Contents:
1. Margaret Wilmot - Winner
2. Linda M James - Winner
3. Nathalie Wilson - Winner
4. Felicity Stephen - Winner
5. Annette Foreman
6. Billie Grisdale
7.
8. Chris Goode
9. Chris Law
10. Chris Ralls
11. Darren Rogers
12. Di Hills
13. Emma Pearson
14. Fiona Cruisey
15. John Wright
16. Josephine Sokan
17. Keith Wilson
18. Liya Hussain
19. Liz Beth Turner
20. Louise Walton
21. Marjorie Holmes
22. Peter Devonald
23. Peter Wathen
24. Phillipa Coughlan
25. Ray Pattenden
26. Robin Dalglish
27. Rosalind Irving
28. Y Asare
1. Alciston - By Margaret Wilmot
​
for Michele
Winter-spare the day we come upon the tithe barn,
huge – it must have shaped the elbow in the lane.
Its great oak doors are locked, no hint of the life
the abbey in its day would have sustained,
no animals about, a crumbling dovecote,
paddock bare – but Rob points, See the hollows?
He thinks the land rolls down like fish-ponds maybe.
A path leads toward the small church on its knoll.
Open – and as we enter voices sound
as if remnants of old rituals still endure.
Ye that stand in the house of the Lord . . . Almost
ghostly from the chancel, the monks’ same words.
The tones change. A woman comes to greet us –
coffee? tea? and lo there is a table spread
with eggs for sale laid by ‘my girls.’ The warmth
is magical – and cake even (our daily bread).
Truly, it’s difficult to leave a place
of angels – one even bending from a sill.
Lord, who shall dwell in thy tabernacle
or who shall rest upon thy holy hill?
On a back wall we find the dials once scratched
for services. No twig-gnomon now, no time –
no end to this view in all its fulness,
a whole world. We gaze out, perched on its safe rim.
Winner
2. Emily Bronte - by Linda M James
​
She cannot think of anything more beautiful:
Removed at the request of author
That morning she crosses the bridge and climbs
Removed at the request of author
Behind the Parsonage, through the fields - the Moors:
Removed at the request of author
Atlantic-driven clouds now sweep her clean
Removed at the request of author
Winner
2.
LI TINGTING [i] - By Linda M James
[Haidian Detention Centre 2015]
‘You are Lala!’ They scream in my face.
I don’t answer. They call me lesbian,
whore activist but I do not answer.
They try to humiliate me but I feel
a sound tapping inside my skin. I’m
in the kitchen with my mother
and I’m drowning out his rage.
*
I write with the wrong hand
and my fertilizer father thrashes
me to alleviate his low self-esteem.
*
I feel the guards’ spit on my face as they
scream at me but I cannot hear them.
I will not hear them even though
their voices are shrill. The beatings
from my father have prepared me
for this moment. I can endure.
I will endure. They drag me
from my bed to scrub filthy floors.
The next night I am taken to a
special room with laser lights.
They sear them into my eyes.
And all the time, I see,
in the distance, a small star
flickering for me to find it.
​
[i] Li Tingting [also known as Li Maizi] was detained for 37 days for helping to plan a public awareness campaign about sexual harassment with the other ‘Feminist Five’. She has since been allowed to travel to US and has been active in highlighting gay rights.
2.
The Smell of Summer - By Linda M James
The child drinks in the subtle smell of summer
outside the noise of the school-room. Light as a wing
she floats across the empty lawn, holding sunlight
in her head. She cannot be seen.
Silence waits for her in her dark retreat.
Her outstretched hands finger familiar shapes:
the polished helves of picks,
the gnarl of plough, the spike of rake,
the curl of hoe. The hybrid woods of the past.
She breathes in the quiet.
Outside, the old gardener, gathering his tools
in crooked, calloused hands, stumbles towards the shed.
Suddenly, the smell of earthy summer as he
plants himself next to the child: two roots,
one young, one old, listen to the grass grow
3. All are welcome here - By Nathalie Wilson
The sea is my refuge.
Its beauty, its vastness, its power,
its smell, its strength, its energy.
So I stare at the waves,
soothed by their vigour.
And then I imagine...
What must it be like,
to stand on a beach,
desperate, broken, traumatised, desperate to protect my family.
I can't imagine...
The depth of despair someone feels
where it becomes safer to step onto a small boat
with family, friends and hundreds of other strangers
and seek refuge momentarily in the sea,
desperate for safety yet risking everything including my life and that of my family.
To surrender to the sea, its strength, its vastness, its power.
Its power to destroy, submerge, drown.
And to let go anyway, leave everything behind.
I am angry.
To have a prime minister think it's ok to stand behing a podium with No small boats written on the front.
Where refugees are housed on a barge that is unsanitory.
Where the rhetoric in the press is divisive, accusatory, blaming.
No.
No more.
Enough!
All are welcome here.
All are welcome to safety here.
May you be provided with safe ways to travel and seek refuge here.
Planet earth belongs to everyone.
May the sea become again something that brings comfort and strength to people.
Not the start of a perilous journey to safety... or death.
Winner
3. I take Refuge - By Nathalie Wilson
Taking refuge
I am my job.
