Creative Work: ‘lessons from mum (the hardest poem I’ve ever wrote)’ by Yessica Klein

This week we have a poem from the talented writer and photographer Yessica Klein.

The power of this poem comes from its potent honesty. As a discussion of feminism through the view of someone not familiarised with the lofty theories behind it, this poem shines a refreshing and forceful light on the core of relationships between mother and daughter.

lessons from mum (the hardest poem I’ve ever wrote)

mum married a man who drank as her father
whom she lost at 15 due to alcohol poisoning

motherhood was her dream
so she gave up her job to raise her daughters properly
and both left
one to Berlin
one to Stockholm
at 22 and 20 respectively

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Creative Work: ‘Julie’ by Subramanian K. S.

This week we have the pleasure of featuring a poet from India. Subramanian K.S. shares his distinctive style and jaunty use of language in ‘Julie’, a piece which harkens back with a harrowing message. This poem is nostalgic for any reader who knows what i means to be hampered down with responsibilities. 

Julie

Some leer, a few jeer
the rest cheer at Julie,
Circus girl, flexing her
sinewy frame; acrobatics

Creative Work: ‘Faith’, ‘Tinfoil’, and ‘Decisions’ by C. S. Fuqua

WPN is hopping South over the border this week to share with you three poems from C. S. Fuqua from Las Cruces, New Mexico. At once both visual and conversational, these pieces leave a lasting image on the mind.

Faith

The old man’s on the bank,
rifle ready to pluck off any head
foolish enough to break surface.
I don’t believe a word of it,
he says.
All this about the world heating up—
it’s nonsense.
Just normal cycle of things.
It’s all happened before.
Read the bible and you’ll see.
He spits, scans the water.
I ask him about the frogs
that glutted this pond
when I was a boy.
Just faded away, he says.
Probably farm poisons.
He’s silent for several long moments.
Finally, he clears his throat, says,
If this old world’s warming,
then it’s the fault of science.
That’s what gave us the means,
and that’s what can give us the remedy.
Water stirs, and a turtle’s head rises.
The old man levels the rifle, fires,
and the head explodes.
I ask, Why’d he surface?
Faith or calculated risk?
The old man chuckles,
still scanning the pond’s surface.
Damn thing was just stupid.

Creative Work: ‘Weathering (Winter on Nantucket)’ by Julia Rose Lewis

WPN is proud to be introducing a long line of phenomenal poets over the next few weeks, beginning with Kingston University Creative Writing MFA student, Julia Rose Lewis. Julia is not a stranger to form, often creating complicated works that rely on structure as much as content. Feel the cool rocks. Taste the salty water on your tongue. Listen to the crunch of the sand beneath your feet. All the senses are awakened as we travel to Nantucket, sitting on the rocks as the water crashes beneath us and the winter settles into our bones.

Weathering (Winter on Nantucket)

Water,

sand,

rock,

stone,

hand,

and wood.

Wood,

he works with, and always water.

To the hand,

the sand is sticky and slippery the stone.

The island is a rock,

Creative Work: ‘Extract of a Sick Morning’ by Maria Copley

On this glorious Sunday, we have a short poem from Maria Copley debut poet and writer to Words, Pauses, Noises. Maria is a recent graduate from Kingston University’s creative writing undergraduate degree programme. In her poem, ‘Extract of a Sick Morning’ she shares her poetic anecdote on life’s ups and downs.

Extract of a Sick Morning

Salivate in delight of love,

salivate when things go wrong

and your stomach revolves.

Salivate at the presence of clear water,

salivate at the feeling of loss,

salivate and wash yourself in tears;

salivate life death will dry it all.

 

Short and stoic. Maria observes the body physical with our obstacles that culminate together when we hit our lows, and reminds us that life is ours to salivate over. If you think you have what it takes, send your submission to kingstonCWMA@gmail.com and we’ll post your literary nuggets of wisdom.

Creative Piece: ‘The Spiders’ by Catherine Franklin

This week, Words, Pauses, Noises returns to both poetry, and to one of our former WPN contributors. Catherine Franklin shares her alternative take on the eight-legged creatures that scurry above our heads at night in her delightful poem, ‘The Spiders’.

 

 

The Spiders

 

For years I watched the cobwebs lace their way
Across the ceiling high above my bed.
A canopy of tangled works of art,
Progressing nightly, thriving thread by thread.

I watched the different spiders come and go,
And saw them lie in wait to catch their prey.
Once satisfied, they left their webs behind
To gather dust, and then were on their way.

I grew used to their nocturnal routines,
And gazed in awe as they displayed their skill.
Yet as they slaved at mastering their craft,
All night through I lay completely still.

My eyes, alive, would dart around the room.
Adjusted fully to the lack of light.
The rest of me stayed motionless in bed,
My limbs so weary by that time of night.

Insomnia had rearranged my life;
The evenings dragged and filled my heart with dread.
Too tired to play like any other child,
I chose to watch the spiders live instead.

 

The act of watching these creatures leaves the readers with more questions about the little child, than the peculiar pastime. But there’s an emphasis on the visual that is appreciated in this iambic pentameter piece. While many may not agree to free reign that spiders have in our bedrooms at night, observing animals without disturbing their habitats is a lesson overdue. 

Thanks again for stopping in to get your weekly fix of Words, Pauses, Noises. If you would like to see your creative piece up here, email us at kingstonCWMA@gmail.com with your submission. Check our guidelines for more information.  See you next Sunday!

