Our Voices Are Verses 2018 by LeftLion

Our Voices Are Verses

Published by Big White Shed, Nottingham, England ISBN 978 -1-9164035-4-3 Printed and bound in the EU by Booksfactory Cover and original artwork by Emily Catherine Illustration Copyright © Big White Shed 2018 individual copyright remains with the authors funded by Arts Council England Nottingham City Council University of Nottingham Nottingham Trent University Nottingham UNESCO City of Literature

CONTENTS Introduction & Acknowledgements Poetry Lab collaboration: Our Voices Are Verses... 6 GEORGINA WILDING Nottingham Women... 9 Sun... 10 2023 poem - The New Moves... 12 Of Human... 13 Alarm... 14 Skater Boys... 15 CLEO ASABRE HOLT You, me and... 17 Sorry for the Inconvenience... 18 The Indicators... 20 Reclaim... 21 Limbo... 22 CHRIS MCLOUGHLIN The City’s Father... 25 Gringlerot... 26 A traveller tired and roadworn... 27 Tide... 28 Trying... 31 Pijaykin... 32 TY HEALY Forever Healing... 35 Moon And Earth... 36 Quiet... 38 Poison, Sharp Tongues... 40 Corner Shop Blues... 41 POETRY LAB Emma Sporton, I am... 43 Olivia Morel, Remembering... 44 Daisy Beck Roberts , Escape... 45 Holly Humphreys, Postponed... 46 Morgan Peschek, Today... 47

INTRODUCTION A very warm welcome to the readers and creators of Our Voices Are Verses anthology 2018: a poetry anthology produced by Nottingham UNESCO City of Literature showcasing the work of Nottingham’s immensely talented young poets. We discovered these passionate voices, who love the written and spoken word, during our search for the city’s first-ever Young Poet Laureate – a competition open to all poets aged between 18-30 who live, work and study in Nottingham. We were privileged to have Georgina Wilding as Nottingham’s inaugural Young Poet Laureate. She has exceeded our wildest expectations on how poetry can be used to inspire and enrich communities. If one thing has struck me in the two years I’ve been in Nottingham it’s the incredible breadth, diversity and intense energy of the poetry scene. Poetry slams and spoken word events are bringing words to life almost nightly across the city. It has been a delight to watch this grassroots scene flourish. Nottingham is one of the most exciting creative cities in the world, and we are dedicated to building a better world with words by giving young people a platform to be creative, and to gain skills in a 21st century economy. We wanted to support brilliant poets with a genuine desire to help other young talent discover their own voices in poetry. That’s why, at Broadway Cinema in October 2018, a group of talented young Nottingham poets united to create the title poem of this anthology at Hockley Hustle’s Poetry Lab. The group of ten young poets were inspired and supported by poets Tyrone Moran-Healy, Cleo Asabre-Holt and Chris McLoughlin. These young poets each bring a diverse range of genre, style and theme. In order to push their developing voices in new directions, they studied the craft of writing and the power of performing their material live through Arvon creative writing residencies and mentoring programmes. Through this process, each poet went on a journey, discovering what is unique about their own artistic voice, evolving together as part of a collective of young artists. Their raw, true voices are increasingly responsible for defining the shape of the poetry scene locally. While many of the poets featured here may be just starting their careers, it is clear from their strong, original voices that the future of poetry is bright and its relevance certain. 4

Poetry as a craft can inspire us all. It offers a chance to reflect on the city of today; it creates opportunities for unheard voices to be heard; to challenge prejudice, share ideas and notice what matters most. The inspirational work of Nottingham’s young poets will continually feed into our vision as a world leading UNESCO City of Literature, and we are grateful to them for their sustained commitment to this project.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to thank Tyrone Moran-Healy, Cleo Asabre-Holt, Chris McLoughlin, and Georgina Wilding for their commitment and dedication to the project. To the production manager, Anne Holloway and designer, Emily Catherine, I commend you for such a unique and spirited publication. We are grateful to the team at Hockley Hustle for hosting the Poetry Lab. I am deeply grateful for the generous funding and ongoing support from Arts Council England, and particularly to Leanne Moden, who doesn’t just serve as a tireless liaison or administrative staff member, but is truly a part of Nottingham’s poetry community. And we thank you: the reader. We thank you for celebrating with us what these young poets are capable of, and everything they can go on to achieve. Sandeep Mahal UNESCO City of Literature