I have an important job.
I earn good money.
I'm important you see.
I make a difference.
Except I make a mistake.
Except it becomes too much.
Except I can't do the job anymore.
Except I break down, I burn out.
So I quit.
The job sacked me, spit me out.
So I am not my job after all.
What is left?
Friends...
They come and go, moods inconsistent, their words oscillating between kindness and harshness.
They have other priorities.
The last relationship long ended.
He had other priorities too.
And my body is ageing, my hair is thinnning, my skin is wrinkling.
It is all fading away.
So what is left to hold on to when the ground is falling from under me?
When life as I know it is falling apart?
So I take refuge, I take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha
in someone who was wise, enlightened; in his teaching and in friends following the same path.
I am a fool you say?
Maybe and maybe I was a fool for thinking my job, my friends, my youth would bring me happiness.
So I let it all go.
And I take refuge.
Refuge in the Buddha, Dharma and the Sangha.
In real life... By Nathalie Wilson
When I first sit on this sofa,
my skin is raw, my pain is overwhelming,
my tears waiting to flood the room.
But you're here,
gently, patiently, kindly.
You listen
to my pain, my tears, my anger.
You see me.
You accept me.
You heal me.
Consistently there,
consistently present,
consistently consistent.
Thank you.
So I heal.
I put myself back together,
Stronger, whole, at peace
with my decisions, my mistakes, my humanity, my emotions.
You gave me the space to bring the whole of me into the room.
You supported me to be real, vulnerable, open, raw.
By cracking myself open in front of you,
I learnt that I can do that with other people too,
Be real, honest, open.
And I learn.
And I grow.
Thank you for this healing space,
outside of real life,
that has supported me to be where I am now, grateful and grounded.
But of course, this is real life.
You were real, I was real.
And that's why I healed.
4. Hand to Heart - By Felicity Stephen
​
I notice.
I hope that others notice too
the you
that some might only see
as broken.
Your eyes are
mighty sad, it’s true
and your shoulders slightly
stoop, though
young for that.
An orange hoodie what you chose
from a pile of clothes.
Or was it that
it survived a boat with you?
You repeat some words, in class
for clothes
like jacket, hat
and socks and shoes
all you have
what you stand up in.
I notice
that yours is
quite a shy look
your manner quiet, subdued
marooned, for now
on an island of language, not
understood.
When teacher writes
in your new notebook
some words for body:
ears that hear
a nose to smell a rose
two eyes to look -
your ‘thank you’ is heard
and your gesture
hand to heart
speaks volumes.
Winner
4. For New Friends by Felicity Stephens
​
‘May luck go with you from hill to sea’ (Thomas A. Clark)
How did you come here?
Was it by sea?
Let’s not ask.
You will tell
if you want to.
Whichever way
you arrived
there must be stories -
both fearful
and full of surprise.
What friends have you made?
Who’s been on your side?
Did you have to
hide in the hills,
in the mountains?
And for how long?
Who have you left
behind - and will you
see them again?
Let’s hope so.
Let us pray
for what is your desire.
May those you love
see your face again
smiling
and in reality
(for the virtual is what
you might have
for some time).
May that time be
filled with light
whenever possible.
May you not disappear
into the night
moved, again, to somewhere alien.
May luck go with you
wherever you reside -
and peace be yours.
4. Stories to Tell by Felicity Stephen
​
‘We sit at the table as part of every other person’s world…’ (David Whyte)
Seven or eight languages are distributed amongst sixteen of us.
Fifteen face forward in expectation.
We won’t be discussing: ‘Which is your nation?’ ‘How long ago
did you leave?’ We are here together.
One meeting all, for the first time.
Where to start? Introductions of course: in ‘my name’
‘your name’.
Have I got that right?
How any of us came to be here
well, so many stories to tell.
It is my wish, foremost that they all end well.
5. The Dominator
By Annette Foreman
have to leave everything behind
your memories, your record collection
your clothes, perhaps even your pet
cat or dog
your bed where you can no longer
lay your head
because of him
throw a few things into a suitcase
hurry, hurry, before it's too late
please don't hesitate
you may think if you're getting
all you need
if you're with man of means
eating in posh restaurants
not from a dog bowl on the floor
begin to question
is this really abuse after all?
until the time he becomes
verbally aggressive to you
so gradual, build up over time
many years a lifetime
gaslights you tells you that you are
stupid so ignorant
using his hands to demonstrate
how he is high
you are low
he is superior to all you know
how dare you question
what he has said
how it remains inside your head
financial control
held over your head
made to ask for pennies
to spend
checks to see what you have brought
becomes aggressive if not approved
then stays in a foul mood
the dominator shouts and glares
puts you down
calls you names
you're stupid ignorant
useless too fat too thin
he controls he has to win
then denies it was abuse
blames you
as you are dim
you don't have a master's degree
you're too thick can't you see?