Creative Work: ‘Two Elevens’ by Jonathan Brick

Some say it’s been summer since the first of May. Other say June, but there’s that not-so-tiny population who associate a certain sports event with the beginning of a good summer every four years. And debut writer to Words, Pauses, Noises, Jonathan Brick showcases this fanaticism for football in his poem, ‘Two Elevens’, right on time for the World Cup 2014. 

Two Elevens

Written in the aftermath of the 2013/4 Premier League football season

There stands a craggy gargoyle, his feet all sunk in clay

He could never cut it when the cuttings were so cruel.

The gargoyle prowled, the younger version of the last

Without the nous or gracelessness or necessary vim.

Yes, they got into the last eight, but not into t’top four;

The money spinning dizzily, it landed on a tail.

They kept the number ten and brought another in,

And number twenty, injured, spurned him publically.

The captain didn’t want to fight, the youngsters wanted out.

And so, forty weeks later, the door was shown. He’s out.

The gaffer served a P45. Football. Bloody. Hell.

Creative Work: ‘sketch print’ by George Temple

This week’s post comes to us from a wonderful young fellow all the way over the water in Jackson, Mississippi.  Inspired by ‘the process of creating a diamond,’ George Temple’s poem ‘sketch print’ is a wonderfully manic read that builds up without a breath and drops us at the end, wanting more.  

 

sketch print

it is october 2009 and I am the act of memory
a process crumbles detritus 100 miles below the crust
typical of my dreams the narratives cohere we walk
the brickstreets in old town and you tell me everything
is alright a tiny seed placed in a ceramic capsule
for months I wake to plain bobby pins and handwritten notes
at 1500°C blue flakes of graphite liquefy and reform on the surface
of the seed which is actually a small amber diamond when I move
in 2011 bobby pins are everywhere with the force of a mountain
between steel wedges sealed by hydraulic ram and lock-rings stop
sending me messages hydrogen selectively etches off
non-diamond carbon it’s hit or miss sometimes you don’t want
to be friends open the machine after four days
the ceramic layer is broken away with a hammer I drink plum vodka
on your birthday soak the inner metal casing in hydrochloric acid
for five hours
the most stable form

Interview: On Poetry and More with Wendy Cope

Wendy Cope is one of the most beloved contemporary British poets, known for her wit and succinct expression. When she was rumoured to become the next poet laureate she announced that she wasn’t interested, believing that a poet should be free to write the poems they want to write. Even more amazingly, she makes a living from writing poetry and, to our continuous joy, runs poetry workshops at Kingston University. WPN is proud to present Wendy Cope in conversation with Boyana Petrovich, discussing things poetry, literature and life related.

By Boyana Petrovich

Wendy, you sold your archive to the British Library in 2011. It included 40,000 emails, poetry notebooks, school reports, Word files, early school work, correspondence and accounts books. What struck me most was that you had all this saved in the first place, most of us don’t even keep a diary. What motivated you to collect such an extensive archive? Were there things you decided to exclude from the archive and keep just for yourself?

I’ve always tended to keep letters and so on, even before I had any thought of being a published writer. When I got published I became aware that my documents might be of interest at some stage.

In 2011 I needed to raise money to buy a house – my partner was retiring and the house we lived in went with his job. So I contacted the British Library. To persuade them to buy I had to throw in a few things I would rather have kept.

After you published Serious Concerns Ted Hughes wrote to you: “I like your deadpan fearless sort of way of whacking the nail on the head – when everybody else is trying to hang pictures on it.” How would you describe your poetry? How would you like people to remember it?

Creative Work: Poetry “Metal” by Neil Horabin

Enjoy the second part of this Sunday post. 

‘Metal’ 

By Neil Horabin 

guitar strings, jacks and cables, pedals, more cables,

his fingers pick at the four strings in rotation and the feedback rises, sustains

he presses his lips against the mesh of the mic, lets out a murmur

and begins to sing;

‘home,

home is not a place for,

home is just wherever you are,

and you are all the world to me’

I picture you, back pressed up against the wire fence,

the rust leaves a message on your coat,

and I feel your lips on mine, my tongue on your teeth

they’re sort of metallic, I love that, the cold, the dryness,

tingling, capturing, magnetic.

you twist your fingers into mine,

your wedding ring scraping my skin,

as it should do,

then your mouth is on my neck and

those sensations lacerate my spine,

I take your earring into my mouth,

the gold, the diamond I bought for you,

and then it’s all hands and zips,

urges,  demands,

you climb all over me and pull me into you

controlling hands on my backside and frantic mouth upon mine

tongues unfurled once again, rose petals searching for the sun

melting away you have to cry out and I cannot stop myself

and you hold me tighter into you and push us over onto the ground

and all I can see is your silhouette, and metal.

Words, Pauses, Noises is fortunate to have not only talented writers but also innovative creators. Enjambment and the creative choice: to capitalise or not to capitalise – only touch on a small selection of poetic design, but such choices have charged the work of many of today’s up and coming poets. The Forward Prize for 2013 Best First Collection was awarded to Emily Berry at the British Museum 1 October. Her elegant, humorous, and striking collection “Dear Boy” encompasses incomparable tact in form and ingenuity. Words, Pauses, Noises praises, publishes and promotes the experimental revolution that continues to flourish in new literature.