NV2022anthology

Bethan Manley is 23 and studying a master’s degree in Creative and Critical Writing at the University of Gloucestershire after graduating with a First Class honours degree in English Language and Creative Writing.
She has been published in The Mountains You Cannot See; Postcards from Malthusia; Ink, Sweat & Tears: and Snakeskin’.
Bethan won a 2022 New Voices First Pamphlet award and her book Goodnight Cariad will be published in the Autumn.

Poems from Goodnight, Cariad

I.

stone houses stand
    shoulder
                      to shoulder
no white picket fences

children play outside
the streetlights a sign
it’s time to go home
where tea will be waiting
for them on the table

father’s fingernails painted
with coal    he coughs
          wiping black sputum
with his dusty handkerchief
his son copies his heaves
         I’m going to be just like you

when the sun sets
behind the jagged mountains
     and heaps of slurry
             the village sleeps with it

VII.

the man with the grey eyes
bloodshot from tears
and grains of slurry
tells rescuers to treat the kids
like planks of wood
        the dead ones
do not get attached

miners are warned
there will be bodies
casualties    deaths    disasters
nobody expects they will be children
              talk to them
              don’t let the parents know

children like ragdolls     sleep
in the arms of their rescuers
 blonde ponytails
remind them of their daughter’s
thankful they are safe at home
            they carry children
                to the mortuary 

past prying eyes of parents
with bated breath   
unsure if it’s their turn to mourn
      for their child
               or their neighbour’s

Anna Nightingale is Assistant Editor at Vintage Classics and a graduate of the University of Cambridge. Her work has been published in the Eunoia Review, Aurelia Magazine, Porridge Magazine and elsewhere. She is currently working on her first poetry collection, Search Engine, about the internet, knowledge and love

Tiny Gods

‘…their [people we don’t know who know us] attention renders us tiny gods. The Era of Mass Fame is upon us.’
––Chris Hayes

remember crushes / how they bloat the heart / so puffed-up and blimp-like / but less floating than weighted / less gliding than shuddering / remember when / we used to hail our memories / could close your eyes / watch a moment / like a miracle / remember your first kiss / their sweat smell as they leaned in / head tilted like a puppy / your hands salt / theirs / saltwater / remember rationing your thoughts / when you noticed the jolt / less electric / each time you told yourself the story / before you slept / remember when / names were names / some with faces / others faceless / maybe you’d catch a glimpse of their ex / at a party / or in an old photo album / remember when / it was all future and no past / remember when / everything leaked out newness / adolescence / making beauty out of brinks / remember when / you only dated people / without exes / remember when / time’s hurtle no longer allowed that / remember when / we knew the difference / between kin and gods / the difference being / that one we know / and the other / part-knowable / part-mythic / how about now / when mythology / is less parable than practice / how about now / you ask your boyfriend if he got you / the same earrings he got his ex for christmas / zoom in on her head and feel good / because her earlobes / are meatier than yours / how about now / we don’t trust ourselves to remember / instead / a fingertip eclipse deleted / instead / hundreds of mini films in your pocket / how about now / a glimpse is a stare / a squint a zoom / how about now / you can languish / in their best moments / together / apart / before / after / from your bed / how about now / you create your own mythologies / to worship


After I Die, the Internet Lives On

‘To be dead is to be a prey for the living.’
––Jean-Paul Sartre 

Love, unblock me.
You’ll want to mourn me with the mob –
the ones who never saw me as a tulip, as brightness on brick,
never pressed my cat’s ear between lips a letter m,
never carried my tube puke in a pizza box
& let the cardboard wither into their palm’s warmth.

The ones who whisper yes when they find the one of them with me,
who post it before my corpse chooses its cot.

Love, not you.
Not you whose camera roll was once the inside of my mouth,
whose framed nude flashes the spiders beneath my bed.

Remember the one you took of me spread-legged in Sicily,
picking my nose,
donning specs and a thong,
sat there so alive,
like a baby’s gums opening to teeth?

In fact, love, don’t grieve me in clamour.

