fires in the north
DESCRIPTION
A Collection of Northerly Writings.TRANSCRIPT
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Editor'sNote TheideaforFiresInTheNorthwasconceivedearlyin2013.Bythistime,myinfatuationwiththeNorthwasamajorpartofmydailylife,andIdesperatelyneededanoutletthroughwhichIcouldsharemythoughts,ideasanddesiresaboutallthingsnortherly.Ialsowantedtoinviteotherpeopletodothesame.SoIdecidedtocreateanon‐linecommunitywhichwouldcelebratetheNorthinallitsforms.Withthispublication,Icanproudlysaythatiswhathasbeenachieved.FiresInTheNorthfeaturesnewandestablishedwritersandartistsfromacrosstheBritishIsles,exploringtheNorththroughpoetry,proseandart.Ihopeyourenjoyyourjourney,andbesuretoletmeknowofyourexperienceatkatiemariemetcalfe@hotmail.co.ukKatieMetcalfe.February2014
CarlingfordLoughwasfirstpublishedbyEveryDayPoets,November2011
Acknowledgements
WithspecialthankstoPhilRobinson,SamMetcalfe,DorrieFearnley,ZedandAndrew
McCallum.
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ContentsRosieGarland
‐ExplainingCold
‐NorthernGods
‐RepairingYorkshire
BobBeagrie
‐Wolfling
‐DeathSongforMosesCarpenter
‐Tampere‐Jyvaskyla
OzHardwick
‐BurningtheBush
‐Blade
‐Landscape
MaeveBuckenham
‐Winter
‐LegatoShadows
‐BirdBonesinWinter
MarionClarke
‐CarlingfordLough
‐CarlingfordLoughfromWarrenpoint,NorthernIreland‐oilandacrylics
NickPemberton
‐OnceUponatimeinCumberland
‐Carlisle‐Summer‐Foot&Mouth
AndyHumphrey
‐DolphinSeason
‐ArcticTerns
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AndrewMcCallum
‐Sumvya
‐Maeshowe
‐Carsluith
FayeWylie
‐BottleofNotes
ChristyHall
‐Bracken
‐WedroveouttoAnywhere
CarolFenwick
‐Beowulf
ChrisRobinson
‐LochNess
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RosieGarland
Explaining Cold No,it’smorelikethis:acountrysofar
tothenorththatwaterturnstostone
ifleftoutdoorsinwinter.Youhide
yoursmilebehindyourhand,embarrassed
thatI,afriend,couldtellsuchlies.
IwouldshowyouwhatImeanif
therewasthewhitehulkofafridge‐freezer
andelectricitytopowerit;iftherewasanything
butthisheatthatpinsmedowneachafternoon
squeezingsweatintothemattress
whilesteelhammerssteelbehindmyeyes.
Letmetryagain:itisahandthatcanthrottle
thelifeoutofaman.Hemusthideindoors
atnight,wrappedincoats,inshirts,ineverything
heowns.Youshakeyourhead,shrug
thisevening’swarmtheasyfromyourshoulders.
Likethis,then.Itisabootkickingastranger
inanalleyway.Itisthewordsspat
againstyourfaceatabusstop.
Thisismyhome.Thisisthebiteofcold.
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Northern gods CommutersonthebusfromArmley,
fatwithcarrierbags,knowwehate
thoseblokesinLondon,wieldingcuts
toourhospitals,ourschools,ourheating.
WemightnotremembertheHarryingoftheNorth‐
WilliamtheBastardandhisthugsslaughtering
ourfathers,mothers‐butweknowdarksoil,
themoorsmarkedoutwithsheep,daubedred.
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Repairing Yorkshire Firstyouhavetodismantleit.Nopointtrying
toplugholeswilly‐nilly.Thestonesturn
greencheekstothesurpriseofOctobersunlight.
Hebends,shavedheadrussetfromthelifting,
sweatersnaggedattherightwristandunravelling.
Hecradleseachboulderasyoumightababyoutofacot.
OvertheCalderValley,theskychangesinthespace
ofmoments.Themancrinkleshiseyes
asacloudshapedlikeananvilhammersdownthehorizon.