never starts off this way
in the beginning
you believe what he has to say
how he loves you
he may even propose
buy you a diamond
set in gold
gradually he begins to control
king of the castle
treats you as a servant
turns into a liar
becomes a sexual controller
either won't take no for an answer
rapes you
or withholds intimacy altogether
by rejecting your advances
turns into your jailer
tells you what to wear
buys your clothes for you
keeps you in the house
isolates you from friends and family
then there are the bad father's
say you are a terrible mother
turn your children against you
threaten to take the children
away from you
threaten to tell social services
that you neglect your children
the men who threaten
to kill themselves
If you leave
or even the children
blame drugs, alcohol, depression, stress
from work or unemployment
as a weak excuse
it is none of these things
it is all about power and control
the dominator is his name
controlling women
has always been his game
It is abuse leave get out
leave the pain
do not believe his lame excuse
we have to flee our homes
we become
the invisible refugees
in the country
of our birth
5. Not All
By Annette Foreman
​
not all men stalk and abuse
gaslight or breadcrumbing
to make you feel confused
not all think
we are the weaker sex
always will be second best
not all believe honour killing
is moral and true
It's what Allah expects of you
sexual harassment in the streets
degrading language calling us
bitches and whores
sluts and slags
not all think this way
at all
not all will physically attack
during a row
bend your fingers back
pull at your hair
slap or kick you
after too much to drink
the respect isn't there
beat you death
they simply don't care
not all men
are only after sex
if you don't give it to them
will rape you instead
rape within marriage
think that's not a crime
not all men
encourage young women
to send nude pics
whilst bombarding others
with dick pics
not all men are involved
in peadophile sex rings
not all men are bullies
who cheat on their wives
tell lies to cover up affairs
hide money away
for a secret get away
with the mistress
think that's okay
still too many that will
far too many that do
so let me ask you this
what kind of man
really are you?
It was inspired by women I met in refuge and also social media posts about violence against women. Especially after the Sarah Everard's murder. Men comments under the posts about these subjects were always " Not all men are like that"
hence the title.
5. Refuge Shelter
By Annette Foreman
​
abuse,rape and murder
are just an argument away
if you don't leave today
refuge offer shelter from abuse
call today tell them your pain
the suffering being inflicted
upon you everyday
they offer support to a new life
free from abuse today
a bed where you can sleep in peace
where children no longer need
to feel afraid
they can play as children once again
counselling and therapy are free
work through your feelings
why did this happen to me?
help you get where you need to be
women supporting women
in refuge is a reality
not just virtue signalling
with a hashtag on social media
sisterhood is thriving so alive
tears will stop falling
now you're safe you have survived
you'll grow stronger every day
you found the strength to get away
embrace your new life
free from abuse
will begin with the help
from refuge today
6. Refuge of a Military Medic
By Billie Grisdale
The sound of the alarm,
There is risk of more harm,
As we throw on our gear,
We wait to hear.
What we will face,
And in which space.
A compartment on fire,
We’re beginning to tire.
Yet again, I’m out of bed,
Location markings in my head,
My tip toes hit the carpeted floor,
My kit is ready by the door.
Rushing to the incident,
I hear the stop of a vent,
This means it must be a real one,
Perhaps this time it will be fun.
Firefighters hurry by me quick,
Their drills and skills so slick,
I wonder if anyone will get burnt,
Lessons always to be learnt.
The fire is out!
I hear them shout,
My work is done,
It wasn’t fun.
Living on a war ship is unusual,
My cabin is always very full,
I respond to emergencies day and night,
Sometimes it gives us all a fright.
I take my weary self to bed,
Thoughts rushing round my head,
The job of a medic is never ending,
All those patients to be tending
Tomorrow I am going up North,
Time with family coming forth,
The part I play is huge,
But for now, I’m enjoying the well-earned refuge.
8. Searching
By Chris Goode
it’s always somewhere else
beyond the blue of mountains
the grisaille of deserts
the sea says
you will not find it here
the hills say
climb the tallest of us
you will not find it here
move on move on say the birds
fleeting clouds are searching
the limitless sky
sometimes in a lover’s arms
you glimpse it for a breath
but we’ll never possess it
till we stop searching
and it finds us
9. JERRY
By Chris Law
Oh, how did he end up this way?
Looking so sad, a hole in his shoe.
Kicking the pebble along the shore.
Why did he get in this state?
Once the life and sole of the party
Hitting women and taking to the bottle
Had not helped.
Now Jerry would spend his days
Wondering the streets until,
The nice man at the hostel offered him
A place to stay.
​
10. Promised Land
By Chris Ralls
‘Give me your savings,’ said the profiteer,
‘and this new life, worth more than I am making
is yours for the taking! Look where I’m pointing – there!
the white cliffs of Dover shining in the sun,
looking so near.
‘Inflate the dinghy I so generously provided.
Board in your dozens, it can hold you all.
Now make your way towards that enticing shore,
Thoughts of your former life need trouble you no more.
‘What? Am I coming with you?
Alas, no. I must forgo the temptations of Elysium
to stay and help more souls in plight find refuge
in another craft. So farewell. Think of that better life
and leave behind your strife.’
So we embarked in cheerfulness and hope,
and soon our provider was a mere speck,
a dot on a beach, a man we no longer need.
Half way across as we saw France recede,
we kept our eyes fixed on that promised land
growing ever closer to hand.
But now I hear frenzied shouts of alarm,
we are coming to harm.