Our Voices are Verses I’ve got so many clouds to navigate. The morning cloud is a bulldog, soon the cars are stopped in their tracks too, their horns drowned out by the orb of day, spit encasing them to see Mum’s smiles. Then suddenly homeless clouds but black… What you do and what you say are as different as night and day, but why? I drag Mum’s ass out of bed. I’m scared my cat will strangle me in my sleep. Egg yolk leaks from my wounds, thick & gold & orange, like my body was soft-boiled. Will I get more sympathy if I perform my heartbreak centre stage? I’m sorry I completely ignored your cat, which is just as important as mine. Late at night there was a knock on the bubble and it’s raining biscuit crumbs on my head; why does it have to get dark when the sun disappears? The clouds are grey and the bubbles are pouring down. I sit with legs subtle at the ankle. Of course, the problem is the guards keep developing rodent trappings. Are you really sure you’re sane? How the sky’s subtle and the ceiling in here is really subtle. The place any gerts should never go, a sprinkle of soft cheese melts his pores. Tap tap gerty teaming up with gerty-poo from the road across. They shut down the queer factories and most other major queers all that’s left are oatcake shops. I’d unplugged the sun, you pointed out this would make very little difference to Stoke-On-Trent. I think I get wasted to stop myself from telling you the truth. Does it work? 6

The weed makes me feel queer but you make me feel queerer. Three snowflakes, I set this morning and I snoozed all three. Onwards to Mars or at least the Moon. Where are your snowflakes? Do they have flaws, like you? All this, until my cup wasn’t half anything, until it wasn’t defined by what it held. Do you care? Are you one of those artsy types who thinks dead painters are gods and God has been painted dead, have you read blah-blah-blah by Whatshisface? And we sail sideways, up and down this wave and I know where I stand now. I know where I stand. We’ll fill our stomach with foliage. I wondered at the autumn colours, the person in the bathroom mirror isn’t who she was before. Are we really disappointed or have expectations and reality just become disjointed? Our lives, as the ever-changing and ever-present foliage of society. I try each day to remind myself that I’m lucky to be alive, in a world where moths turn into tigers at the click of my fingers and make my dreams come true. Ask why do skyscrapers live to break our beautiful and delicate skies? But what a dull world it must be for those who don’t care to seek out the wonder that lies in the depths of our minds beneath. I pity the narrow-minded who refuse to try. Send us to a prison cell with walls as tight as a margin; foxes have shotguns and parachutes from military plans. It’s too hard to comprehend more than 10% usage of the brain because no margin what the good guys would margin, he just wanted margin. Written collaboratively by Nottingham UNESCO City of Literature’s Poetry Lab workshop participants in an exercise facilitated by Chris McLoughlin. 7

Georgina Wilding

Georgina is Nottingham’s first Young Poet Laureate, and the Founding Editor of Mud Press – Nottingham’s very own independent poetry publishing house. She’s been commissioned by organisations such as the BBC to write and perform for both radio and TV, has toured her poetry across the UK and Europe, and was recently booked to perform in Granada for World Poetry Day. She has a first-class degree in Creative and Professional Writing from the University of Nottingham, and has been writing, performing, and teaching poetry for over six years.

Nottingham Women

Inspired by Sean Thomas Dougherty

The Nottingham women move through cobbled streets like handmade lace, like the River Trent rolls, gushes, like arrows shot from the bow of someone who knows where to aim. And they act like they’re host to a whole city of caves that shows people how to escape, to shelter, to discover them best. And they do pride like windmills that still stand after two centuries pass, like castle bricks slotted in their spines, like they’ve bicycle spokes ti-ticking in their chest. And they say, as they accept their Baftas or they pull their pints, as they scan at tills, drop kids to school, or run their races, sell down phone lines, or stitch up bodies, fix cars or build rockets, make art or sew jeans lead big meetings, or cook dinner or don’t, they say hey I am enough. 9

Sun

for City Arts, Nottingham

I took the sleeve of my jumper and smudged the red paste off my lips to show the man in Market Square my freckle. In turn, he pulled his collar to the left, revealed three perfect dots. As I put my finger to rest over the top of them I felt the Trinidadian heat and a sea-thick pulse beneath. A pair of schoolgirls joined us, one flashing a kneecap, the other jolting her elbow as if an attack brown dots from holidays passed and passed down from Mum and Dad. This clump of freckles, said the ex-pilot still donning his badge as he joined us, was from a burn in the pit of a Spitfire, and as we cooed over the marks on his shoulder blade he leaned, pointing, into a twist. A Grandmother laughed at her Husband as he tried to find his favourite freckle but lost it beneath the cotton folds of his Tallit, and two Syrian boys said all of our freckles look like the scorched flesh of roasted eggplant a sprinkling of paprika to taste. And a passing toddler trumped the lot of us with a whole face smattered in brown and pink, a rolling canvas of blots, and cheeks, and dribble babbling at the skater boys who turned up topless their freckles blurring into one as they kick-flipped up over the slabs. And then the Market Square was full, a swaying mass of us lifting layers and telling stories of freckles and how they came to be 10

a giant dot-to-dot of people, the Nottingham sun on all of us, giving out new dots, this time in the shape of bows and arrows.