Anunpackedsixfootstretchofdrystonewall.Eachonelaidout,
readytobesetright.Toeachside,thewallcollapses
inalitteroftoppledmarkers,asfarashecansee.
RosieGarlandhasalwaysbeenacuckoointhenest.Sheisaneclecticwriterandperformer,rangingfromsinginginGothbandTheMarchViolets,toalter‐egoRosieLugosi,twistedcabaretsinger.Herlatestsolocollectionofpoetryis‘EverythingMustGo’ HollandParkPress .Heraward‐winningdebutnovel‘ThePalaceofCuriosities’HarperCollins isoutnow.Hersecondnovel,'Vixen'isdueinJune2014.
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BobBeagrie
Wolfling (after Angela Carter) indenofwood,notrailoutmeringedbyskinsoftreesgaggingonreekoftwoleggedonesmethrash,mespitandsnarlandshithowtheybleatlikefear‐flockedsheep‐up‐climboutofgraspofclawswipeandbitethewindinmesendsmelashingwhirl‐quakeinstormgusts;mehuffandpuffandblowandbreakafatmoon‐wailvomitsfromme’slipstornfromme’sthroatandmekeenme’spackonthehighscarpcallback,
callback!andcome‐on‐comeclosertohere’sdeadwooddenwherehotsun‐tonguesbreedbadandcackleinblackstonehole‐meshakeallupsidedown
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Death Song for Moses Carpenter SlidingthroughrapidsoflightanoceanoftreesdeepastheseaswecrossedtotravelthesetownstosellourbottledwarestocatchourdeathinsmogSlippingthroughflamesofleavesinFallmoccasinsilentinthisplaceofflintkeeperoftheeasterndoorharvestsunlightgrindseedSweepingthroughshallowsofshadowchaffhuntdownthedarkbleedit,skinitspreadoutitscarcasebottleitsjuice,carveoutaflyingheadBreathingthroughphlegmofastalelakesnowcloudsrollfromthemountainstofillmyribcagefreezesinewandbonecarrymehome
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Tampere - Jyvaskyla IdlemachinesittingMustamakkarafedrucksackcrampedsuit‐casedtomorrowsmelodiousretentionscaseendingchattercompactFinnnounsstereosungBeatles“Letitbe,letitbe!”stridingstonestepsofspiralledobservationsunsprayingpaleraysonearlywinteredwoodslakeskimmingtostakeunknowing’sflungedgefortribalslowmigrationtrailsglacialmeltssealhuntersinstepstrappersgrittedteethreindeerbreath‐quillsdrivendue‐frostNorthfrominvadingderelictioncomeseasonsthrusttheoldsausagefactoryit’snowhereladderit’scrawlspacemapsit’surnsofspiltdustmotherMarycomesout‐headingcitylimitsfornight’selkforestswithroad‐lulledlidstowardweird‐pluckedhearthomeoflearningsteepedinwildwisdom“Letitbe,letitbe!”BobBeagrieisapoet,playwrightandseniorlecturerincreativewritingatTeessideUniversity.Hehasperformedatnumerousfestivalsandvenuesinternationally,aswellascollaboratingwithmusicianshehasalsoworkedcloselywithvisualartistsonpublicartworksandwiththeatrecompanyThreeOverEden.HisworkhasbeentranslatedintoUrdu,Dutch,Finnish,Russian,Spanish,andSwedish.HismostrecentcollectionisGlassCharacters RedSquirrelPress .
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OzHardwick
Burning the Bush Theyear’smidnight.Coldbreath,hardasstones,fallsupwards,rattlingstars.Beforethefirststepsonpolishedtiles,listenasoldleavescrackletoflame.Hawthornandmistletoe,twinedandtied,bloombrightbloodtothecomingdawn.
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Blade I am sword, the gold of kings or men, generous, with precious stanzas to give away. I come of men whom fame should reconcile with danger: precious matter for my pay. The magnificent king demands iron thought, entrusts his people to a greater strife. But his son is furnished for his brave deeds: royal, generous, and he may speak with Gods. No, he gave a task but I explained that I can serve only one lord. Behold, old farmers fear such undertaking but the defender stands with his back to you. Look at this: your kinsmen wait on the fells with rich rings. I place words frankly among your supporters: Mark the snake’s earth. My oath comes later than I intended. Send them back.
