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.
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
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.
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.
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.