Scan QR code for Where We Live 11

2023 poem - The New Moves Maybe the boats on the river Trent will hitch up their skirts and Irish jig on the water top. Maybe our Grandparents will dust off their chalks and scratch hopscotch on the path to the greenhouse. Maybe the Contemporary’s cemented lace will soften up, peel, and wrap itself around the trams tickets please! Maybe the young people will turf out the MPs and the MPs’ll pick litter in their footie kits sponsored by McDonalds. Maybe Green’s Windmill will turn so fast, it’ll lift the whole of Notts with Sneinton at its peak. Maybe the 13 year old boys will pull out their love poems and ode on Speaker’s Corner. Maybe the Left Lion will run from its stone bed and give lifts to the kids that can’t get to school. Maybe our voices together, will celebrate so loud that they knock off the roof of the Council House, we tip it upside down in the square, use it as a skate park, invite everybody in. Maybe because in Nottingham, the new moves’ll start with us. 12

Of Human The black sky, a molten plastic, clung to the prod and poke of roof top tiles, spluttered chimneys, and Sky-box dishes. It watched us, with the bonnet propped; an open mouth, hissing tongs that grabbed at the donor car. Determined revs gave nothing, dead car, still dead. Crisp packets and stub ends crept closer along the curbs, lapped around the bone of our ankles, and the wind made a point to sound its mocking sounds. Then, the stranger man, dressed in green jacket and shoes for a night on the town stopped, ya alright girls? He, red-faced and late, took the key anyway, re-clamped metal, and the hissing tongs danced and charged and buzzed. I dried off in the drivers seat under the glow of LEDs. He left, heading for dance floor or date, or both, as the black sky blinked at the casual kind of us, of strangers, of human.

Alarm The house behind us has been crying for three days. The rest of the terraces have budged closer in to prop it up from either side, and the birds have stopped nesting out of respect. It’s a wailing sound, stuck on loop. All its windows are probably smashed from the pressure by now, I’d imagine its plants are jungle big from all the tears. Soon, I hope those plants will grow tall enough to muffle the very mouth of the thing – at this rate, another 3 days yet then the rest of us can sleep, as our own terraces straighten themselves up again, beds no longer at an angle, the head-rush of loss at ease.

Scan QR code for Travelling Woman 14

Skater Boys None of us were teens yet boys in Nirvana shirts too big for their bodies, yellow rings of yesterday’s sweat still stained around the neck, girls in elasticated vests, fat pushed into places it didn’t yet sit, skin dewy with perfume stolen from mum. We would meet on Sneinton slabs, share a few loose cigarettes, or beers lifted from the family shed, and watch the older boys skate. On some pink tinged day, between licks of his Rizla, the tallest one kicked his board to me, told me to try it. The boys with us dizzy from the thought of it snorted and clapped me on. The girls’ conversations gagged by their own hands slapped over their open mouths. After my foot bent behind the front wheel, and the gravel burnt the skin from the edge of my bone, I laid flat, let the blood run out over my shoe, watched him knock the ash from the end of his roll up, and dreamed that the pigeons might peck me to death.

Cleo Asabre-Holt

Cleo is a Nottingham-based Spoken Word Poet and Workshop Facilitator who has performed throughout the Midlands, London and internationally. Cleo performs regularly in Nottingham, including headline and feature slots for Nottingham Poetry Festival, Hockley Hustle, Poetercize and Poetry is Dead Good. Always one for wearing her heart on her sleeve, Cleo’s poetry is an honest exploration of nature, relationships, childhood and the urge to dance. She’s also unafraid to tackle issues such as mental illness and enjoys experimental play with the rules of poetic form. After winning an M3C Scholarship to undertake the course, Cleo recently earned a distinction for her Masters in Creative Writing at the University of Nottingham. 16

You, me and our walking boots are splendidly grubby on this Thursday afternoon meandering, through mild December woodland. I notice evergreens as I stroll beside you, their abundance that I overlook in the summer. You point them out to me, as if you too have just noticed the way their fir peaks triangle against the sky’s grey ceiling. I can’t believe these trees look like this all year round and tell you, ‘Life lives in harsh conditions. It survives.’ We pause in this most fleeting of moments until you swing me into you. A rippling chirp of birds follows, wings snap, bodies flutter, leaves sway to the ground. Birds form day silhouettes against the shade of the world’s grey ceiling. We watch them fade as if made of smoke. ‘You have hope in you yet, Little Yolk.’ Your nickname for me a chirp in my chest, as rippling birds swoop to nestle in the evergreen rooted somewhere inside of me.