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Landscape Iseeyoushortlyafterdawnorperhapsatsunset,yourshadowscratcheduponripefieldsthecolourofoldpaper,inkinglinesthroughsoftlight.Yourstill,tautlimbsbecomeboleandbranches,carvedtoasemblanceofyourself,staringunblinkingatthesun.Memorymakesstatuesofusall.
Widelypublishedinjournals,OzHardwick’slatestpoetrycollectionisAnEschatologicalBestiary DogHorn,2013 ,andhehasperformedhiswork,bothsoloandincollaborationwithavarietyofmusicians,inEurope,theUSA,andthroughouttheUK.Byday,OzisProgrammeLeaderforEnglishandWritingatLeedsTrinityUniversity.
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MaeveBuckingham
Winter Islipmyfingersintoyourfreckles,Embellishinganoutbreathonyourbedside.Winterreducedyoutosparsity,Butyouweatheredit.Igesturethespoontowardsyourlips,Detachinavacancy,aswhispersdissipateonmytongue.Horseteeth,yellowingandelder,chomponthemetalbit,likerockgratingAgainstcement...Applesaremajesticallydecomposinginthewalledgarden,edible,butugly.Iblink.Soonitwillcometopass.Theholewillovulate,Circumnavigate.Winddiscreditstheludicrousheat.Watererasesseconds...milliseconds,fromapocalypticdestinies.Screamsdisheveltheblackness,evadingonlyyourEyes,likejetdiamondsinwhitespotlights.Youaremistrustful,glaringwithaninsipidvengeanceBeneathyourferalbrows.TearsLeaktheirwillowyrivulets,downtoyourjawbones.Iknowyouhurt,butIamrawtoo.Youweren'ttheonlyone,carvingthenarwhalmeat.Thewindowencompassesyourpara‐suicidaltendencies,ButIamaccustomedtoyourdeceit.Besides,you'vedrownedyourselftoomanytimesbefore,Inavirulentseaoftorsion.Thereisnothingleftofyourformerself.Ishouldknowthatbynow,butIstillpersist.Ipersisttoechoyourwilderness,tofollow
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Your shadows imbued by waxen lavender. It will be the full moon tonight, And you still haven't uttered a word. You haven't ingested any of those cigar biscuits that only Granny could caress beyond your moistened tongue. You're already transversing, scraping your talons impatiently Against the stone walls, and howling with a feral Brevity. The door swings on its hinges, thundering With your paradox. There is nothing that can contain it. Can I?
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Legato Shadows LegatoShadowsfellacrosstheirfaces,Aresidueofmoonlightdilatingthecaptive'spupils.Dovehandsunfolded,consolingTuesday.Itcametoosoon,behindthelidofMonday,thatBlackenedtoveilReykjavik.Thesparrowcorpsewastuckedupinthesock,Thecolourofmilk.Shewashedthecreamfromthelining,letthecandlewhineintoherskin,tilltherewassilence.I'veownedtomorrowsinceIwassixyearsold.Comatoseintheattic,coalescingwiththedawn,daisychainslingerandinterlinklingerandinterlinkPirouetteandclink....Shadowsskeweredouridentities‐shewouldnotlethimopenthegate,tothebottom.Sheburiedthesockdeeperinherdrawer,camouflagingthebodywiththoseredandwhite'oneinamillion'Booflesocks.Lilygaveherthose.Memories,scatteredsomewhereinthecoffeejar,glareatmesilkensinister.Hazeleyes.Ebonylashes.Conveyerbelts.Outofout‐breaths....Mascaradribblesdownyourcheeks.Streams,Likewillowbranchestiptoeingacrosstheice.Ice‐skating...wedidplentyofthat,Flickeringasbutterfliesexfoliatetheflaw,thecore,saggingmelancholy,fallingdowntobeslippedaway.Snowflakes.Toastwithagavenectar.Bubblesrisetoasurfacethin.Lanugohairadornsthefrailsummerlemon.Dovehandsconstrict.White.Kleenextissues.Whitewhitewhite...Andwaxentears,nimbleearlobeswithholesToogapingforanepitomeofthroat,Infiniteforamicrocosm.