Water is creeping, seeping in, rapidly rising,
and now our craft is dangerously listing.
despite our desperate efforts at resisting.
The night is close, and now the light grows dim,
Oh! Which of us can swim?
For now the waves are overwhelming us
and we are sinking fast.
That refuge that three hours ago
we thought we could reach at last
is vanishing from view as darkness falls.
Our very future’s fraught as those white cliffs distort
and fracture in our vision, seen through a crest of foam,
Ah, now I curse that man with his honeyed speech,
who so glibly promised a haven we could safely reach.
Where now that home we were so rashly promised?
No prospect now; in vain we call for help, our souls to save,
our destiny not the dry land we crave, but a watery grave
far beneath the wave.
11. Deep Cuts of Love
By Darren Rogers
Inside interview
Looking into a refuge of stereo life
Enveloped in the lyric
Wrapped in glorious squeal
In divide, individual appeal.
To lift the arm
To place the needle
To hear that slightest crackle burn.
As the soaring song
Begins to weave.
Magic solace, our sober system
Listen closely, the Breath,
Love and Dreams
Living beyond
A
Refuge from boredom
Refuge from modernisation
Refuge from urbanisation
Refuge from futuristic lunacy
Slices of the past
In oiled vinyl,
Pass the time, in ancient rhyme
Lyres and bards,
A sinking sensation,
Realisation that our past
Has as much revelation
As our future.
11. POSTERS ON A WALL
By Darren Rogers
My loves adorned the wall
Unframed
Tack Bleu, in fashionable Betty,
She was not.
I took my solace
On Freddie, on David, on Belinda
And, yes
We drank Martini so slowly
And, yet
We drank vodka, violently
Laced with the touch of a
Limestone cowboy
Refuge in a bottle of fun
A video of life
Introverted refuge.
A state of hopelessness
Became our truth.
Even it did not actually happen.
This life evolves
Her pages turn in unexpected ways.
She moved.
He moved.
We all moved.
12. Flight from the Refuge of Lost Women
By Di Hills
I thought you kind and very handsome,
you loved and cared and spoilt me so,
you never ever left me lonesome,
I asked for love, you never said no.
And when we had our precious baby,
you kissed and cuddled her and me,
and when she bawled and cried like crazy,
you gently rocked her on your knee.
But one year a vile plague ran wild,
and we were forced to stay at home.
Suddenly you no longer smiled,
All you did was sulk and moan.
Nothing was good enough for you,
I cooked, I cleaned, mended all your clothes,
but your anger once fired grew and grew,
until one day you punched me on the nose.
The baby shrieked, I wailed and cried,
you sobbed you were so very sorry,
but all the while I knew you lied,
for you went on badly harming me.
You punched me hard and smacked and hit,
I was hurt and wondered each dreadful day,
how could a man of once sweet wit
turn into this devil I must obey?
I was so frightened, low and sad,
but how could I ever betray you,
when you were really all I had,
and you said I’d gone completely mad!
But then a man came knocking at my door.
‘You must leave now,’ he said,
‘we’ve heard reports, you’ve much to fear,
The devil won’t stop until you’re dead!’
And so to this refuge we were brought,
Baby and me, supported and much cared for,
Filled with mums like me, too distraught
And tired and shocked to shed a tear.
Fair, just and strong, the people were
The refuge cosy, warm and very safe,
So why do I flee to my life of fear,
Why do I hope you’ll love me again?
12. The Refuge of lost hope
By Di Hills
Not far away, there’s a long winding road,
Where broken families drag spilling loads,
Random bags mixed with pots and clothes,
All they could grab from bombed out homes.
Bewildered parents bow down in grief,
For yesterday their land was blessed with peace,
Children stand, stunned by pounding noise,
Clutching what’s left of their favourite toys.
Dust crowds the air, the sun beats hotter,
The queue on the road gets longer, longer,
The checkpoint now a bottomless crater,
Lives in the hands of a paranoid dictator.
Flimsy tents drop from the sulphurous sky ,
Feeble gestures from governments that lie,
They promise aid, soldiers, weapons that kill,
Nothing for innocents whose lives have stopped still.
And so the long and winding road
Becomes a seething refuge of lost hope,
Entrance by birth alone, exit by death
Escape for the desperate, armed with false wealth.
Lives without purpose, screwed into nothing,
Noise, muck, drones blown up without restraint,
A dark refuge this, a field of despair, a people crushed
Under the iron weight of men full of hate.
And so they wait and they wait,
For their land to be free and beautiful again
---------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------
And they wait and they wait,
For the dictator to meet his just fate,
Banished to stew in his castle,
And drown in a river of boiling blood.
​13. Frankie and Dave’s oasis of calm
By Emma Pearson
Out every night on the high street from eight
Frankie strums her guitar singing songs until late
He sits on the bench, watching her play
Because today was gonna be the day
He should be married, should be here with his wife
Sickness denied her of that chance in life
He sits alone waiting. Hopes to feel saved
By a song they once loved, which heard now leaves him plagued
‘Will you play us a song? I know it’s quite late.
I’ve been listening a while. I think you sound great’
‘Thanks, but I’m tired. I’m just packing up, mate’
‘I get that, I do, if it’s no trouble at all
here’s £50, will you sing Wonderwall?’