Sorry for The Inconvenience Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise but due to a person under a train at Vauxhall we will not be stopping there. Sorry for any inconvenience caused to your journey. Four minutes to departure. - London Underground, January 2018, 14:07 There must be fifty of us condensed in to this carriage. Littered with leather shoes, suits, ties and preoccupied minds. 14 weeks ago somebody I knew wanted nothing more than to jump from the block of flats a five minute walk from their front door, or claw deep enough cuts into somewhere sensitive. I don’t know if you’ve ever considered suicide but I’ve heard the thought becomes soothing, when everything else is oh so unsettling, exquisitely maddening, physically paining and all the more frustrating, when you only manage grazes on your arms instead of wounds that reach the veins. said: 15th of November my friend I hope I don’t wake tomorrow, but I won’t have that luxury. Everyday I’m brought into to another unbearable life that is mine, that I want to give to somebody. Somebody dying who wants to live. I don’t want my life anymore. Back on the tube, palms grip handrails, spines lean against sliding doors. Through my tights I can feel the coarse 18

material of the seat scraping my thighs. Most of us sit idle, irritated by Some of us engage in conversation about The driver interrupts again to apologise for Everyone continues without acknowledging the reality of what just took place. Perhaps it would be too overwhelming, but that doesn’t warrant the two people who sigh or the man sitting eyes closed and feet tapping or the dozen passengers I note checking their watches. What an

The The

Inconvenience Inconvenience

The

Inconvenience

We have the all clear. The train will be moving off shortly, and will in fact be stopping at Vauxhall. - London Underground, January 2018, 14:11

The Indicators Perspective shifter. Mood swinger. Past-dweller. Future fearer. Big time drug dealer. Lip shredder. Little shit. Unkind. Blank mind. Epidemic. Awkward. Can’t talk. Red face. Repulsive. S L O W. No-show. Can’t cope. Lost hope. Low. Everybody knows. Hard to mask. Incomplete tasks. Tired. Liability. You’re fired. Craves anonymity. Skinny. Unkempt. Sectioned. Reflection Changer. Body Dysmorphia-maker. Hand quaker. Isolator. Procrastinator. Cabin-fever diva. Under-eye-bag maker. Obsessed. No rest. Stressed. Needles in the chest. Nothing of you left. Better off dead. Bad dresser. Grey. Late. Nobody is safe. Afraid. Unexplained aches and pains. Clumsy. Losing the plot. Not funny. Grubby. UGLY. Spends all your money. Wants no company. Makes heart hurry. Lying in the dark. Or on a carpet. Unmoving. Boozing. Body abusing. Lonely. Buys a McDonalds McFlurry when you’re not supposed to have dairy. Then doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep for a week. Freak. Honey for knees. Disease. Listens to one song on repeat. People are saying things: you’re disgusting, disengaged, strange. It’s all in your head. Yes. They’re just thoughts but thoughts give you feelings which make you feel very real things and you really wish you were dreaming. Down. Dry mouth. Sounds become too loud. Drowning. Shortness of breath. Buckets of sweat. Personality vampire. Work shirker. Liar. No desire. Paranoia. Mortal stealer. Anhedonia. Junk Food Gorger. Criticiser. Chills. Pills. Unpaid bills. Gummy Bears for breakfast. Trips to the dentist. Plain uncomfortable. Labelled. Disabled. Confidence Killer. Confidence Killer. Confidence Killer. Feels like

a gorilla is chasing me. Delayed speech. Comfort leech. Shakes. Mistakes. Dread. Tense. Constantly on edge. Nothing makes sense. Head Meds. Hanging. By a thread. Beginning of the end. Confusion causer. Rapid weight loss instigator. Sadness maker. Watering eye duct lover. Nail nibbler. Dribbler. Over-thinker. Voice changer. Body temperature meddler. Opinion thief. Unable to leave the house. Bed bound. Ambivalence Queen. Really really mean. Life sabotager. Unnecessary. Ridiculously irrational. Self-involved prick. Makes you feel thick. Sick. Actual vomit. Devil’s plaything. Emotional. Uncontrollable. Physically painful. Seems scarily untreatable. Joint acher. Self-hater. Jaw-clencher. Jog on mate. But I’m sure I’ll see you later. 20

Reclaim Let me stride beside you a little while. To honour us. Wild allies who roamed the globe. Found pure places: Moons on blue horizons. So full, we didn’t need binoculars for nature’s slice of laugh-in-the-sky-richness to reach our bewitched eyes. Sparkling white as we stood, stunned, on bays of stone beaches. Though somehow we’re separate as buckling seas now. Distant yet connected like ocean straits. Let’s reclaim roaming across Morecambe Bay, linking arms, where I’ll never forget the stories you told of a father, son, and cockle-pickers whose lives the tide spiralled away. No one gets to smile with them a little while, or wander miles of earth through wilderness and hillsides like I did with you, my father. Who is farther from me now than the firefly dawns we found those moons and waded, squealing, toes freezing through buckling seas on Morecambe Bay. Remember Tickle Torture encores? And grazes you cured on clumsy childhood shins from kneeling down to find a centipede? Sometimes I parallel back to these memories in photos, daydreams or when I’m asleep. But know this: your meandering child who handled the centipede is fiery - though scrabbling she is with you, aware and wild still. So let me smile beside you a little while to reclaim us. It would be a shame not to. Let me smile beside you a little while.