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Bird bones in Winter ThefleshwasincandescentlywaningFromherwearybirdbonesLikeacommiserationwithdeath.Sheknewtheafterlifealready.Youcouldseeitinhersunkenmooncageparameters.Youcouldseethecoarsewrinklelinesofexperience,thatetchedhermotherhoodacrosshereunuchwomb.Thebrokensilence;thatwasunfathomabletotheoutside.Hereyeslulledtheechoesfromwithintheshadows,Lurkingdiabolicallyontheoutskirts.Shewasunhinged,alwaysGazingabsentlyintotheforlorndistance.ThewindowremainedfractionallyajarAndyoucouldjustaboutmakeouttheindistinctweepingOftheAutumnrainThatseldomceaseditsWaferwhisperingupontherooftiles.TherewasnothingforherBeyondtheroomshehadencased,and,pervasivelydeconstructedhersoulin,ThecompartmentsshehadsofugitivelyretainedFortearsForurineForeyesForbileForblood;Andofcoursehervisceralheart,stillpulsatinggentlyLikeaflounderinggauzecurtain,Billowinginthehushedbreeze.Shewasbroken.Therewasnothingthatcouldconsoleherconvulsinglimbs,Hershatteredbeating‐Herconvictedribcage.Noonedaredaddressherbyname,OrcarefullyparttheCurtainsofunkemptblackhairThatvexedherelf‐likefeatures.Itwasoverlongagoandsheknewit.Theglasswasfracturedwithinhergarnishedhands,Yethersteelyabstinenceevadedscrutinyorderision.Sherockedminutelyinadistractedstate,mullingovertheyearsShehadsharedwithherego,andnoneoftheothercallers.Therewasvioletthereonce.TherewascolouramidsttheforlorndecadenceOfsilentsleeping.
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MaeveBuckenhamisawriter,filmmakerandphotographerfromtheSouthEastofEngland.ShegraduatedwithadegreeinfineartinJune2013andhashadherwritingpublishedinBigEyesmagazine,aswellaskeepingaregularblogwww.throughtheglassontheotherside.blogspot.co.uk.Herworkconfrontsmentalillness,inparticularAnorexiaandBulimiaNervosa,socialanxiety,depressionandAutisticSpectrumdisorders,basedonpersonalexperiences.AtthemomentsheisstudyingparttimeforanMAinfineart.
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MarionClarke
Carlingford Lough Thismorning,asIwalkalongthewintershore,aweaksundribbleskissesontothetipsofnewbornwaves.Adullardhulkoffreightcarrierslicestheseawithunexpectedgrace.ItsslatereflectionsulkspastthestubbornmassofGannawayRock,powersup,headsdownthelough,stretchingtowardsthefirstblushandfreshbreathofanewhorizon.Piftsofsmokesoartocopywispsofpearlycloud,imitationsofthemountainoutline.Behind,rose‐lighttearsthesky,asthesungathersstrengthtowarmthegrowingday.
MarionClarkeisawriterandartistfromWarrenpoint,NorthernIreland.Herworkhasbeenpublishedinprintanthologiesandonlinejournals.HerhaikufeaturesinBambooDreams–thefirstnationalcollectionofhaikufromIrelandandin2012MarionreceivedaSakuraawardintheVancouverCherryBlossomFestival.
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Painting‐CarlingfordLoughfromWarrenpoint,NorthernIreland‐oilandacrylics–MarionClarke
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NickPemberton
Once Upon A Time In Cumberland Heremembersnowhismemorytense,bunchedlikeafist,howbytheflowerstallinthemarketbackin1956‐orwasityesterday‐theskinofhiswristbrushedhercuffanditwasenoughandhowinAugustoutwesttheylayamongstthefireweedandthefoxglovesintheraggedgrassacrosstheriverfromwheretheclatterandwheezeofthesteelworkstrucksandthehoarsequackedlaughteroftheestuaryducksrangintheairandhowshekissedhimandhekissedherandhekissedheragaininAugustoutwestandthenhowbecausetheywereyoungalltherestfellquiteperfectlyintoplace‐thesunlitroomadriftinspaceherwordsonthemirrorherbreathonhisfacethechildren’svoicesinadistantstreetthecreakofafloorboardbeneathherfeet‐andhefeltthenandknowsnow‐ashestandsbytheflowerstallinthemarket‐today,notyesterday,not1956‐thatallofthesethingsareonething‐fist,flame,flower,hand,heat,heart‐thatfoldsmomentsintomemoriesthenunfurlsthemaspicturesoftheworldagain.