‘Yeh! Definitely, maybe. I’ll give it a shot!’
Frankie did just that. Her performance rocked!
Spilling onto the streets from the pubs and the bars
People danced on pavements and sang from cars
When Frankie finished, she sat on the bench
The man had been crying. Frankie’s fists clenched
‘Was it awful, I’m sorry, I thought you were a fan?’
He pulled out a photo ‘That’s my Sally-Ann
She died last spring and now life is a sham’
‘I know what you mean’ Frankie sniffed and replied
‘I busk at night ‘cos dad drinks since mum died.
It’s ok in the day, he’s out at work
When he’s drunk and abusive, he acts like a jerk.
It’s not always bad, there’s still signs of old dad,
but I keep out the way when his mood gets sad.‘
Two people look over while leaving the bar
He’s holding a lager, she slips down a car
‘There she is Steve! Our own Liam Gallagher’
‘Fancy a tour love? I’ll be your manager!’
The pair disappear, laughing and stumbling
How he envies their joy, as his own world is crumbling
‘They say time is a healer, and all things must pass.
thanks for tonight, some small comfort at last.
I don’t know your name?’
‘I’m Frankie’
‘I’m Dave’
They embrace, say goodbye, and go their own way
14. The Fence
By Fiona Cruisey
The want the desire
The craving’s intense
Fighting for space but
Finding a fence
The pride and respect
The fore’s and against
It’s all in the will
To climb the fence
The hope and despair
The refusal immense
Being held captive
To a towering fence
The complete denial
The deceit so dense
Being unable
To go over that fence
The try and the hope
The running makes sense
To escape the trying
To get around that fence
The choose to fight
And be free and hence
The try will pay off
And you’ll beat that fence
15. The Anchoress
By John Wright
Pity the poor anchoress, Lady Isobel German
bricked into her hell hole in 1417
to recant the sins of others.
for this, six shillings were paid,
but not to her, to the church where she was tombed.
Unable to stand, never again to walk,
her bones suffused with syphilis,
her daily task, to dig, bare-handed her own grave,
in the cave beneath the nave. Her only relief
a bible, and a cat.
Where would be her refuge, interred so
in a sanctuary? Where the mercy?
16. By Josephine Sokan
It's 2023
We are all in therapy
No longer looking at the world upside down
Now we're looking at it sideways - cos it's better, yeah?
You’re seeing things the way the therapist says you should, nothing is still linear Rosie
It's all random, nonlinear, jagged fragments like shattered glass or broken hearts
Not unlike a windy November morning
When you see a man looking like a tall, syrupy dark glass of iced mocha
Blown in with the wind
Just like your mama said
He whistles to call you over
With those bewitching eyes she says he will have
He asks how you are, how old you are now
As he holds the hands of one even younger than you, shielding her a little with his body
Shame or protection?
Hmm.
He smiles. This devil flashes his pristine pearlies as he pats her head
A head you wish were yours
The pigtailed princess tugs at his arm, asking how much longer he will be cos she is tired and needs a wee
He laughs, with a tenderness that should have been reserved for only you
Tells her "alright baby, alright. We'll leave in a minute", with a playful tug of her tiny-winy nose
She laughs that full-of-bubbles laugh used only by little girls with their daddy's, for loved little girls, for wanted things
You say goodbye, all formal and polite
He does too
Both lean in for an unsteady half-hug
Almost
But decide against it, then he starts to turn
Now somewhere or something near your tummy hurts again
You shouldn’t but you do
A sudden glance real quick, real slick
At the little gem that was worth his heart, the one he was able to show up for
Her image now burned in your memory
You wonder whether it was her bright eyes, lighter skin or that laugh like liquorice that made him stay
17. Broken English - By Keith Wilson
I come to speak with the broken English
in the Asylum.
In the asylum are delusional people
who think they are entitled to rule the world
with their hyphenated surnames
and their Brexit.
How they hold their sides
when we speak
they think our grammar is risible.
How long would they survive
if their eating depended on
learning a foreign tongue
or, even trying,
to pronounce a foreign word
correctly?
Still,
I have no choice,
I have to live with the broken English
In their asylum.
18. Desperate Refuge – By Liya Hussain
​
I am the refuge for the desperate,
In their helpless moments.
I’ve heard more sincere prayers,
Than church walls.
I’ve seen truer love,
Than wedding halls.
I’ve collected countless tears,
And forever fears.
My hallways are large, dark and empty but forever comforting.
I’ve been punched, kicked and slapped,
These were not vicious attacks,
But feelings of being trapped.
Inside me every day there is new beginnings alongside harsh endings.
In times of frustration,
There is the most unexpected reconciliations.
I house so many so lovingly.
But never do they want to stay.
I am a refugee,
In your own deluge,
But my comfort you refuse.
Inside hospital walls is where refuge is most called.
18. Surrendered Refuge – By Liya Hussain
I made you my mission,
And I set sail.
I made you my homeland,
Building a life,
With my own hands.
I was a patriotic solider,
Fighting to keep you from exposure.
Yet always wondering,
Who was your owner.