Limbo Your skeleton in right angles, your shoulders scooping back. There is none of that worry limbo here – Just movement. So let us dance because life is hard: damn is it hard. And a lot of the time talking is tiring. Or your jaw aches. Or there is nothing left to say. But mostly, we could all do with using our bodies in so many more ways than we give them credit for. Credit we all pushed out, umbilical cord still connected screaming for this life. So contort innards, bones, and spines, pinkies, knees, thighs so they are jiving together moving to music You know the kind… The kind of dance you want to do when you’re commuting to work - headphones in and a jig? Would seem… maybe a little out of line. But I bid you, please: Don’t be ashamed next time and do it. As the sun rises when there’s still morning rosewood-pink in the sky. Can you imagine if we all just let go a little to make flesh crash and catapult at 8am? I’m sure we’d be laughing aloud and so much happier in bodies entirely at ease in open space. Nobody caring what they look like. We’d just want to keep moving. We just need to keep moving. We can only keep moving. Arching our backs, moles and freckles realigning. Our figures becoming one kneecaps liquefied, elbows reaching through the air: Imagine. 22

All of us - if we just danced - on our way to school or work. I shouldn’t even have to ask what that might be like. Just bodies. Sashaying. Not one of them caring who might be watching. It would be pretty lovely and get us all smiling like, maybe life could be better than this crazy anxiety simulator that it is.

Chris McLoughlin

Chris McLoughlin is a Spoken Word Artist, Writer, and Workshop Facilitator. His poetry focuses primarily on mental health, creating safe environments for others to explore emotional difficulties. Chris received a Distinction in MA Creative Writing from the University of Nottingham, was Artistic Director of Mouthy Poets, and has been longlisted for the Outspoken Prize for Poetry. Chris also co-runs the monthly community workshop Write The Poem, and has two chapbooks available: Breakdown & Lose Your Armour.

The City’s Father The City never talked about her dad. She said some things must be heard through seashells, heartbeats echoing inside abandoned homes. I didn’t ask again, didn’t have the chance, but I saw him once in a bar off Talbot Street. Matalan suit, no tie, shirt button still clasped. His hands shook. I heard the coins rattle as they were passed over, the pint of Stella slosh around rim of glass, staining faded carpet. He didn’t seem to notice. The City’s father took a corner table, away from everyone else, didn’t take out a book or newspaper or pretend he didn’t mind being alone. His eyes were broken windows, pinpoint pupils like stones thrown. When the snowstorm TV on the wall read MISSING GIRL FOUND DEAD I thought I saw him look, but I couldn’t be sure.

Gringlerot lives in my mirror, looks exactly like me. Untamed mane, glassy eyes, blotchy cheeks, bowling ball belly, stick insect limbs, crooked teeth. Insecurities I’ll probably never shed, muscles that’ll never be superhero big, hands unscuffed by rough brick, a hundred ways the label MAN doesn’t apply. Gringlerot doesn’t see me. He only sees failure. A life I spent years working towards, gone, a love that seemed forever, gone, this void swallowing my voice, I’m gone, a thousand ways the label MAN doesn’t apply. Gringlerot is cruel to me, says he doesn’t mean to be, but sometimes, I tell him, look into my eyes. Blue, he says. Blue is my favourite colour, because when he sees blue, it silences a million screams of TooBigTooSmallTooFatTooLoose. I’m not afraid of Gringlerot. I’ve been fighting him my whole life. I’m afraid of the Siren’s song, drifting through the floorboards, calling me.

A traveller, tired and road-worn, enters the Kingdom of Words and is reminded what it is to be alive, to cry, wind-whispers warming him inside for Jim Hall, First Story & The Nottingham Academy Poets

Have you ever heard anything like it? This steel silence, this laminated moment, these eighteen voices, loud, strong, a page, a place to belong, to explore, to pour out feelings and thoughts usually taught we ought to hide. Are you surprised? Can you feel the warm ice form around this exact second, thawing this minute, this feeling, have you ever seen eighteen poets steal a silence, a frozen moment, weave it into fire-verse, the introverts and often unheard one at a time, playing rhythm and rhyme… Have you ever heard anything like it? Like the strength of a young voicebox prodding the world outside its throat. Can you hear them? They are here. Our future, bravely stepping up, teaching us all to heal, to realise it is okay to feel.