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Carlisle - Summer - &Foot Mouth Thedeadman’svoicecarriesonthewindwhile,outsidethecitythisyear’sgrassgrowsthisyear’sbirdssingthisyear'sflowersbloometceterabutthistimeroundthedealisdifferent.asallaroundthecountysicknessandeconomicsemptythefields.SpringpassesinawetwaxypasteofsmokeandsummerburnslargerstilltheholeinourcommonsensewhilesomewherealwayssomewherealwayssomewhereelsedeathrattlesdownawindpipelikeanemptywellingtontuggedfromthesuckingmudwhileherealwaysherealwayshereandnowamotherwithskinlikecurdledmilkpushesabuggyhomefromhappyhourinthesunshineandakidwhothinksacowacomiccartoonmysteryandnotaconstructofbloodboneandmoneywalksbehindherwithSpidermanonhist‐shirtandtugsherhandandwailsforspacedustuntilshecracksandslapshimasaboyracer'sdumpvalvecoughsandBobMarleyrepeatsthequestion:“Isthislove?IsthislovethatI’mfeeling?”
AtdifferenttimesNickhaswrittenpoems,plays,paperbacks,comicstrips,tvannualsandpiecesforvariousnewspapers.Heusedtorunapoetrynightandacreativewritingcourse,too.He'ssixty‐sevennowandretiredfromthelatterandspendsalotoftimeonhisboatlookingatcharts.
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AndyHumphrey
Arctic Terns Iceland,July2007 Itwasfeverandashthiswilderness:aplaceforgargoylesnotbreathingthings,earthspittingglobulesofsulphur‐mudcrackingeggshellbubblesbeneathourfeet.Sothin,thiscrustofground.Yetthehot‐coldairshrilledwithlife:swiftwhitecometsofslenderwingsloudwiththeirfeeding,theirmating.Onthatlava‐shelltheynurturedeggsnuzzledhatchlingsshieldedheadsfromgreedybeaksofskuas.InthecollisionofArcticairwithsea‐spittleandsteamtheysnatchedatnourishmenttheskythickwiththecryoftheirstriving.Itseemedobscene,theweightwecarriedacrossthatsplinteredfield,aheftofskullsbowedtothewind‐lash.
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Theyringeduswithmotion,awhisker’stouchfromourlumpsoffingers:sicklesoffeather‐boneplummetingspirallingsoaring.
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Dolphin Season
“Isthisapictureofme,Mummy?”
She’sholdingsomethingouttome.Apieceofcrumpledpaper,snatchedbyher
littlehandasitskitteredacrossthecobbles,swirledintheeddiesoftheharbourside
breeze.Shecaughtitthewayshecatchesdandelionseedsuponthemountaintopthat
overlooksthetown.
MystomachgivesalurchasInoticethefaceprintedontheflyer.Justanother
child,atfirstglance:thesamebobbedbrownhair,thesamegap‐toothedsmileyou’dsee
inanyplayground.ButIknowthatsmileverywell,theslightlopsidedup‐curlofit,and
thecheekyangleofthelittleroundhead.It’sElliealright.
ItrynottoshowthepallorI’mfeelinginside.“Itcertainlylookslikeyou,darling,”
Ismileback,andreachouttoruffleherhair.
Shethinksaboutthisforaminute.“ButIsupposelotsofpeoplelooklikeme,”she
saysatlast.“EveninNorway.”
“Ah,”Ilaughandwinkather,feigningcheeriness,“butthey’renotallascheeky
asyou!”Shegigglesback,andinanothermomentshe’sskippingoverthecobblesonce
more,intentonherlatestfavouritegame.Chase‐the‐Seagulls.