Send me a message
instead.

Every year,
a happy birthday.

Love, forgive me if I leave them unread.

Benjamin Husbands is a poet based in North Yorkshire. He cites his upbringing in the Yorkshire countryside as the main inspiration behind his work. When he is not writing he can be found listening to dreary music or walking his dog while listening to dreary music. Other examples of his work can be found in The York Journal and Horizon Magazine. 

Car

Curse the monotony of old roads and how I wished it had snowed
and you’d asked me to stay but it hadn’t, so I put on my layers
by the front door where we’d not quite made eye contact.

Cut to: me burning fossil fuels without you
in the passenger seat filled with empty
sweet wrappers. I backed off
the drive then drove away from the detritus
left in leafy piles of cards I sent
when you were a teen, twenty, till twenty-three
when we renounced nicknames
and kind regards.

Sincerely, Sourpuss,
it’s cold out here, the heater’s bust, but
there’s comfort in changing gear to the tune
of Elliott Smith.
First to second,
second to third,
third to fourth,
fourth to fifth.
The climb,
the fall – the meditative shift
of commuting,
of grocery shopping,
of threatening to pull over,
of yelling: “I’m moving back to my mother’s!”

Altogether alone, I’m tired of trying
to find the tread marks buried in the snow and ice,
yet I’ve known these roads my whole life. I swear
home is here somewhere.

Somewhere-on-Sea

is not a tourist destination,
or a place for holiday homes,
but a liminal space that concertinas me
between Yorkshire moorland and the North Sea.

It leaves my entire six-foot-two frame
wheezing on the sand, compressed
and jammed, like a swollen puzzle
piece punched into position by an
impatient child.

The absolute weight of gravity’s
five-fingered trick imprints my outline
on a spongy seafoam mattress beside 
a crossroads scored with white freckles
of coastal erosion.

Here, I am held to account, my skull hollowed out
with a silver spork and dredged of the mistruths
that cloud the brown eyes which were never mine.
Here, I am made aware that I am more than the sum
of those who have loved me.

And once I accept that, I can push past,
stumble forward, blind,
across the bay, where a boat
waits with scratches, and
etchings, of a name –

Hope.

Elena Walker’s poetry was commended and received a special mention in the 2014 and 2016 Ted Hughes Young Poets Award, at ages 10 and 12. In 2020, she was published by HEBE: The Poetry Magazine of Youth, and in 2021, was awarded Poet Laureate at her school. Two poems are now forthcoming in HEBE’s 18th Issue.

Those Glowing Years

I think back to the time
of my family reunion
on the Washington coast,
staring across the bluff
to the Canadian shore,
through a veil
of thick fog and smoke.

I think back to Santa Rosa:
and my preschool
in proximity to the park;
an open field,
a row of eucalyptus,
where I played
by my aunt’s house—
now alone,
in a neighbourhood of ashes.

I think back to Yosemite:
campsite of my childhood,
summers spent
among the redwoods,
where my cousin hopes to wed—
hallowed grounds
now blackened by that fire.

Out of these ashes:
monuments of place,
sites of memory;
return to my mind.                   

Where I’m From

1.

To have lived in America is to know the government has your fingerprints as
‘biometrics’
To know everything is more expensive there
To have lived in America is to understand that ‘left wing’ is still center

To have lived in California is to have everyone start singing California Girls when they
hear where you’re from
To practice school shooter drills alongside fire and earthquake drills
To have lived in California is to always have everyone ask why you left the sun

To have lived in Santa Rosa is to always describe it as an hour north of San Francisco
To spend summers swimming in your neighbour’s pool
To have lived in Santa Rosa is to remember your childhood too fondly

2.

To live in England as an American is to look out the window and see gray at all times of day.
Your mother tells you once a citizen you can live anywhere in Europe,
only to have the government take four years to leave the EU three years after you’re a citizen;
To live in England as an American is to have your mother tell you the patriarchy is worse here.

