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About the writer

Fin HJ is an 18 year old Norfolk based musician and writer, exploring themes of nostalgia, masculinity and ideas of youth and growing up.

Instagram: @finnn.hj

When I Was a Boy 


They’re not that heavy, Dad said.
So i would grapple,
I’d lumber the pine.
Creaking young bones sang soprano
through bass,
And thunder of the chest.
Round the stairs, 
Shelves slid just like me
Clumsy and dumb
Until we, at last, together, met safe 
ground. 
Stable.
Back-aching, palms itchy
The valleys of my print heaving, 
Through the landslide.
Making me a man, 
When I was still a boy. 

About the writer


Nancy Dawkins is an artist, writer, musician and performer from Leicester, currently based in Sheffield where she co-founded online poetry community, CREATION: Poetry. Dealing with depression, chronic illness, love, lust, literature and witchcraft, Nancy’s work explores the poetic first person: what it feels like to be a living being, and how sometimes it sucks, sometimes not so much.  


A Soft Kind of Sadness


Somehow the air feels more still in sadness, and sheets softer. There is a calm to sadness, a cosiness. I wonder if it’s really sadness when it feels like a blanket fort and think maybe “weight” is a better word. Sometimes I call it “dullness” but maybe “smoothness” is more accurate. We don’t have enough words. Sadness can be loud like a cry and round like an open mouth, like a teardrop. But, then it can be like this, quiet and soft and sticky, like marshmallow stuck on fingers, like staying in bed all day and knowing tomorrow will be better; the sadness poured into the day like milk into a glass, almost nourishing, entirely contained, mostly harmless. Sadness pushes up against nostalgia and acceptance, sandwiched like feet between mattress and duvet, somehow so much warmer on days like
this.


You Tend To Break

 You tend to break yourself down into small unrecognisable parts and hand them out
 liberally.

 You tend to cry when these chunks are rejected, discarded, not considered or ignored,
 despite their lack of similarity to the whole of you.

 You are not simply the sum of your parts.

 And more and more you realise that the parts you discard cannot have been integral to your
 being, for you have lost them all and yet remain whole.

 In your wholeness, you lament that these parts are not loved how you should yourself have
 loved them, forgetting that the part of you that truly needs love remains.

 You have not yet learnt to give the whole of yourself, to lend what cannot be kept.

 What if it too were to be discarded and ignored?

 What if it too did not love in return?

 What if it too ignores?

 What if you are the one who hurts, not simply the one who has been hurt?


About The Writer

Hi, firstly I’m chuffed to have the opportunity to show some of my poetry, (thanks Greta). Also to Sundial journal for creating a space for people to express themselves, an integral part of a more empathic world. 

These poems I picked as I think they contain different aspects my experience. 

Semi detached is a rumination about having parents, grandparents with dementia, the kind of role reversal that can happen between a parent and child. 

‘The conversation’ is playing around with form having two characters play of each other. The ‘sorry bit of news’ character is how I feel sometimes, moping around all grim like. 

Finally ‘Chandelier’ is in my mind the most well rounded. It’s form on the page is evocative to me. it’s about being lost to the world and becoming disillusioned with life, people and society. Lockdowns, social distancing, government ineptitude. I feel there are many lost souls wandering their four walls at this time. 

I’m 21, Dyslexic, ex homeschooler, and hope one day to have a piece of the ever dwindling creative industry pie, thanks to austerity Britain. 

Best, 

Noah.

IG: @noahhopejohn

Chandelier 
 

 The hollow ghost does it’s part, 
 speaking of snow and 
 a current of torment under the brow,
 of the villager folk that congregate 
 like teeth in your open mouth. 
 

 it tells of necks that will bend
 Upwards, towards the stars 
 and eyes that will glitter darker,
 

 still. 
 

 than the blood of the wounded, left out in the woods.
 the Teenage Spirit - the wild and closed doors beg to have a coalition.
 for their borders to be Intertwined like 
 grass and soil.
 

 the Mayor will try and beg your pardon, 
 but in the end it will be you, 
 that’ll have to walk through the 
 structures of good will alone. 
 In the cold of spring.
 without the talk of the town.
 

 Searching, and exploring
 under floorboards 
 of the big house 
 Smelling the air
 for the currents
  of the old country 
 and Searching the soil, for 
 Seed.
 

 the Clock will ring out from places, 
 Far way, Ever so far. 
 but you have left your age in a book, that won’t open anymore. 
 You will crawl on the hills, Forgotten by all.
 

 but yourself
 

 a chandelier figure, stretched out on the page 
 you howl and snort, until the light fades away. 
 waiting to come forth. speaking of snow 
 and the torments of men
 in the village.
 of course, of course,
 of 
 course 
 

ABOUT THE Writer

Jiali Lu is a 17 year old student, currently hoping to study Physics at university. In her spare time she enjoys writing spoken word poetry, and has performed at venues such as the Birmingham Hippodrome with the Spoken Word club at her school. Aside from poetry, Jiali finds creative freedom in playing music, drawing and making badges. Jiali hopes to share her work on a larger scale in the future. She also aspires to have a cat one day.