Once a regular island become my homeland,
And I sought refuge, in our countries romance,
From a stolen glance to a loyal stance,
Your land gave my lost soul a second chance.
I got too comfortable in your land,
Forgetting we weren’t calling the commands,
Your countries war I could not withstand,
I am no longer safe on this foreign sand.
My refuge now is the knowledge,
We reside under the same sky,
And we roam somewhere nearby,
And that we pray for the same heaven,
I have dropped all weapons and expressions of aggression.
I surrender my refuge.
19
Pathogen – By Liz Beth Turner
To shrug off this weighted mantle of dread as
a battle-weary Viking discards his bloodied
furs is to shrug off the scent of me.
Once I was mistaken for someone with
hope. It wasn’t mine, I found it, abandoned
in an alley way so I borrowed it to
tantalise her with; it blistered in all the
reds and greens I gifted her, emeralds, rubies,
silken threads not yet bare, a promise,
unkept. All the dappled things I loved, willow,
light, love, she rejected, fractals crashing like
snowflakes in broken shafts of light. Everything
I was ever told about myself was a
lie. Unblinkered, I stumbled naked,
vulnerable, down every blind alley, grabbing
sack cloths and ashes to conceal my truth that
called itself shame. Hope, a pathogen that
hides in the rabbit skins clasped about my
throat; to set a trap to catch it, or let it kill
this thing that’s taken refuge in my skin,
calling itself me.
19.
Refuge A – By Liz Beth Turner
Cycling
I pick her up, gingerly, as you might a broken china cup, set her down gently on the settee, bring her a cup of tea in her favourite chipped mug, wipe blood and tear stains from her eyes, brush matted hair from her swollen cheeks, check her over like an injured child flinching beneath my probing: where is he? The beast I keep restrained in me prowls my abdomen floor; it gnaws at the bars of my rib cage. Gone to work. Where are the girls? Gone to school. Get your things. I bundle her into my clunking jalopy and drive her to the council offices. A kindly old gentleman of bygone times nods sagely and not without compassion. Haven’t I seen you before? He locates a family room at the local refuge. You may be there a while he says, there’s a long waiting list for social housing. He won’t see her again, he’s close to retiring. We shower him with profuse gratitude and drive to the refuge where two stern ladies outline the rules. The women and children in this place are in the gravest of danger. DO NOT give away this location. The doors must be locked at all times. No visitors, lives are at risk. No men. They provide her with the basics. I leave her in safe hands and return to collect my siblings. His car is parked outside. Be brave. But he’s wrapped up in sorrow, curled in self-pity; I’m not at risk in this phase. Tell her I’m sorry. Pathos. Unmoved, my eyes rove over the debris of last night’s storm, strewn, smashed, bloodied, stained. He is loathsome to me. He always has been. Please tell me where she is, tell her I’m sorry, tell her it won’t happen again. It won’t happen again, as if it just happens, as if it has agency all of its own, as if it isn’t him in control of his own infantile rage, his own flailing fists. The dials keep twisting, cycling through their sickness. Soon, he’ll be threatening to kill us, and so she’ll return, and it’ll be good for a while, he’ll do the DIY, buy new things, kittens for my siblings, days out to the seaside, all the things normal families do. See you soon. We leave him sobbing on the sofa and head for the refuge. She’s in flight mode, in need of respite, no fight left, and when she asks me to take her home, as she always does, in that moment, I’ll loathe her more than him.
19
Unfelled – By Liz Beth Turner
The hum, urgent, whirring, fells
all the living things that will succeed us,
but here in this place, stricken
heritage trees are suckled back to life,
ivy and vine weed creep around
privation, suckling on the will to
survive. Ancient ash, a hedgerow
throne, bramble blossom and rambling rose-
bedecked, its sentries grown tall
from its regenerative old torso,
vulnerable yet proud in the
face of our destructive thrum. Black poplar
unfurls her hopeful green hearts,
caressed by lilac, shy, hiding behind
survivors, whilst air holds space
where the monkey puzzle once reached too high,
its decomposing roots, refuge
for ants displaced by crazy paving.
A row of firs, a goldfinch
sanctuary, demolished, ousting the
colony, a diaspora of winged dandelion
seeds, while this once-
felled elder stuns today in
white gossamer. Daisugi, an art:
entire forests held, nurtured in the cupped hands of
ancient trees, unfelled.
20.
Wrecked – by Luise Walton
Small boats
Or
Super yachts?
The have nowts
And have a lots
Small boats, big hopes
Dashed on rocks
Sunken lives of women,
Children,
Men and boys,
Fleeing terror, famine, wars
Punished for being black and poor.
Rhetoric, othering, scapegoating.
By those in ivory castles show-boating
Shamefully floating
Ideas from the 1930s.
Billionaires drown in search of Titanic for fun!
So much panic for four rich white men and a son.
When six hundred drown in the Mediterranean
The graveyard of fortress Europe
The media circus deafeningly declares,
‘Nothing to see here!’
Get back to your lives!
They aren’t women, children, husbands or wives…
The lies they tell to wash away,
The lives of people fleeing hell,
Are designed to manipulate and perpetuate
The biggest lie of all.