Tide

A geologist picks up the rock. ‘Bit mossy.’ His thumb scrapes at the moss. ‘It’s dying. Drying in the sea air. It’s the salt. It starves the thing of oxygen, and the cold, the cold freezes its spread, keeps it small.’ The Seagulls scream, their caws are lightning bolts. ‘I’ve won an award!’ ‘My first play’s a roaring success!’ ‘I’m the favourite of the BEST poet in the world, and they HATE you, they told me so.’ ‘HATE YOU.’ The moss is shrivelling up. The geologist removes a knife, scrapes the moss off the rock. The moss falls to the floor. The ocean pushes sand closer and closer. The rock jeers at the moss, as the rock is placed into a plastic bag labelled ‘Special’. The sand is starting to cover the moss. The ocean keeps pushing, pushing, pushing. ‘You were too late anyway,’ the ocean says. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered. Too old to start new.’ The moss is melting under the sand. The moss sinks lower and lower and lower, through sand, through earth, past fossils and bones, to the core of the planet, where I am swimming in lava. ‘What are you doing here?’ the moss snaps. ‘Trying to get warm,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘I didn’t choose to be. I was flung away. Not chosen. Not as pretty or sharp or edgy, I guess, as the rock.’ ‘Did the rock tell you that?’ 28

‘No. The seagulls screamed it and the geologist showed it and the ocean agreed.’ ‘And the rock. What happened to it?’ ‘It was put in a bag labelled special, and taken to where the special things go, I guess.’ ‘Do you think it will grow?’ ‘What?’ ‘Did the rock grow when it was chosen?’ ‘Don’t be stupid. Rocks don’t grow. They only erode.’ ‘And you? You seem a little larger, wouldn’t you say?’ The moss looks down at itself. It has grown ever so slightly. ‘So?’ I smile at the moss. ‘So that’s the thing. You can grow.’ ‘But it hurts so much. The sand was heavy and the salt stung me and the lava burns me.’ ‘What would happen to the rock, or the seagull, or the ocean, or the geologist if they sunk?’ ‘Um. The seagull would cook. The rock would fossilise. The geologist would only be bones. And the ocean … it doesn’t move that way, only back and forth.’ ‘And what would happen to other mosses?’ ‘They’d burn into ash and float away.’ ‘Unlike you.’ The moss pauses. ‘Unlike me.’ ‘You’re still here.’ The moss frowns. ‘It’s too late. I’ve sunk. I’ll never return to the air. How could I possibly get back up there?’ I smile. ‘Are you warm?’ I ask. The lava swirls around us. ‘Yes,’ says the moss. 29

I smile. ‘Heat rises.’ And with that, I wave as the moss starts to float, up, and up, and up, past fossils and bones, through earth, through sand, and eventually hits air.

Trying This poem wants me to say through poetry we fix each other, but sometimes we don’t. This poem wants me to say that by sharing, we halve our pain, but what about a week later? This poem wants me to say something here, because lists in poems work well in threes. This poem is getting a fourth line that begins ‘This poem’ which is clunky and too long and breaks the rhythm because fuck this poem. When did our tools start using us? The temptation to make everything fine in the final four lines, end on a nice little rhyme so people can forget after closing time. We are all so broken, and I’m not sure words can fix us, but we’re trying. No one has all the answers. The confident ones are shit-scared. The quiet ones have the most to say. The loud laughers are bedroom criers. We’re tired, alone, afraid, but we’re trying. I don’t think that’s a good ending, but it’s true. I don’t think there’s much poetry in it, but it’s true. I don’t know if this poem says anything, except even if everything feels too much, you are enough. I don’t know what else to say, other than I’m trying.

Pijaykin

for the Mouthy ones

On the first day of secondary school, I drew my Pijaykin. A Pijaykin is a small flame, with big eyes, short legs, odd hands (I never could draw hands). There’s a Pijaykin inside each of us. They can be different shapes, sizes, colours. Mine was blue, buried beneath my ribcage. My teacher told me my Pijaykin was wrong, that we were being tested on real mythical creatures. I wanted to ask What’s a real mythical creature? but instead I said He is real to me. When I got caught throwing mud through the library window my Pijaykin told me it’s okay to make mistakes. When Sean Seavey put gum in my hair, my Pijaykin didn’t laugh. When I failed Physics A-level, my Pijaykin told me gravity is only a theory, anyway. But a flame needs fuel. After eighteen years of multiple choices, never getting any real choices, scolded for making my own answers, I was sure my flame was gone, doused by Don’t, Can’t, Not Like That. I was wrong. It was still there, buried beneath my ribcage with big eyes, short legs, odd hands (I still can’t draw hands). And it found them. Other flames drawn together, red, purple, gold, green, lost, low, nearly out, but when one would flicker 32

threatening to fall cold, another would share its warmth. That’s the thing with Pijaykins. They don’t die. It only takes one touch from another’s flame, and yours is given life again.