Doyouknow,Ireallythoughtweweresafethistime,thetwoofus.Therearea
fewotherEnglishpeoplehere,tobesure;expatriatesforthemostpart,familiesof
fishermenandoilrigworkers.Justenoughofthemforusnottosoundtoooutofplace.
Apartfromthem,mostEnglishpeopledon’tevenknowthistownexists.Butit’shere
alright.Here,withitsbeautifulcrispseaairanditsgreenencirclinghills.Withits
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welcomingtangoffryingfishanditsbustleofbright‐faced,sea‐burnished,anonymous
people.Ireallythoughtthatifwemighthaveachancetobehappy,itwouldbehere.
Ilookmorecloselyatthepaperinmyhand.Theprintisblack,bareandblocky:a
fewsparsewordsinalanguagethat’sstillunfamiliarevenafterallthesemonths.ButI
don’tneedatranslationtotellmethemeaningofthatbig,starkheading,orofthe
telephonenumberprintedatthebottom.
AseagullpunctuatesmythoughtswithaflutterandasuddenCraaak,divingfora
raremorselofdroppedfoodontheusuallypristinestreet.I’mstruck,onceagain,by
howsolitarywearehere,evenamongstthebustle.Cutoff,likethetownisbyits
mountainsandthesea,invigoratedwiththetasteofsaltandthelusharomaofresinous
pine.Freelikethevapourthatcurlsupfromtheforestsintheearlymorningsun.
Untiltoday.Untilthiscrumpledpieceofpaper,andmygirl’sfacelookingout
fromit.
“Comehere,Ellie.Don’tplaytooneartheedge.”
Sheslinksbacktomyside,mockingmyover‐protectivenesswithanonlyhalf
seriousfrown.Shetakesmyhand,pullingmeonwardswiththatjoyous,limitlessenergy
ofhers.“Comeon,mummy!Iwanttoseethedolphins!”
Thenshestops,lookingthoughtful,acloudobscuringtheearlysummersun.
“Mummy?”
“Yes,darling?”
“Willwebegoinghomesoon?”
“Soon,Ellie,Ipromise.”
“That’sgood.Idon’twantmyothermummytobesadI’mnotthere.”
Idon’tknowwhattosaytothat,soIsaynothing,andwecontinueourwalk,
handinhanddownthecobblestowheretheboatiswaiting.Icursesilentlyforbeing
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madetothinkaboutthatothercouple:theSurreycouple,thestridentoneandthe
overfedone,andtheirlittlebroodcrawlingovertheirlaps.Iwatchedthemonthenews,
likeeverybodydid,forthefirstfewweeks;butIwaiteduntilElliewasasleep,soasnot
togivehernightmaresortears.Theypromisedthey’dkeeplooking,keepplasteringmy
littlegirl’sfaceinshopwindowsandbusshelters.
Theykeptlooking,alright;justinallthewrongplaces.
They’dneverhavegivenherdolphins,thatotherfamily.Justchildmindersand
supermarkets,aratraceofhighexpectationsanddisappointment.Iknowwhattheyare
like.Besides,theyhaveanotherthreeoftheirown.Morethanenoughforthemtocope
with.
Theydon’treallyneedher.NotthewayIdo.
Thepleasureboatsarebackontheharbour,brightwithfreshpaintandpromise.
It’sdolphinseason,andElliehasbeenlookingforwardtothisoutingfordays.
Istuffthecrumpledpaperinmypocket.Later,whenEllie’sinbed,I’llburnit,so
shedoesn’thavethechancetoaskmeaboutitagain.Then,Ihavetothinkaboutwhere
we’llgonext.Furthernorth,Ithink,alwaysfurthernorth;thelastplaceonearththey’ll
thinktolookforus.Thereisanicesafe,quiet,prettytownfurtherupthecoast.Aplace
whereyoucanseereindeer,andNorthernLights.
IknowElliewillloveit.