To live in Manchester as an American is to dislike the Mancunian accent
but be unable to distinguish it from any of the regional voices.
To take years to discern northerners from southerners, not knowing whether London is up or down.
To live in Manchester as an American is to go to the beach twice in ten years despite living two hours away.

To live in Didsbury as an American is to live in the ‘posh’ area of Manchester,
even when your home is smaller than your friend’s house in Longsight;
you don’t have to worry about going out in the alley at night, except for the recent issues.
To live in Didsbury as an American is to know Manchester is one of the most unsafe cities in England.

3.

To move across the world is to constantly compare your childhood against your upbringing.
To move across the world is to have your accent always be out of place yet unplaceable.
To move across the world is to not fully relate to anyone’s childhood memories but your own.

Perla Kantarjian is a Lebanese-Armenian writer and journalist, with work appearing in over 35 publications. Pushcart Prize nominee and winner in Illuminarium Chronicles’ Continental Voices Competition, Kantarjian’s work is part of the Lunar Codex. She is currently pursuing her MA in Poetry at UEA as the 2021 Sonny Mehta Scholar.

Sandcastles that stay

it took a long time for me to understand
how i once dreamt you were orbiting me
in a strange, strange dream
& could not stop dreaming
you were orbiting me, invading
my fostered space, after—
& now you are here,
here, before me, i am
near you, you are nere.
we are together.
we are together,
we are together,
bodying this shore, together—
& how, i am no longer befuddled;
simple: when i dream, i turn into moon;
turn body into water, water into body,
high tide, low tide,
& you, merely a wave i’ve decided to
clench in my fist, stop from moving
away, elsewhere

In My Bed, Out to Seas

listen, it has become as
such: i cannot sleep and

there is no other thought
being soaked into my

veins and towards my
bloodstream but that

of you and how
your eyes seem to retain

the molecular element
of the dawn; how you

place them abreast mine
and my skin turns into

rose water; blackbirds spread
song into the droplets of morning dew

i watch cascade upon the Yellow Stars of
Bethlehem you told me to grow by my bedside

window for they are your favorite. we were sitting
by the Mediterranean sea when you told me that —

a green apple was nested in my palms, winds
of September waltzing through my hair, the

world feeling like somewhere soft again.
you held my hand and told me i remind you

of a white feather; the words
breezed into my neck

warmer than a wreath of light.

we have all day, you said, but we can’t
slow down, my love, there are stars

to be weaved into the sky. we must
promise the night with a dance

to the rhythm of the pulsating
waves. i smiled a yes into the crevice

of your right eye. there was an eyelash
there, the only thing that was out of place.

Sofía Masondo was born in Argentina and grew up in London, New York and Seoul. Her writing
explores connections and disconnections between people, cultures and identities. She has
previously been published in South Bank Poetry magazine and will begin her undergraduate at UCL in September.

Bakerloo line
The rumbling creates a cocoon
around this tunnel within a tunnel.
We will share this near-empty carriage
for no longer than twenty minutes.
I’ll think that I’d like my hair
to fall like yours;
you’ll catch me staring blankly
at the air around your face.
I avert my eyes to the advert displaying
the name of a ski instructor.
We are reminded to wear a mask.
This is
a nothing wrapped in nothing, a non-place
full of only electrified rails
and perpetually circling journeys.

Carlos
He is not very talkative.
He loves dogs and working with his hands. He is a legend
on the parrilla.
He is a kind and gentle presence and drinks mate three times every day.
This is really all I can say about my grandfather.
To be more like him, I picked up the gourd, and looked up
“mate como hacer montañita”
(my newly discovered word for an old trick):
tip it upside down into a taut paper towel and shake,
so that the dust and leaf particles come to the top.
(And don’t move the bombilla, or it will fill with powder. You must do it slowly.
This drink is delicate, although people here think it tastes like a slap in the face.
Nobody understands the importance of patience anymore,
is something I imagine he might say.
These are things I’ve learned, or invented.)
I had watched him do it many times, as he helped to prepare la merienda
– that snack sandwiched between lunch at 2.30 and dinner at 10 –
but alone, I skipped that crucial step, and the first sip was pure gravel.
It was awful.
I spat the green phlegm into the sink.
In that moment, I was reminded of the way he sat for hours at that round kitchen table,
eyebrows furrowed
over a mandarin, meticulously picking at the pith
until only bare flesh remained, silent
and loving.