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Ty Healy

Tyrone Moran-Healy, better known as Ty Healy, is a rapper/poet from Nottingham. One of the lead frontmen for Legendary Nottingham Hip-Hop band ‘1st Blood’, Ty features heavily in the group’s visual and music releases distributed worldwide, and has also produced solo material incorporating a spoken word style. After establishing himself in the Nottingham poetry community, Ty released the full length spoken word album ‘Bury’ with music videos to accompany each track. In his own style, reciting poems over lush production inspired by various other genres of music, Ty is currently performing his new work across the UK. 34

Forever Healing Forever healing like the 89-year-old herbalist with a heart still as warm as it was decades before. Forever healing like time wind the clock back years ago and it makes sense now. Forever healing like water we ought to let our smiles gleam and give thanks that ours is clean. Forever healing like music when stress builds up to a ticking time bomb we use it to defuse it. Forever healing like prayer whether there’s a god or not there’s always a reason to speaking positivity into existence Forever healing like food now tell me that isn’t true! Forever healing because you can’t spell my name without heal and my soul is forever so I know that it’s real.

Moon And Earth

Taken from ‘Bury’

When she shows her full self the wolf comes out Light in the dark sky, she’s my moon I see shape, when she’s a little covered like moon I went fishing on the edge of a crescent She knows how my dream works too My heart departed with NASA I told Neil head straight for the moon We’re all alone of this earth Even though billions roam on this earth All I want is a woman for me in this earth One day plant some seeds in this earth Grow my own little trees in this earth A primal need to be on this earth Rain from the sky falls on this earth What do you see in the night on this earth? When it’s an eclipse, You take away my shine oh that moon Affects my behaviour, I’m a lunatic for that moon Such a cloudy past, When we met I only saw a half moon But then I saw red, Turns out she was quite the blood moon I still stare from this earth Telescopes won’t get me there from this earth There’s not really much I fear on this earth Except knowing no one is near on this earth Fully crowded, it can appear on this earth Fully clouded, nothing’s clear on this earth Seems every New Year on this earth Old thoughts make new tears burst Don’t let it break your spirit; you’ll be left lonely like moon Show love, you never know who’s your ‘Kuekuatsheu’ Have sex, bend over, and expose your full moon In the universe there’s millions but I only see one moon Make my head spin like this earth Been trying to understand women since birth Never will, you’ll see the end of this earth Before that happens, the gift and the curse 36

A dangerous thing but it works The lust the greed, the gluttony The sloth, the wrath, the envy And pride all things I fight on this earth.

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Quiet

Taken from ‘Bury’

It’s what freedom is to a slave It’s what the season is to the rain It’s what the evening is to the day It’s what time is to the winds of change It’s what a bouquet of flowers is to a grave It’s what a thought is to the brain It’s what advice is to a friend It’s what a vice was to a person on the mend It’s what injustice is to the poor It’s what success is to the rich It’s what hope is to the cure It’s what will power is to the sick It’s what love is to emotional barriers It’s what the bump is to a child carrier It’s what water is to the body It’s what opportunity is to a dreamer It’s what prosperity is to an achiever It’s what patience is to a firm believer It’s what confidence is to our demeanour It’s what energy is to a soul It’s what maturity is to how we grow It’s what an encore is to the show It’s what acceptance is to letting her go It’s what travel is to the eyes It’s what culture shock is to the mind It’s what an answer is to a question It’s what fulfillment is to the find It’s what spare change is to the homeless It’s what conversation is to a loner It’s what realisation is to stress levels It’s what food is to the hunger

It’s what a cause is to the rebels It’s what evolution is to the human It’s what a message is behind the movement It’s what fear was to 2012 It’s what peace could be for the world It’s just life, the reasons to live To put it simply, it just is what it is.

Poison What’s your poison? I’m normally poised and not quick to judge another’s choices however, I’m in the position of being glued to my phone screen as I’m seeing untimely deaths on the timeline being posted. Mental health has people defending themselves in their own mental courtroom. Dark thoughts appear as lawyers to the left and right, both trying to sue a side. The grim reaper doesn’t weep for our sorrow. If you call him enough, a call back will follow. So what’s your poison? I hope positive thoughts are your pain relief. It’s the only way to gain relief.

