Going Underground

You’d think spending the majority of your time underground would offer some peace and quiet, but lately those bloody land-dwellers keep kicking up a ruckus - and it’s so loud that it’s affecting my beauty sleep. That’s right, I’m talking about the badgers and foxes that are going toe-to-toe over scraps of food. You know, the ones that were caught on camera, squaring up right above my house, throwing fisticuffs over some garden grub. Keep it civil, lads - we’re not humans.

Lapping It Up

Look, football is great, but we can all admit some footy supporters aren’t the cutest. Head to Swedish Lapland, though, and you’ll find a litter of adorable Nottingham Forest fans running around in the snow. That’s thanks to Hucknall’s Ben Wagstaff, the Reds-head who moved to a frostier part of the world, and named a whole gang of sled dogs after Forest folk when they won promotion. I just hope none of them are called Samba, because I’m still not over him leaving…

Absolute Gold

St Mary’s Church is a proper beaut, tucked away in the quiet part of the city with nice grounds and stunning architecture. Yet even the classiest of establishments can indulge in a little va va voom every once in a while, and that’s exactly what’s happened at the Lace Market spot. You see, a gilding project has polished up a chorus of shiny angels around the roof of the church, lining the inside of the building with flashes of gold. Your move, St Paul’s.

The Poet

Hannah Norris

Can you tell us a little bit about yourself?

Sure! I’m a Nottingham gal and moved back here at the start of this year after living away for twelve years, mostly in Liverpool. Poetry is my ‘side hustle’ (I hate that term…) and I came to it after the death of my grandma. It was a horrific time but I’m grateful that I got through it by writing poems instead of more hedonistic/dangerous pursuits. Weirdly, my grandma’s mum and grandad both wrote poetry, so I like to think it’s in my genes.

What’s this poem all about?

I think many poets probably come away from doing a poetry night with no idea how long their words will stick in someone’s mind afterwards and the impact they have had. At the first open mic I went to, someone read a beautiful poem about grieving for their mum and I actually ended up missing a bit of their set as I was crying in the loos! I wanted to celebrate the vulnerability of poets and acknowledge the difficulty of finding the headspace to write.

@hannahnozza

illustrations: Kate Wand

"On a serious note, I haven't been able to cop more goth gear cos it's so expensive."

"Ooh, I'm gonna get the fried buttermilk chicken burger… What is fried buttermilk chicken?"

"I love picking my scabby scalp." "Have you guys heard about those… [leans in] Shrek raves?"

"I’ve never fed anyone a carrot in a sexy way before."

"That girl is asking to shit the bed."

"I think killing the government is quite ambitious."

"I love a really soggy muffin." "He's lost a leg and a cousin… That's bad."

"Why’s it snowing in March, bro? I swear if it settles someone’s gonna get licked by a snowball."

"I’m telling you this and you’re going to think I’m lying: but I’m the king of Minecraft parody karaoke. The king."

"The kid literally thinks he's Spider- Man, it's dangerous."

For the open mic poets

"The problem is I get really badbutterfingers in the morning."

Stitchers of song, givers of goosebumps and adrenaline-shots-to-the-tear-ducts, do you have any idea how many times I’ll think of your words after this evening ends?

Do you know that when someone doesn’t give you the quiet attention you deserve, I feel as protective as when my sisters were still in primary school plays?

I wish all of us could quit our day jobs and afford to live like flâneurs, observing and writing from romantic cafes. I think we’d be very good at this.

But it’s hard isn’t it.

I’m sorry that there are days, weeks, months where you are too tired to write, keeping all those plates spinning, spinning, like Kylie in gold hotpants, like a Lazy Susan in a late-night Chinese restaurant, pissed-up friends spin for the last rib.

You labour and toil to find that perfect word, maybe you’re unsure if you ever found it. You did.

We listen and melt in our pub seats like little marshmallows in hot chocolate, going home softer than we came.

Thank god for you, open mic poets.

words: Dani Bacon