AndyHumphrey’spoetryinterweavesthetimelessvoicesofnature,mythandfairystorywithcontemporarytalesoflovegainedandlost,heartbreakandcelebration.Hisdebutcollection,ALongWaytoFall,waspublishedinMay2013byLapwingPress.http://andyhumphrey1971.webs.com
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Andrew McCallum
sumvya* bluepodsrattleonagreentidemoon‐kelpaselkie’shairwashingmyanklesvoicesrollinmybreathoverthesaltofmytongueintoningwordsIhearasmemoriesfromthemouthoftheseaawavescuttlesitssealegsinfluorescentfoamwheresky‐caveshangalonegullopensitsbeakherring‐bonesofrecedingsurfwhispereternalafterwordsmotherfatherstrangeryouareallherespeakingthroughthecreek‐cleft’sthroatyouwhohavegoneaheadofmetokindlethismoon‐glowattheedgeofthings*‘sumvya’isanoldNorsewordfor‘cleft’or‘creek’.Itisthewordfromwhichthename‘SmooCave’comesfrom.SmooCaveisawonderfulsea‐cavernnearDurness,themostnorthwesterlyvillageonmainlandScotland,whichisonlyaccessiblebyboat.Insideisadeeppool,intowhichafterheavyrainsatorrentplunges,creatinganear‐splittingroarthathasgivenrisetotalesofdragons.Accordingtolocalfolklore,itisanentrancetotheOtherword,whichcanonlybeunlockedbymusic.
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Maeshowe Thenbeginsthetrueceremonyof thesun… GeorgeMackayBrown,Maeshowe:MidwinterYouaccompanymebythelowroad,brothersinstone,handinhand,fingersentwined,byStennessandBrodgar,fromtheyettsofSkaraBrae;passingendsofperfectionyouenvisagedasgracethreadingthrougheachcrookedaperture,thefaultlessline,theperfectcircle.Otherkingshavepassedwholeftremainsoftheirforgottennames,peculiarcrowns,shardsofskeletons,fish‐heads,unpronounceablewords,indecipherablerunes,commandments,eulogiesgraveninstone; butwhereveryourreignsetsdownlivebloodinmortalveinsyouleaveusradiant,resplendent.Andeventhoughyourtombisempty,itsdarknessisablazewiththelightofyourpresence.Onthethresholdweclinkourcups,asyougivealasttouchtoafacethatalreadydreamsitsresurrection.
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Carsluith 57‐FOOTFINWHALEBEACHESINSOLWAY HeadlineinTheGallowayGazette,18thFeb.2013frominsidetheheartbeatsofearthbornemothersanunbrokenimpulseleadstothisblindingmezzanineofsandandskyshethrustsherselfonewaveatatimeoutofthedeepgreenfathomsofoceanfallawayfromherhereyesaredullshelumbersheavilyinthegravityofthisunusedmediumonlimbsnowarticulatedfordeeperflightssheexploreswithherbeakthefinecircuitryoftimeinsidetheshiftingsilicabeneathgull‐shadowsand‐criesshehearsonlyherblooditsimprecationsnottodrowninthisfirebeforeherflamecanswim
AndrewMcCallumisaplump,middle‐aged,marriedmanwithadickytickerandNietzscheanaspirations.WhennotstrikingromanticposesonScottishhilltops,hewritesdeepintothenightsustainedbyoutrageousamountsofcaffeineandtobacco.Hehasrecentlydiscoveredthejoysofmixingandsamplingwordsandmusic.
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FayeWylie
Bottle Of Notes ThisbottlecarriestheliqueurofemotionsfeltbythevoyagerHisadventureistoldwithinthetwistingbusywhitewritingYoucanalmosthearthecrewsingingastheyguzzledownthesweetcontentsThesounds,smellsandvisionsflickeringthoughyourmind,asyoutrytoreadtheentwinedwordsIntheheartofthebottleisthesecretbluecodeTheflowingwritingtellsofthelovefeltbytheartist’swifeBubblingoverwithprideathiswork,hiscreationGigglingtothemselvesasonlytheyknowwhatitsaysThebeat,thepulse,thelust,thepassionNowwehaveprobablythemostimportantpieceBlackstopperhatthatsitslikeaproudcrownOntheheadofadignitaryflauntinghimselfTightlykeepingtheencasedmemoriessafeLookinglikeamysteriousbottlewasheduponabeach
FayeWyliewasbornandbredinMiddlesbrough.She'shadaninterestinpoetryandshortstoriessinceshewasachild.Shefirsthadtheopportunitytowritewithawomen'sCreativeWritinggroupandhadsomepoemspublished.Sheenjoyswritingaboutherexperiencesandotherpeople’sexperiences.