Toby Cotton hails from a farm in Herefordshire. His poetry, like himself, sits snugly in a pastoral landscape. Romantic yet relevant, it speaks of mindfulness and meaning as well as seasons and spirits. A zoology graduate and naturalist, Toby’s close relationships with flora and fauna are portrayed in his poems. 

A Minute’s Silence

a minute’s silence
for the key workers who have
given us their lives

I listen to my slowed breaths
I remember those who can’t
 
the clock needs a new battery
I squeeze out the tea bag
 
when will the shops open?
feel deeply feel deeply
 
the voice on the radio
tells me that life carries on

a song plays after the news
“Lean on me” by Bill Withers

we are all leaning upon
those who stand up for others

a minute’s silence for them
a whole life’s music for us
 
a minute’s silence for them
our struggle against silence
serenades on
 
The Broken Gosling

Spring was its first love
Summer has come and gone
into an ivory sky
 
That teenage gosling
with the dark crumpled wing
is still following
the luminous swans
around the lake
 
a shadow of its true being,
forever fixed to a surface
far below the home of its heart,
its sisters and brothers
have touched the clouds
 
sometimes they come visit
with a dramatic flapping and
splashing into the dazzling water
flashing their satiny freedom
news of autumn
blurting from their beaks
 
“The trees’ feathers are falling out!
They’re turning yellow and floating out
and the whole world is feeling them…”
 
The broken gosling is quiet.
It hardly ever honks anymore.
What do those black eyes say?
What do you feel inside?
Can you truly endure alone
the sudden draw of the wind
or the gravity of distant stars?
 
With silent grace
it is gone
disappeared into the lake
disrupting the clouds
jostling the bronzed trees
living in reflections
 
raindrops and ripples
do they know of each other
by sight or by touch
 
and in that crystalline moment
before the mirror breaks,
do you see yourself?
your velvet cap, your mercury beak
your opal eyes, your snow-blushed cheeks?
 
do you dive into yourself
knowing the difference
between fetters that rust
and a necklace that shimmers?
 
unfolding lotus
the slender goose surfaces
shaking off diamonds

Valery Quinn a graduate of the University of Manchester in Anthropology, who has  been writing poetry since encountering Blake in school at the age of 14. Val’s main interests then were sex, death, religion and social justice, pretty much in that order. “They haven’t changed much since then,” writes Val, “but hopefully the poetry has improved somewhat.”

point of return
 
i remember we watched the high-rise burn, buckets
dangling one in each hand.
i remember we watched the high-rise burn, buckets
sideways on the grass.
 
i saw the clap the clap the clap of hands, none of whom
would extend beneath the waves.
i saw the clap the clap the clap of hands, and heard a
march of boots like laughter.
 
i felt a crowd of fury clog my throat, as the
weather man wished us all good morning,
after a truckload of men seeking el dorado, found
only vacuity in britain.
 
i shrugged my shoulders of some weight
insured to grip me harder,
as i came home from work at dawn and
put my eyes down by the telly.
 
i woke mid-afternoon all startled to the
sound of infant cries,
wondering if it were one such occasion when
a real neighbour was needed.
 
thankfully, the noise died down, but there was nothing
within me to replace it.
i guess if a poet is a person who picks the right words,
then that baby was bawling the best poem i’ve heard.

moving your stuff into my flat during covid
 
Is this love, or just possession of
a secret window: steamed-up glass
against whose frame alone I glimpse
you leaning, phone-screen glow on grey
frown, scrolling, nodding, dozing,
so at home you’ve switched your instincts off,
as if the world of men were
but a nightmare blinked away:
 
how then you slump into the sallow
dinge of sofa’s dell at sundown,
till quiet coats you – like a halo –
as the warming raindrops pass?