NATIONAL POETRY DAY 2016

Many thanks to all who submitted poetic letters for National Poetry Day 2016. We were, once again, overwhelmed with submissions and are pleased to publish twelve of them as an ebook for National Poetry Day 2106: Messages.

Paper Swans Press is a small, independent publisher of poetry and flash fiction. We welcome submissions from all over the world and publish in a variety of for-mats: anthologies, individual pamphlets and online. Our goal is to give exposure and acclaim to excellent poetry and flash fiction, especially from emerging writ-ers. Please see our website for further information and current calls for submis-sion: http://paperswans.co.uk

Editor: Sarah Miles Poems copyright © individual copyright holders 2016 Selection copyright © Sarah Miles 2016 All rights reserved

FOREWORD

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Dear Roy,I thought you’d like to know that you will be ok. Life seems hard now, but you are probably going through one of the hardest bits. You know you said you wanted to be a writer? Before the failed exams, damaged hand, broken heart, meaningless jobs? Well, in time, you’ll be able to concentrate.You’ll patiently practice the art and craft of writing. There will be lots of reading of beautiful books. I know you’ve given up reading for now, but trust me, you are going to fall love with reading again. You’ll find this hard to believe, but you will fall deeply in love with poetry. With space between experience and setting that experience down and with some help, your writing will bring you satisfaction. It will also bring you friends and new experiences. Some of it will even bring you the kind of joy and a free-dom you haven’t known yet. Keep going. I won’t tell you the obvious things - well, me being you, I can’t help just slipping in these two bits of advice. Look after your teeth. And don’t pick your toenails, they’ll end up ingrown and life is painful enough. I could say don’t waste time with people who don’t love you, but then you’ll never know what you can escape and how you can recover and where that will take you next. The poems you write in the future will help de-code where you have been and where you are now. Light will grow within you and you will learn to both shield it and to let it shine. Peace will come to you when you learn how to let it. There is a reason you are attracted to words like redemption and grace. Keep going and one morning you’ll wake up a little slower in the body but excited for the future and younger in heart and mind than you are today. Keep going. I’ll be waiting. Love,Roy

LETTER TO A YOUNG POET

ROY MARSHALL

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A Letter for Kate

There is a storm over your city now, in the early morning.Your night's been quiet, as it needs to be, in the aftermathof your own cacophony of loss; you're sleeping soundly. But you had to drive five hundred miles away to the ruralsof a northern state and the arms of your family's womento be told again that love does not sharpen its talonsto prove itself as love.

There are lakes in both places. You know the nature of eachquite well – one's depth is silent and imposing, large as death,the other more tempestuous and forms the eastern-most edgeof every spidering thoroughfare that shapes your city. Home, but not really. That funny word that claims to be a place, never was. It's an idea that forms in different times and places,like a mirage – but more

than a mirage, more real, is the embrace of your sisterthat settles the road-weary vibrations from your limbs,the outstretched arms of a second mother, hands filled with sunflowers from the garden in the pouring rain,real is the rain that clatters over the porch roof at the endof summer, where your brother pulls you underneathjust in time. And in time

the rattle from the growling thunder of this last lessonon the damage that love should never do will settle, your marine eyes will cease their flooding, and the vessel that you occupy will be in safe harbour once again.

MARINE WARNING: BOATERS SEEK SAFE HARBOUR

MIRANDA BARNES

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Why did you have to be there on the nightI looked my best? Why leave behind a shoewhere my mother snipped you from my side -which, for months, she had been itching to.

The photo’s still there, yellowing and unseenin the family album, one corner loose.I’m beautiful in lace and velveteen,the hand that held yours severed. What’s the use

in beauty, after all, except for this,turning and turning the same black pageto some May ball in 1966where we were young and foolish, at an age

when everything seemed simple. Oh, my dear, you don’t know we’ll be strangers in a year.

LETTER TO AN EX

CAROLE BROMLEY

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I returned your dress to Jigsaw,its colour, a long ache of paindisturbed me when I saw two emptywine glasses, lips nuzzling togethernear the hot tap. You hadn’t evenwashed them up. I took your tights off the shower,wrung them out with rain-cold hands,lobbed them from the window.They collapsed, legless on the patio.Our world’s lost its echo now,don’t you think? I let the air out of your tyresso don’t drive too fast, or cornertoo quick. Don’t expect helpat night, in the dark on country lanes,or a push in the winter when the enginewon’t start. I have left my stopped heart in thetop drawer of your dresserwith the Malaysian worry dolls wovenfrom flax. I’m sorry if they’rewet, stained. I am sorryif this troubles you.