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ChristyHall
Bracken I’mbroughtbacktothebankofanox‐bowlakeanddoesn’tBracken,thatincessantlanddwellinglichen,alwaysfillthevalleywithcumin?Pushedoverthemistandmoor.Heavyinthenose,bullyingtheair.Brackenfrondsthepasture,clingingtothehill‐sideandrocks,rough,above,under,andmaybeaddersshudderthere.
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We Drove out to Anywhere Spittingmandolinsofduckbreast,sizzling,starttosuggestthings;thecomingtogetheroframblers,wemasqueradedasthem,onaMaymorning,beer‐gardenedandpeckingatKPorWALKERS.Aslurportwoofshandy,flatandwarmedoverconversationaboutworld‐travelormutualfriends.Wecouldtalkthefizzoutofcoke.Thegloopyremainsareonions,peppers,orangejus–forkedintoacorneroftheslate.Andthenon,ontoabull‐field,emptyanddog‐leggedunderaroad‐bridge.Weblanketedourselvesontartan,swappedsunglasses,laidbackandlistenedtocrowsandgullsandfarawaydogsbarkandarewalked.
ChristyHallisaNorthernpoetcurrentlyresidingintheSouth.HehadhaspoemspublishedinprintonbothsidesoftheAtlanticandrecentlyoneofhispoemswasusedinaliterarypamphlettosecureHullasEuropeanCityofCulturefor2017.HehasaMaster'sDegreeinCreativeWriting.
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CarolFenwick
Beowulf
DidIcomebyBeowulfthroughforeignshores?Folkloreexemplified,historypersonified?Grendel,theevilmonster?Washistoryone‐sided?Wereyoupure,theotherretarded?Orwastheanswerunclear?YouhavenoissuesButyourownmind‐setworriesBleedingyouinahurryforearlydeathThoughmychildfromnorthernshoresonsouthernclimbsSimplybideyourtimePatienceisvirtueDon’tturnyourselfintoGrendelwhenBeowulfbeamsthroughyou.TreadtheroadlesstravelledWorkinghardwillgetyoufarPursuingdreamslikegoldeneaglesFeedingegosYourtimewillcome,waitandsee.Ontheperiphery,beyondthehorizonAnewdawnsettlesinWaitingforyou,nopainbutgainandgratitudeThankhewhomakesthesunriseintheEast.Findlove,yoursentencewillbereleased.Immortality,radiantasagoldencupBeowulfsighs,breathesanotherday.InEngland,now,afterSeamusHeaneytookhisfinalbowHistranslation,PoeticprowessBeamsfromtheNortonAnthologyonmybookshelfNotetoself,begratefulforwhatyouhave.
GeraldineWardisafull‐timemumandhousewife,withahugepassionforwritingandpublishing.SheiscurrentlyinvolvedwithCopperBeechandSilverBirchPublishingandchildren’scommunitypublisher,MuckyPupsandChinaDolls.ShehasseveralcreditsincludingBeautifulScruffiness EdsKatieMetcalfe Blacklightengineroom EdsPAMorbid andhasindependentlypublishedapoetrycollection,“Now”currentlyonAmazonaswellasherrecentnovella'CaringfortheCarer.'
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ChrisRobinson
LochNess
ChrisRobinsonisanemergingwriterofpoetry,proseandshortplaysandaspokenwordartist/performancepoet.HerwrittenworkhasappearedinanumberofanthologiesandherplayshavebeenperformedatARC,StocktonandduringMiddlesbroughLiteraryFestival.ShehasperformedherownpoetryatvariousvenuesandeventsthroughoutthenorthofEngland.Shehasalsobeenplacedandshort‐listedinagoodproportionofcompetitionsinrecenttimes.Shegraduatedin2011fromTeessideUniversitywithaMaster’sDegreeinCreativeWriting.