That refugees and migrants ‘have it all’
Deliberately to deflect
From who the enemy really is
The billionaires, the spivs in their super yachts
Laughing at our misery
And those beautiful lives lost at sea.
21.
3 poems by Marjorie Holmes:
22.
A Winter's Tale - by Peter Devonald
Time is just the whisper of winds and shuffle of shoes,
rustle of black coats against snow and ice, muttering, longing for home.
Time is memories flashing before our eyes, blinking back tears, trying
to comprehend what's happened, do we ever really understand?
Bitter winds blow strong today, only recollections of you sustain,
so much weary time and lost years lack meaning or influence.
Low winter sun mocks and swindles us with possibilities
of what might have been, missing sometimes, waiting somewhere.
Summer without warmth and comfort, an image without the reality,
like memory; only in the moment was there meaning, true meaning.
Only in the moment was there love, true love;
holding, longing and loving more than icy sting of winter.
Times when we were completely comforted by our ignorance
and arrogance; can we ever really be home again?
Kettle on, nice cup of tea will make everything better, two sugars,
wrap yourself in the blanket and memories, love, you'll soon warm up.
No one ever tells you that you will get sick and never recover;
people care for seconds but stories change and knives are out.
So much easier to blame than accept, forget than give solace,
all those dreams of what might-have-beens, like snow flurries now
so many missed opportunities that melt an hour or two later,
every achievement erased as quickly as written
now just melting memories. Where is it now?
Snow thaws into the future astonishing, melts so fast, never lasts.
Home at least, warming up, happy in my misery, safety of a life half lived.
To wonder if this or that would change it all, that way misery lies.
Wind gusts treacherous against windows, memories catch us out
when we least expect them. Trees bow dangerous, lies laid bare, tortured.
I wish I could rewind the clock, I wish I could try again,
do right things in the right order and make snow angels.
Not smash the glass: we are all so casual with other people’s lives,
now the night draws cold, darkness comes, look to the sky.
The moon will share its answers, maybe dreams are truth,
in darkness peace, snow flurries rescue us from ourselves.
All Roads Lead Home - by Peter Devonald
Carry you wherever I go
wherever in the world, whatever I know
forever that feeling inside
all roads lead me home with pride.
Protection, safety and embraced
warmth, comfort and inspired
curled up on the sofa with such glee
eat fish and chips, just you and me.
All my dreams held in your eyes
so many moments and great highs
you'll carry me and I'll carry you
over mountains, hills and feeling blue
just to spend some time with you
to hold your hand and feel you near
I'll trade all my wealth to have you here
just for one more day with us together.
Through thunderstorms, snow and rain
nowhere else will ever make me feel the same
home is heart and home is you
all my love, blessed to be with you.
Patchwork Quilts - by Peter Devonald
A thousand fragments of memories, celebrations
birthdays and births, laughter, love and nights out
catching the eye of truth, glimpsing the eye of lust
touchstones, touch home, come home, come home.
Buying, changing, living, giving
this is what is important, trust me
this is what is vital, believe me
a patchwork quilt with each square our lives
hand-made, fraught and beautiful
fragile and majestic, this life, warmth
metaphors of marvellous kaleidoscope of moments
successes and sunny days that seem to last
forever.
See eyes fire alive, unique bliss, we miss, we miss
this divine beauty, the power is in this, this
our tangled ties to life, weaken
one by one the threads unwind, break, untie themselves
untethered
we float away unencumbered
even strongest ties are one lie away
from oblivion.
Trials and tribulations, victories and vanquished
knots tighten and bind, life springs eternal
create new quilts and new memories.
Your eyes reflect the soul of me
crimson tapestries of faraway seas
Atlantis and Camelot resurrected
our little lives shine and blind
reborn, reborn, what are we?
But reflections tell the truth
in eyes of loved ones
hidden in eternity, home.
23.
23.
A FOREST IS A REFUGE - by Peter Wathen
A forest is a refuge … a temple, a cathedral, a church;
the old masons, inspired, once shaped and made
sanctuaries; reimagined its architectural glades,
those canopies of leaves, the nave, the arch
the building blocks of growth in the mighty oak;
the eternal life of yew and willow; the elm, the birch -
“Come in all you who seek shelter and shade.”
And even you, the urban refugee,
may sometimes find an eternal peace,
a stillness that both frightens and enlightens,
so that you hardly dare to breathe.
And your wonder may metamorphose to prayer
in the holy silence you find dwelling there –
yet it speaks on a breeze through tongues of leaves,
in the forgotten language of trees and birds,
calls through veils of our ancient shared histories.
A forest is a refuge …. it gives sustenance, a roof;
multitudes abide here, it is its own society;
it is the last gasp of oxygen and the last hope
for the future of the earth, of embattled humanity -
“I’ll breathe for you, if you’ll breathe for me.”
It can teach you to grow, it can teach you to cope
in this strange environment you came to by fate,
it can hold you close or it can set you free.
It can teach almost anything to those who’ll listen,
have the patience and silence to be still and wait;
even you, who’ve entered this strange and different state,
may find shelter from mammon, injustice and the prison.
A forest may offer a pause, a recourse from your fears,
freedom of thought and belief, a sense of release
from a fast-diminishing world’s insanity.
