Feb 2014
Word Bohemia
Love Collection The
of poetry and prose
STAFF Editors Sharon Woodcock Michelle Dunbar
COPYRIGHT This publication should not be reproduced (in whole or in part) without the written consent of Word Bohemia or the authors. The written pieces remain the copyright of the individual authors. All rights reserved.
EDITORIAL Valentine's Day means different things to us all: love, romance, a promise of a future together, and to some, memories of happier times. Within these pages are representations of Valentine's Day, capturing the spirit, meaning, and hope of this age old celebration. A happy Valentine's Weekend to all, from the editors of
Word Bohemia.
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Word Bohemia
CONTENTS 04 Stephanie Arsoska Broken Watch 05 Elwira Danak A Very Short Love Story 05 Elwira Danak For You I Will 06 Michelle Dunbar St. Valentine's Promise 10 Richard Kefford The Flame 11 Andie M Long Love Lessons Learned 12 Leanne Moden Lobster 13 Bob Moss Come On Round To Mine 14 Bob Moss The Ducks of Fog Lane 15 Becca Murdoch Desperate Mermaid 15 Becca Murdoch Eloquent Scratch 16 Becca Murdoch The Paths Of Us 17 David Vale The Visit 18 Sharon Woodcock Love in a Snowglobe 19 Sharon Woodcock Longing 20 Christine York The Romantic Meal 21 Christine York The Wedding Album
stephanie Arsoska
Broken Watch Buy me a broken watch. Fix the strap in an old jewellers shop but leave the cogs held fast. Buy me a broken watch. In its silence I’ll hear the beat of your words stitched to my heart. Buy me a broken watch I’ll wear it to Sunday Market and we’ll waltz by the fortune teller. Buy me a broken watch. I would wear it eternal, if I had you.
Stephanie Arsoska is a performer based in Scotland.You can find more of her work on her blog at: http://beautifulmisbehaviour.com, or Twitter: @StephArsoska.
elwira danak A Very Short Love Story They met online: hotjuan and bridget3077. Soon their cyber ardour began to dispel when their faceless, on-off heaven, at one click, turned to real life hell.
For You I Will Unpeel an onion, uneat a chocolate bar Banish the ice on this winter day Switch off all but one, a newborn star Unpeel an onion, uneat a chocolate bar Knead this crumb back into bread, make it last Water deserts at night, if I must I’ll unpeel an onion, uneat this chocolate bar Vanish the world on this winter day, for us
Elwira Danak writes haiku and a parenting-inspired blog: http:.blueberetmum.wordpress.com which has been a regular feature on the Britmums' website 'Poetry Round-Ups'. Her poem 'Coming Home' was published in the September Poetry Nook Magazine edition.
michelle dunbar St. Valentine's Promise He stands, puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out a velvet box. Opening the lid, he gets down on one knee and says the four words that will tie him down for the rest of his life; ‘Will you marry me?’ His fiancé squeals. She jumps up, wraps her arms around him and plants her lips on his. The white haired gentleman on the table beside mine holds his wife’s gnarled hand in his. He glances at the vacant chair opposite mine and offers me a look of sympathy. ‘He’s on his way,’ I mutter. A sip of the complimentary champagne warms me. I glance at my lap; my mobile phone and purse are nestled there in case I need to make a quick escape. It wasn’t my idea to come on this date after all, it was his. My mistake was mentioning it to my best friend, Sheryl. Three days of badgering and here I am, surrounded by diners high on St. Valentine’s promise of love. The bell above the door tinkles. Footsteps approach and somehow I find the courage to look up. ‘Bumbling_Dad?’ My voice is a little louder than is polite in a restaurant of this calibre. Diners look at me. My face flushes to match the bouquet he grips in his hand. He takes his seat. ‘So you’re Newmum_2_1?’ he says, gesturing to the single rose on the table. The waiter hands each of us the special Valentine’s menu, but he doesn’t even glance at it. ‘I’ll have the steak,’ he says, and then looks at me. ‘What about you?’ I glance at the menu. ‘Chicken Chasseur.’