NOTE FROM A JEALOUS HUSBAND

ABEGAIL MORLEY

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Mr F R LomaxHead teacher

Daliburgh SchoolIsle of South Uist

Outer Hebrides

7 July 1917Dear Sir or Madam

When you open this box think of the boyswho made it from driftwood, offcuts of bedsand coffins. The top class learnt dovetail jointsand the use of the plane. As a cushion against shocks the infants brought hay from the machair scented with clover, orchids and eyebright.

The crofter’s children must work before school,heave water from a lochan wreathed with lilies. Perhaps they will hear snipe drumming or corncrakes crexing away like machines on the edge of a dyke. Absence rates are high just now with women away cutting peats up in the hills.

Youngsters tend the poultry, collect eggs, climbthatched roofs in bare feet to look for nests. The men, of course, are away on the ships.There are one hundred pupils in my school.They promise you one hundred eggs each week for the wounded. At least while the light lasts.

Yours faithfullyF R Lomax.

MR LOMAX WRITES TO THE WAR OFFICE CONCERNING THE NATIONAL EGG COLLECTION

MARY ROBINSON

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When I think of youI don’t know what to thinkMy memory banks are empty no deposits of good times I shared with youThere are nonefor the day I was bornwas also the day you died

Your picture tells meI didn’t get your porcelain skinyour long flowing hairor your big doe eyes

What did I get from you?A love for books & musicFresh flowers & bright, sunny daysred roses & lace?Was this the treasure you bequeathed me,my inheritance?

Now it’s too late to ask, there’snobody left to tell me

Did you hold me before you diedWas there a name you picked for methe one I’m not calledThey had to give me a nameSo they just gave me yours

A LETTER TO MY MOTHER

UMA VENKATRAMAN

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A Letter To My Father

Did you see her when you looked at me?Perhaps it's why you never saw me I didn't know then why the sight of me brought a frown to your faceWhy you always turned away when I smiled at you

It's not her I look likeIt's you I resemble Perhaps I reminded you she gave her life to give me mine She took all your love with her You had none left to give me

I know nowit was a losing battleHow could I compete with a memory?

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Charlotte,

I smell the smoke in your hearth,the warmth in the corner of a cold room;your shawl affords a wrap of comfort, lace gloves prevent your fingers turning blue.I hear you breathing, not as heavily as Anne,whistling through your concentration,squeezing your pen, pulling it over cheap paper.

How the moor fills your mind with downtrodden girlslifted by the passion of men, delivered into their care.I didn’t want to listen to this version, this translationof women’s lives. However feminist I see it now, it wasn’t then. It wasn’t bold, it wasn’t wild, you impliedcorsetry and layers of petticoat. I hoped to leave off my braif the weather were warm enough to keep my nipples soft. I hoped to stride out on to the moor in walking boots leaving a trail of beardless boys behind me.

HOWEVER FEMINIST

JANET DEAN

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Yesterday I sat in a graveyard, by the church I went to as a child,and had a conversation with all four of you, one by one.I imagined holding your hands,flesh so vivid that I could feel your veins,your blood beneath them, beating.

One of you would read to me in quiet tones,Swallows and Amazons if I recall.I know I listened intently, because there’s a photo to prove it,you in your thick-framed glasses, short-sightedness inherited,me in a velvet dress and a fury of concentration.I was young when you began to lose your memoryand I don’t know if I can trust mine.I’m sorry I don’t remember.I’m sorry I didn’t grieve more.

One of you would take up all the space with your presence, and your sense of entitlement, which only made us love you more entirely.Laughing at Dad’s Army and talking about funerals over supper,you would kiss your son on both cheeks before you went home.I remember touching your hand in hospital and wondering if it would be for the last time. It wasn’t.When your story ended, on a bookshop floor, we weren’t prepared.I only properly cried for your passing a week ago.

One of you would smell of warmth and treacle tarts baking.I would wake you so we could pretend your bed was a boat,knock at your old-fashioned kitchen hatch as if it were a shop front,you would greet me, the skin on your hands split from digging,

A LETTER TO MY GRANDPARENTS

JESSICA WHY TE

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fingers covered in flour, or crackled with paint.You were an artist, a wartime camoufleur,we keep your wood blocks in a trunk, your portfolio under the bed.Your memory faded fast. We mourned your loss long before you left us.

One of you would always be a stickler; particular and stubborn,with neatly ironed creases in your trousers, hair parted, comb always in your pocket.Mischievous and boyish, you let us climb you,sat us in a wheelbarrow and span us round the garden.You never talked about your days as an RAF chaplain,but you kept a tie clip in a box so you could affix your napkin.You would call the house at the same time every night, to tell us how many potatoes you had eaten for dinner.You gave us the gift of a good death; a field of lilies.

Every day I feel you in my intonation, my resolution, my inspiration, my dedication.

I feel your blood in my veins, beating.

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You were here again. For a while.I think of you often. In the small hours.

The black was cold. A winter's night.Another night I forget to sleep.