Home
I hear you still keep the poem I wrote to you
in the front of your planner.
 
These days, it's hard to tell
if that's true.
 
Send me a text
three days late,
But I won't mind when I reply
four days after.
 
Talk to me in half-stitched philosophy
and worn nostalgia,
recommend a song
I'll make myself love.
 
Lose another girl,
and remember the hands
that you held the
last time.
 
 
These days, you feel like a house I once lived in.
 
I know where the light switches are off by heart,
the patterns on the bathroom tiles,
the smell of the attic.
 
I know where all the awkward corners are,
how much music got lost behind the piano,
the best place to hide and seek.
 
But, I am not the only one;
Have you mistaken me with what I left behind?
 
Because nowadays, you are occupied with the feeling 
of being a roof over someone's head
that you’ve forgotten who is under it
You are busy feeling how full each housewarming party feels
without realising that you are not the neighbourhood
You have taken these walls for granted
and you have forgotten the weight it burdens.
 
These days, I trust another's.
 
You are no longer my home.
 
 
I hear you still keep the poem I wrote to you.
I'm sorry I don't have the heart to give you this one.
I'm sorry I didn't tell the newcomers
that I painted over the mold.

About the writer

Hi, my name’s Muzammil Khomusi. I’m 20 years old and from Leicester. I’ve been writing short stories since I was in primary school but discovered the (performance) poet in me during my secondary school years. My family immigrated from Pakistan to the UK, and so as a product of diaspora my poetry explores that journey as well as the pangs of existence (not that pangs are all there is to existence). I write in the hopes that I’ll be able to put into words something that the reader has always tried to. 

I'm made from bus tickets, cereal bars and
 painkillers.
 I'm made from unspoken emotions as
 though butterflies don't emerge from
 cocoons but remain as caterpillars.
 

 I'm made from hate, tears and pain.
 I'm made from primary-school kept promises
 but my efforts to fulfil them have been in vain.
 

 I'm made from Asian cuisine, spices and treats.
 I'm made from crisis, catastrophe and Middle Eastern heat.
 

 I'm made from discipline, I wasn't spared the rod 
 when I grew up.
 See I chose to be unhappy and live in reality
 because I was beaten to a point where happiness 
 is what I threw up.
 

 I'm made from wet tarmac, cold winds and
 playing basketball with my mates.
 I'm made from passive smoke, marijuana vapours,
 store-brought JD tracksuits. You see I was raised on a council estate
 where cries weren't heard but a deafening vacuum.
 

 Knife crimes have been campaigned for; there 
 were days where I slept unfed.
 Drove under pressure; hopped up on meds,
 crashed in my consciousness, I was
 left for dead on a hospital bed.
 

 I'm made from cataclysmic chromosomes;
 an unfinished genetic jigsaw.
 

 I'm made from shells, not of oysters but 
 guns which fire pearls into the satin
 wrapped saline solutions of victims of
 gun violence.
 

 I'm made from hating love, loving hate;
 the cold of the cosmos and a time beyond ages.
 Disheartened, disappointed in a city that never changes.
 

 Recycling feelings in the compost, I'm
 made from aspirations and dreams, out of 
 my reach, no need to preach, selfishness
 and greed.
 

 I'm made from political views; 
 see my parents sacrificed everything for me,
 as they say for the sake of.
 But I'm yet to put pen to paper and show
 this world what I'm made of.
 

About the writer

Hi, I’m Ellie Waide, I’m 17 and I write spoken word/poetry. I’ve always loved creative writing and younger me wrote many, many stories which were… let’s say imaginative. I’m currently doing my A-Levels and hope to study a Liberal Arts degree at university. When I’m not writing, I’m usually playing the guitar, watching old movies or planning outfits.


ABOUT THE WRITER

Kate is a second-year English student at the University of Bristol and an aspiring writer.

Instagramhttps://www.instagram.com/kate.bowie/

Twitterhttps://twitter.com/corncakecentral

Contentlyhttps://kateebowie.contently.com/ 

Pointlessness

 One day, time disappeared.
 And, by extension, so did everything else.
 And I end up
 Making a third coffee
 To wake up to nothing,
 And brushing my teeth
 So they don’t fall out
 For no good reason,
 And suddenly
 I’m back in that same water
 With the same muddy light
 The same eroding body
 And the next day slips on.