‘Drink?’ ‘House wine.’ ‘Starter?’ I shake my head. ‘I’m on a diet.’ He offers me the bouquet once the waiter has left, but I pretend not to notice. ‘Come on, Hannah, they’re your favourites,’ he teases. I send a text to Sheryl. It contains just one word, and is her cue to send her husband, Eric, into the restaurant to rescue me. He’s parked close by, so all I need to do is remain calm and wait. ‘I missed you--’ I look away from the window. ‘That’s why you joined a dating site, is it?’ He leans forward. ‘So did you.’ The scathing look on my face corrects him on that point. ‘It was Sheryl,’ he says. ‘Wasn’t it?’ It was, and I’d been furious with her, but when she showed me the messages from bumbling_dad I’d relented. Our stories were almost identical, albeit from different perspectives, and now I know why - I’d been talking to Peter, my husband, all along. I stand up, gripping my phone in one hand and my purse in my other. ‘I’m going to the ladies…’ ‘Hannah—’
I am a mess. I still can’t get hold of Sheryl and my face is streaked in a mix of tears, mascara and eye shadow. I've cleaned myself up, but it doesn’t escape his notice. He looks at my bloodshot eyes and rises from his seat. ‘I shouldn’t have come…’ He stands, holding his mobile in one hand and his wallet in the other. He places three twenty pound notes on the table.
I stare at it. ‘What’s that for?’ ‘The dinner…’ ‘You are not leaving me sitting here on my own. Not in front of all these people.’ He turns around, sees several diners looking in our direction and slinks back into his seat. He looks down at his lap. ‘So why did you ask me here, Peter?’ ‘Me?’ He says, looking up. ‘This was your idea.’ ‘I--’ The opportunity to correct him is lost as the waiter arrives with our food. I send Sheryl another text. Applause fills the room as another young lady accepts a proposal of marriage. ‘I loved you.’ Peter swallows his mouthful. ‘I still love you.’ I slice a piece off my chicken and stab it with my fork. ‘Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ He lays his knife and fork down. ‘If you must know, I’ve been getting counselling.’ ‘For what? Walking out on your wife and child?’ ‘Not exactly…’ he says, and then looks again. I slam my cutlery down on the table, no longer caring if I make a scene or not. ‘Well go on then. What did you get counselling for?’ Peter wets his lips. He leans across the table. ‘Paternal depression,’ he whispers. ‘This is a joke, right?’ He unbuttons a shirt sleeve and shows me the red raw line of scarring across the inside of his wrist. ‘I thought you two would be better off without me.’
I rise from my seat, walk around the table and take his face in my hands. ‘Don’t you ever think that,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’ ‘I know.’ I wince as I remember some of the conversations I’ve had with bumbling_dad online, and he’s thinking the same thing. His eyes brighten. ‘So is it true? What you said about…you know?’ I slap his arm. ‘Don’t push it, mister. I didn’t know it was you.’ He pulls me towards him with the sweetest of laughs, and as our lips touch a loud applause echoes around the room. Returning to my seat, the waiter approaches our table with a bottle of champagne. ‘I’m sorry, but we didn’t order—’ ‘It’s courtesy of table three,’ he says. He points to the other side of the restaurant. Sheryl’s face appears above one of the trellis partitions as she raises a glass. She giggles, and then disappears from sight. ‘Is she drunk?’ I smile. ‘She is.’ Relief washes over Peter’s face. ‘Why?’ I ask. His face flushes red as he takes his mobile phone off his lap and places it on the table. ‘No reason.’
Michelle Dunbar is an Open University student (English Lit), and an avid reader. She is a Londoner, living in Glasgow. She has written several draft novels and screenplays, which are currently being edited. Her Twitter is: @MichelleDunbar8.
richard Kefford
The Flame It is in my heart, at the centre of my knowing and being. It loves, therefore it is. It is at the now of every day It is the first at the waking and the last at the sleeping. It casts a true light without shadows and changes what I am It has no knowing of the how of itself It has a spirit that needs neither fuel nor air. It will abide in my heart as long as there is breath in me. It cannot be quenched by words or deeds, It has a knowing of the spirit that transcends talking and doing. It wants nothing but your love. It is the flame that is my love for you.
Richard Kefford studied Creative Writing with the Open University. He lives in Somerset, where he enjoys wood turning, hill walking, practical geology and writing. He currently works with the Publisher, CafĂŠ Three Zero, and blogs at: http:// www.richardsritingblog.blogspot.co.uk.
andie M Long Love Lessons Learned A spider beckoned me with the hook of its leg. I noticed it spinning a web, trying to hold on in spite of the wind. I heard a whisper: 'That's a lot like love', and in gentle breezes to great powerful storms, your love threatens to rip apart. All that from a spider. I placed an infinity scarf around my neck and saw its figure eight on my mirrored self and thought: 'This is a lot like love.' You can't work out where it begins, but within its thread you feel comfort or strangulation. Wisdom from a scarf. I complained to my fiancĂŠ: 'You never say you love me.' He took me by the hand and guided me through our house, pointed to every brick he'd assembled, each cupoard he'd hung. Love in every nail, in the glue. My home was built with love. He taught me about what matters. A twenty four year anniversary on February eighth. The date is etched in my mind, but we won't go out, we won't mark the occasion. Every day, every word, every argument, every look, every sigh. They all celebrate LOVE.