The room was dark. Midnight hour.Your light tumbled through the curtains.

Silver scattered as we dance,You and I old friends. Together.

You sang a lullaby, I weptTime for Goodbye. Goodnight.

My friend.

Inside the ward

Another day done. Another day I leave you behind. I wonder. Do you see the sun kiss the leaves? Do you watch the butterflies dance? Can you imagine the warmth of a sum-mer's day, the touch of sunlight on your skin? Do your fingers grasp for the daylight, do you cry for the birds you can’t see? No, no I don’t think so. Beneath the machines. Behind the screens. White walls and sterile rooms. That’s your summer. That’s your day. Every minute in there. Another world. Another place. Science Fiction. Do you smell the city on me? The scent of cut grass, the chocolate factory bitter and raw, fresh rain after the pour. What does it mean? Nothing. Nothing to you just those walls. The beep, beep of your monitor, the daily rounds, poking, prodding, checking. Checking on you, checking on me. Exhausting. I promise one day you will come home, one day you will touch the sun.

I WISH YOU’D STAY

BECKY SPENCE

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Your article covering the US presidential election, ‘No whales in the Whitehouse’, which cast doubt on the abilities of the Democratic candidate, was disappointing. Our body of history is marked by sexism, racism and to a lesser extent ageism, yet over the years we have fought to overcome inequality; our scars, though faded, are plain reminders. Now should we not also fight against speciesism? The abolition of zoos, the growing support for the Against Factory Farming rallies and Facebook’s Integration policy are signs of incipient change. Does a whale not have the right to be a political candidate? Granted, before the breakthroughs in cetacean code it would have been out of the question, but now that communication is possible, it is simply a case of rethink-ing logistics. The office will be virtual, but this is 2044 – our lives are increasingly virtual. Some, however, are demanding a reality-check. I would like to remind these cynics that [K] is of course an excellent swimmer, and will, if necessary, be able to show his presence (or at least a fin) at world summits or other international events. He will be in situ, albeit not in the conference room or arena. Granted, the Whitehouse will be empty, but this is one less security concern. [K]’s numerous discourses on a raft of subjects have been delivered with eloquence and proper etiquette, and Blue (your passing reference to his start-up turned global hosting project does not do justice to its success) are evidence of his ability and determination, not to mention popularity. Can he run the country? I say yes. The whale has no ego, no word for corruption. Research findings that suggested the function of the glia and the wiring of the neocortex indicated intelligence on a par with the human brain have been borne out by our interactions with several notable whales. The whales are at last having their say. They are fully aware of the dangers if man continues to devastate this planet yet they are not interested in taking control. They simply want to work with us. I have cast my vote in the ocean.

Name and address withheld.

http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/news-blog/are-whales-smarter-than-we-are/

http://www.bbc.com/earth/story/20160120-the-whales-that-speak-in-code

LETTER TO THE EDITOR, THE TIMES, 15 AUGUST 2044

LEE NASH

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Will you still be there when I send this?If I could write a letter to days gone by,Those copper-cast and gold-plated,I’m not sure what I would say.

Would I tell them that the wine wouldNever be better, the roses never as bright?Would I praise the last summer as buriedtreasure, or as sweet, if false, expectation?

Would I plead with them to see kindnessAnd recognise its rarity, and their luck?Would I write the school days a stern Report, or would I give an A* with thanks?

My letter to the past, I’m fairly sure,Would be outlined on thick stock for my use,An extra layer to protect it from the shootingCold, before I finalise a warmer draft.

My letter to the past would end on a question.It may as well start with one to the future,Because I can’t remember anything fromBefore the afterimage of right now.

I would ask those days if the old Priest still strolls through jasminePaths in the cornflower evening.Can he still walk?

A LETTER TO DAYS GONE BY

MARIKA JOSEPHIDES

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I would ask them how simple ourCourse really was, and if the Captain knew the truth all along. Can he still sail?

If I could write a letter to days gone byI would ask them about everything I still don’t understand. I would ask them If they knew we found them beautiful.

This is my letter to days gone by,In a hand that never changedBut for its firmness. This is my letter,And not in abstract.

This is my letter to those gentle smilesIn the sun, while we steel ourselves toHarshness. This is my letter, and It’s the first leaf to fall.

If I could write a letter to days gone by,Those light-infused and ocean-borne,I think I would tell them they were loved.Would you?

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you will not hearyou will not answerbut I will tell you the name of my painit is desire like red broken glass and the distance of a glass lens with your face beyond it, untouchable

you never heard you never answered but there was a time when you rose like a cliff unscaleable in all directions time past and so much time has passed, unstoppable

if you could hearand deigned to answerI’d find, I think, your words undecipherable unpalatableunwelcome, nowwhere once I would have ached with pleasure

LITIR GU SÉAN

L AWRENCE WILSON

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