Sharp Tongues I’m on the fence as we go back and forth like we fence. And since I wear my heart on my sleeve every time I try an’ extend an arm out to you and you cut me you cut me twice as deep. In your defence you could say that you feel attacked but at least we are face to face no stabbing in the back. Sharp tongues are deadly weapons I retract this blade now, and just listen.

Corner Shop Blues Beer passing by his dry lips Contagious cough, he’s got cataracts yet still smokes cigarettes. Buying bread and milk but has to make a fiver last all week, it’s Tuesday. I bet in his apartment there’s many failed scratch cards discarded. These are the corner shop blues of a community outcast. I used to judge this book by its cover until I discovered the 1st chapter. It came from me deciding to say good morning once and everyday since has been “good morning young man” in response.

POETRY LAB

As part of Hockley Hustle 2018 Nottingham Young Poet Laureate Finalsists Cleo Asabre Holt, Ty Healy and Chris McLoughlin, with Nottingham City of Literature’s Leanne Moden facilitated a workshop for young writers. These are some of the poems which were produced during the day.

Emma Sporton I am I am dancing non-stop when no-one is watching. I am having time alone with all my closest friends. I am syrup-smothered pancakes before I’m late for school. I am dungarees and over-sized jumpers with odd socks and unruly hair. I am discarded plate full of food. I am personal questions digging deep. I am arrogant assumption disregarding real emotion. I am awkward social situations. I am closed streets at night. I am unnecessary backchat sprinkled with hate. I am singing for no reason with an audience of no encouragement or feeling. I am a performance of secret delight. I am a book in a tall tree with a blanket, hot chocolate, unlimited snacks, and a sunset not quite fading from view. I am support around a weak ankle. I am criticised so they don’t forget I’m human. I am apology after apology, trying to give something to you. I am silence at midday. I am a fox in perfect lighting. I am a library of my own. I am anything that makes me stand out from the rest.

Olivia Morel Remembering Small things, they might be But they are the things that truly matter Refusing to take what is given for granted, to seize the moments I am grateful to have been given What I try to live for, are the miracles in life so often overlooked, the sound of the bees, the prick of a finger when my curious fingers reach out to those precious rose buds. Long to hold them in my hands. Feel a beating heart warm in my chest, the air that fills my lungs enabling me to utter those words of love to those ones who matter. Walk into the space along the horizon that has no ending. Small things, now big again!

Daisy Beck Roberts Escape For me when I came here, I had a background of hate and of fear I was broken by things about which I had never spoken at the point where my ability was almost overshadowed by fragility but then I got an opportunity a chance to run away from a life where every day I was scared and alone fearing a slap, or a kick, or a broken bone now never give up is painted on my wall and there’s people to catch me when I fall

Holly Humphreys Postponed Putting words on the page is easier said than done. Search the city for inspiration and all that I find are useless placations like “never give up!” but it gets real hard when the poem’s on the tip of your pen begging for existence and you’re surrounded by so much colour, life yet my hands are dull and heavy with a refusal to move I’ve got nothing to lose by writing shit poems. Yet I can’t face myself knowing that what I’ve written is less than perfection. So, I put the pen down, turn away from the graffiti that mocks me with its flash like a neon sign, and like reverse psychology do what it desperately wants me not to: I give up. But only till tomorrow.

Morgan Peschek Today We are stealing back our childhoods. Light-up Ferris wheels, running shrieking through the fountain we will not be robbed again, so we shout louder than the catcallers, we laugh harder than the drunks, the concrete playground glitters more at night; we stare at the lit-up clock tower, we make wishes at eleven minutes past every hour. With adult money, we buy childish meals – pizza for breakfast, doughnuts for lunch. We have finally found a childhood in which we can be happy without playing pretend.

Big White Shed We are an enabling organisation and small independent press based in Nottingham. All our projects including our publications, are collaborative efforts. We work hard to develop networks between artists and organisations, as well as supporting and encouraging new talent. You can find out more about us at www.bigwhiteshed.co.uk or by following us on Facebook and Instagram. We host events on a regular basis in Nottingham and across the region. We are very proud to have been involved in this project with Nottingham UNESCO City of Literature. Since this book is a celebration of the young talent in the city we felt that it was important to work with a designer who embodied the same spirit, and we found that in Emily Catherine Illustration.

Emily Catherine Illustration

Emily Catherine is a freelance illustrator and artist from Nottingham specialising in hand drawn and painted designs. She is an award winning blogger and lover of Hip Hop. Emily’s work reflects on popular culture, urban aesthetics and the everyday. She has been published four times and her work ranges from album covers to greetings cards, to wall murals, beermat doodles and lots more. Emily welcomes private commissions. You can find out about her, buy her work and products here: www.emilycatherineillustration.com