Andie M Long is a writer with several published short stories and poems. She is currently editing her second novel and drafting a third. You can tweet her @andiemichelle and find her on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/andiemlongwriter.
leanne moden Lobster This man treats monogamy like a palace, not a prison This man doesn't run from every small romantic schism This man keeps you grounded when the storms inside are raging This man does the washing up (with only light persuasion) This man shares his secrets, his worries and his thoughts This man builds your self-esteem (and first-class pillow forts) This man treats all those he meets with patience and with kindness This man held your hair back when you had that nasty virus This man likes discussions but, if wrong, backs down with grace This man points (discreetly) when you've something on your face This man lets you be yourself and doesn’t judge you for it This man liked your article the first time that he saw it This man views all of your faults with puzzling affection This man never mentions your My Little Pony collection This man keeps your hopes alive for all humanity This man makes a decent cup of milky builders' tea This man is your lobster (if that doesn't sound too twisted) This man is your soul mate, if such a thing existed.
Leanne Moden - Fenland Poet Laureate 2013. She can be contacted via: liannith@live.co.uk @crimsonebolg and www.tenyearstime.blogspot.co.uk.
bob moss Come on Round to Mine If you’re fond of complex carbohydrates, Take a chance and stop by my place, You can have baguettes and pizza, Lilt and Fanta by the litre, We could even watch Blue Peter, Come on round to mine There’s a goldfish with the hump, I’ve got sugar by the lump, The screen might flicker when it rains, Ignore that smell it’s just the drains, The slugs and snails don’t complain, Come on round to mine We can stop in with Otis and Marvin, Find an old oak and do some carving, Your initials right next to mine, Doing our best to outlive time, You’ll never have to stand in line, Come on round to mine.
Bob Moss writes poems from the warm shelter of his shed in a Lancashire back garden.
bob moss
The Ducks of Fog Lane I want to touch every blade of grass Suck in the grey of the skies Take me back to shattered glass Sundays To bask in the rain for a while Old Moat needs me and wants me Ladybarn just not the same Alexandra can do without me But I need the ducks of Fog Lane Let me pick at the rust on the paintwork Let me kick a path through the leaves Drink in the morning’s graffiti Hear Saturday’s beckoning plea There’s a bubble in a post war terrace That has a heartbeat all of its own
Bob Moss writes poems from the warm shelter of his shed in a Lancashire back garden.
becca murdoch Desperate Mermaid I manned the boat, while you watched waves and dipped into the sea. You swam with dolphins and promised one day my turn would come, but on that day I fell asleep, the boat had sprung too many leaks. Inches covered the vessel, which spread quick and vast. The solution was clear - to get out fast. I joined you in the sea, weightless and free, but you screamed 'What have you done?' Waves lapped and the water tasted beautiful. I looked at you, and knew what I must do. I leaped and flicked my fin, let the waves carry me back to my fellow kin.
Eloquent Whispers We talk into the night: butterflies and heartbeats, soft and beautiful, and as we cascade into each other, loneliness passes and this moment becomes a scratch on eternity.
Becca Murdock is in love with writing poetry, making people laugh and seeing the world.
becca murdoch The Paths of Us Please do not finish the sentence I cannot bear to hear the words, or to divide friendships and favourite places, or see you brush her hair and recite Shakespeare sonnets. You crawl moonlit strolls, where stars echo the paths of us mere moments ago. Maybe you will buy her flowers? Lilies, my favourite. See my broken heart in their musky scented petals. Maybe you will remember that store, the box, our promised future? now submerged at the bottom of our pond.
Becca Murdock is in love with writing poetry, making people laugh and seeing the world.
david vale The Visit I dreamt of an old love last night. We were in an unfamiliar room, she lay asleep upon a white bed, curled amidst the satin folds of a burgundy gown. Jet black curls spilled free across a white pillow, smoke against a sky heavy with snow. Awakening gently, she smiled at me, eyes blinking open, white irises slowly darkening to the familiar brown of dark of age polished oak. Amber lights glinting in her steady gaze. She rose from the bed and stretched as a cat might. The shimmering gown played along the lines of her form, her bare feet making no sound above the soft whisper of the moving fabric stroking her legs. She nestled in beside me, her body shaping itself to mine, a pale, bare arm draped across my shoulders, one hand resting against my chest. Her old, unconscious gesture of ‘keep close, but not too close’. Cool. Yet her body was warm against me, warm and inviting like the smile in her eyes, the laugh in her voice, the subtle, citrus scent of her skin. A kiss, brief and rich as a swallow of wine, the heady taste of her lingering on my lips. After a moment she spoke, her tones low and familiar. ‘I ought to go but your love keeps me here. Who'd want to walk away from that?’ ‘But it's binding you here too, Sweetie.’ And with that, she rose. Her arm releasing me, one cool hand running across my cheek, over my neck and shoulder, then down my arm before squeezing my fingers softly and swiftly. She turned and walked away, never looking back. Her form haloed in sunshine, the gown glowing softly with reflected light. I awoke in the cold half light of false dawn, rain tapping at my window like the busy fingers of an idle hand. I don't believe in Gods and monsters, in ghosts and prophesy. Not any more. Myth and magic died for me when she did. Now I believe in a cold, hard universe that doesn't care. But I also believe that even though your heart knows what's good for you, love will only ever die when it is forgotten. No love should ever be forgotten...
