July, slap bang in the middle of summer, born was Finn.
For his big brother, Max, the holidays were in full swing.
Clunk. The year’s lessons had fallen clean out Max’s head.
Hot days spent splashing, chasing and playing out past bed.
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I am learning how to love myself,
Just a little more everyday
I am learning how to love myself
Because I am learning that LOVE truly is the essence of how we are all MADE.
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Who is Sappho and why do we care? The purpose of this piece is less to educate you on Sappho but to allow you to question the agenda behind the critical approaches that help to inform you on Sappho.
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Content Warning - This piece discusses harassment and sexual abuse.
I wrote this poem, which is a bit of a detour from my usual style, and I was nervous as this has not been an issue I have spoken about. However, it is raw and somewhat vulnerable (which can be read through the subtext). I have also had people respond when I have brought up these issues and say, "Is it a crime to call a woman sexy?" which it is obviously not, but why does an opinion need to be given so freely? Particularly if it is to another stranger?
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Being Black to me, is being happy, it’s being carefree.
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What is home when no love remains, hearts smashed across the cold, hard floor? What is home when bitterness cuts through the walls – paper thin, shouts echoing from one room to the next?
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I move through my life clumsily, awkward with shape and deed
I stumble from person to person, doubting myself
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Some sisters like to giggle and share, spilling all of their secrets whilst braiding their hair,
We pulled pigtails and stole each other’s clothes, from t-shirts to scrunchies to underwear!
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We are made from the stuff of stars, powered by electrical sparks fabricated in the only organ to have named itself.
Possibilities are endless
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Red flags and stomach pangs,
Listening to friends, quietened that.
My heart was still recovering…
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Apart from the constant tick tock of the clock,
The silence wraps around me like a blanket.
The thoughts in my head are my only chattering companions
How did it get to this?
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To be frank, all through my life, as a child, teenager and adult, I was abused. Most of that abuse was from men, and from female enablers who stood by and did nothing. I write songs as it’s the only voice I have.
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A self-professed womanising drunk, Bukowski relied on a range of vices in order to fuel his creativity, “Drink, fuck, and smoke plenty of cigarettes.” His dark sense of humour lingers in his writing.
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There is something the poem can tell us about the body and something the body can tell us about the poem.
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I wrote ‘Owed Summer’ to remember what a Summer free of restrictions feels like, and how our generation is missing these shared experiences. It is also about how we grow, after living for so long without these experiences; touching friends, seeing live music, the pull of a communal pool of people.
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I wrote a similar poem years ago, called Another Generation. It was about a friend who was upset at herself for overspending on make up while in debt; that poem is embarrassingly outdated now, so I have re written it and changed it. This one adds in my recent efforts for minimising my life, both digitally and physically.
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I remember first reading Jay Bernard’s ‘Surge’ – and then reading it again, and again, and again. Not just because it was my assigned reading for that week of my module, but because the words struck such a powerful chord within me.
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It's been a year since the UK went into lockdown. We asked our contributors to submit their poetry they have written during this ‘unprecedented’ year.
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It is enough
that Sarah wanted to walk.
To take her time through the night.
To go safely home.
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