother, I know you’re there;
I am drooling over the ground,
Waiting to leave like leaves,
To nourish our garden
Which you are watering already,
It is not yet my time.
See the sparkle in my eyes,
Spreads around those you left behind,
The light illuminates their hearts,
Hope beyond measure, love
Easing into their skin pores,
Like leaves on boughs of trees.
Bench
Is he new? He can’t have been here long.
Two knotted wristbands, no visible gold.
The bench is old, slept others in its fold;
they bickered over it, but wouldn’t belong.
Its wood so neat, without a knock or stain,
unlike fabric of his clothes that tugs and frays
under the pressures of a moving body
like his once did under a weight that pained.
Twitches in his face hark back to beauty.
Look, at his feasible mouse and keyboard hands;
his pair of Nike slides scraped clean by sand
slipped down and stand ready, for him to go
and slump from the bench that stays, unbereft
since it lives no more, can always be l eft.
Evening sickness
After a Japanese poem from the Manyoshu
Since I left you behind, my lover,
I’ve been having a great time on my own.
I felt a little sick on the plane
and almost threw up at the Ueno pond
with its stink of carp, and the fried
octopus balls at the sakura fair.
Towards sundown, a banana stuck
with hundreds and thousands. It couldn’t
be. When you stroked my belly
and said you wanted to fill it,
I didn’t say no, since I’d like you
to stroke my belly forever.
Am I really on the other end
of the world from you?
The cherry blossoms don’t break off
the trees like tiny breaths.
I’m holding on to my old tricks
before my hair will entirely go grey.
Ex
Anniversary
Vengeful thoughts
His woollen jumper
Writes its own vine
Boats scroll behind leaping walls
We make cleaning a messy forgetfulness
I remove mouse droppings from dusty pots
Then vacuum dog hairs shagging the scratchy carpet
My dignity takes a swallowing, fury seeks rightful address
Once we were together, now his girlfriend won’t visit
Jacqueline Schaalje has published poetry and short fiction, most recently in The Comstock Review, The Friday Poem, and Pembroke Magazine. She’s the winner of the Florida Review Editor’s Prize 2022. She is a translation editor at MAYDAY. She earned her MA in English from the University of Amsterdam.
Big C
Inspired by ‘Daisy Bell (Bicycle Built for Two)’ song by Henry Dacre
Big C, Big C
Give me some answers do.
Since you caught me
I’ve been so scared of you.
Ours isn’t a stylish marriage
you treat me like a carriage.
Do you think you’re sweet
in the driving seat
of a bicycle built for two?
Big C, Big C
you’ve taken all my strength
when you bled me
I fell and measured my length.
You got my brain all addled
because I know I’m saddled
riding with you as your terrified crew
of a bicycle built for two.
Big C, Big C
get off my back — and front
I have a surgeon
who’ll whip you out, you runt.
He’ll remove you through a key-hole
And that’s the end of your role.
We’ll say goodbye and you will fly
to that great pedal bin in the sky.
Don’t hurry
She slowly asked Am I going to die?
when severely stricken by stroke
We’re all going to die someday, Mum
but you’re not in a hurry, are you?
She slowly recovered her health
and happiness came as she ceased
to worry about the future beyond
When am I having my lunch?
She slowly began to sing again
remembering songs of wartime
of youth, of nursery rhymes.
Is it today we sing?
Slowly pushed back to her room
in a wheelchair after a sing-song
she asked How long till lunch?
but didn’t wait till it came.
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