David Vale is a writer, performer, singer of songs, driver of boats, lover of life, and eater of pies...
sharon woodcock
Love in a Snow Globe We scoped our future with a violet sky and steeped icing sugar into the clouds. We mapped a journey around our world: within our confines, and built a hideout, a miniature landscape. As flakes fell, year on year, our kisses morphed into symbols on the cave walls, until the blizzard swept us into its clutches.
Sharon Woodcock studied Creative Writing with the Open Univerity, and has published various poems, which have appeared in print and online webzines. She writes screenplays, prose and poety. Her Twitter is: woosha8.
sharon woodcock
Longing A chocolate knows its fate: in the packaging, in its perfect shape, how fingers will touch the smooth yet stippled peak and prize it from its sheltered sleep, the warmth of touch to melt its home of quiet still: hesitant of bite told to generations of molds where there is longing, there is hope.
Sharon Woodcock studied Creative Writing with the Open Univerity, and has published various poems, which have appeared in print and online webzines. She writes screenplays, prose and poety. Her Twitter is: woosha8.
christine york The Romantic Meal I'd gone shopping for the romantic meal at M & S I'd bought candles, roses and a brand new sexy red dress, I'd chosen aphrodisiac food, feel fuller, satisfied, I was hoping for some action, some passion, and a good time. If only all the effort had been worth it, I'd be there Spread eagled on satin sheets (handcuffed?) naked, bare! I wouldn't be here alone, writing a poem - having a moan, NO! I'd be riding waves of pleasure, without a care. From The Fish Counter I'd selected fresh oysters in their shells, Well you know what they say they look like, don’t you girls? But they stayed tightly shut, like vestal virgins' chastity belts, And I cut my finger trying to open them, and it hurt! Oh if only the oysters had opened I'd be there, Sipping from a flute, popping a cork (metaphorically speaking) in my red sexy underwear, I wouldn't be rummaging around in the kitchen drawer for a plaster, I'd be screaming 'Oh my God, go faster, FASTER, FASTER!!!' Oh if only the oysters had opened I`d be there. I'd run a Jacuzzi bath, with aromatic oils, A back massaged, I'd given, I'd really toiled; Downstairs, I’d laid the table, but I hadn't read the labels on the candles, 'Do not leave unattended, or they`ll spoil !!!' Oh if only I`d read the labels on the candles I would be there, Not stinking of smoke, with very badly singed pubic hair, My inhibitions I could have relinquished, instead of the flames I had to extinguish! Oh if only I had not left the candles unattended, I would be there. Riding bareback, with a lasso, Saying 'Hey Cowboy do I look like Dolly Parton? Oh my darling I do love you.' We'd have Yee Hah fun, I might get to hold a big gun, I'd say 'Take it out of the holster Honey, now shoot!' But I wasn`t there, It was a waste of time, money and effort, I didn`t even get to wear my new underwear, We gave up on the session, although I do have a confession, It turned out to be quite a nice evening really, as I put my pj’s on and watched a documentary on TV About Global Warming - a very 'current affair!'
christine york
The Wedding Album He used to write her songs and little rhymes Tell her he loved her almost constantly ‘Me thinks I love you’ he spun the line ‘You're the only girl for me, I love you, honestly’. Married in a pretty village church White dress, pink flowers, traditional hymn. Photographed in poses on the verge Outside the gates then off to celebrate with Pimms. Happy day, the smiles give that impression Her dad looks proud her mum looks younger The album’s faded and so’s the recollection He works away all week, his wife now hungers For that one time she was all that mattered She fights temptation from cream cakes, she’s getting fatter.
Christine York iuses cheeky couplets and risqué rhymes and writes about life from the perspective of 'a woman of a certain age'. Her poems are primarily written for comedic performance, but do 'stand-up' on the page. Hopefully they will bring a chuckle to your chest!
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