Its basic ecology may be growth and decay
but it boasts no jails nor horrific wars,
its bars are of sunlight, its ways open doors –
“Come in, and I’ll give you sanctuary.”
​
PRAYERS AT 4 A.M.
(A nightmare of what could be …) By Peter Wathen
Last night the gales blew the stars away,
I looked through my window at empty sky;
The moon, the planets, the Milky Way
All timely died at that lowest hour: 4 a.m.
Please bring the heavens back again
To this not quite morning, not quite night,
Out of shadowy darkness bring heavenly light,
From the deluge give us refuge,
Forever and ever, Amen.
And now it’s mid-April and it’s started to snow,
in June there’s a heatwave, in July it’s turned cold,
just that fickle old jet-stream, or so I’m told,
like my stream of consciousness all over the place;
not global warming, no fault of the human race ...
But then come the storms the torrential rains,
the nightmares of shattered thoughts - and windowpanes.
Give me shelter, give me release, call the police!
Someone’s stolen my peace! An electric storm
shorts lights in the town, all is flooded, the only sound
is constant rain, the cries of pain, the betrayal of dawn.
The stars have fallen, the earth has warmed,
its 4a.m. in the morning and you have been warned –
“Everything is closing down”
Through storms and darkness and man’s deceit,
His abuse of power; please hear my prayer
In this fragile hour between waking and sleep;
Between life and death, the nurse’s hour: 4 a.m.
Give us back our earth, make it whole again,
before storms and man steal our dreams and light;
save our frail failing planet from endless night,
Give us refuge from the deluge,
Forever and ever, ‘World without End’, Amen.
REFUGEES - By Peter Wathen
Refugees are a road of sorrows, their footprints blood;
communities devastated flee earthquakes, volcanoes and flood.
Families seek a common humanity, freedom from fires and wars,
an escape from darkened lands of torture and oppressive laws;
guided only by hope and the compass-point stars above,
they’re a straggling line on a map that ends at foreign shores.
Refugees are a tidal wave, a channel crossing of little boats;
they are a handcart highway of shattered dreams and hopes;
suffering rip-tide seas to find only confinement and bureaucracy,
dubious political decisions foiling seekers of solace and security –
they encapsulate the hardships of the homeless poor, seek redress,
from those who won’t hear, freedom from fear and homelessness.
Eyes that bear witness to their ragged flight,
may see the tragedy that one day might happen here;
it’s easy to turn off appeals on TV, switch off sights
such as these; go and make tea, get another beer;
they are a sombre advert that you don’t want to watch
between the news and the late show, in the land of Nod.
Refugees are a river, an ocean that is constantly flowing,
they are a border crossing at the end of the earth;
where signs say, “Sorry, we’re full”, ‘8 billion and growing.’
They’re immigrants now, a million miles from their place of birth;
hoping for a refuge, some sustenance, a permanent home;
they’re a makeshift camp on the outskirts, destination unknown.
24.
REFUGE C - By Phillipa Coughlan
​
THE DAY
​
MORNING
We awoke - stuck with sweat in our tent
the big man said this was the day to leave
my sister lies still – thin and very pale
I long for Mother’s hearty meal.
​
NOON
The midday heat did not warm her
suddenly we had to move quickly
I carried my sister to save the blows
from the big man by the beach dunes.
​
NIGHT
Hours had passed in desperation
we surged towards a full plastic boat
sea shimmered like Mother’s sari
on the calm waves my sister left to float.
25.
The Refuge - By Ray Pattenden
It’s my favourite place of refuge
To escape from worry and woe
When it all just gets too much
it’s down to the shed I go.
A little wooden building
That’s only steps away
A place where time stands still
I can be in there all day
Dismantling bits of a motor bike
Or hacking bits of wood
Time spent in my shed
Always leaves me feeling good
I shut the door and the world outside
Can’t interfere with me
Though it’s only eight by six
In my shed I’m free
My mobile phone doesn’t work in there
It really is a pain
But it’s OK when I’m out of the shed
And turn it on again
Every bloke should have a shed
Doctors should prescribe them
The depressed and anxious would be cured
Just spending time inside them
There’s always a job to be done in the shed
It never lets me down
So, sorry but I just don’t have time for
Shopping trips to town
Is your mother coming round dear?
The thought fills me with dread
If you really, really need me dear
I’ll be in the shed
Those things about your sister
I suppose I shouldn’t have said
But you’ve said them yourself dear
You’ll find me in the shed
Is it our anniversary dear?
I’d quite forgotten it.
Suddenly, it’s crystal clear.
I’m really in the shed
26.
A Man Should Have A Shed - by Robin Dalglish
So, I built a knee-high brick wall,
then studwork, noggins, braced,
ply sheet roofing, felted and tacked,
a ledged and braced door,
a window and a floor.
When it was finished
I shelved it out,
hooks and brackets
on the walls,
somewhere to keep the lawnmower,
somewhere to keep my tools.
A man should have a shed:
it should be somewhere
in the rules.
Curtilage - By Robin Dalglish
I want a garden I can grow old in,
a potted-up future I can trust
but the tv is bleeding on my carpet,
I hope the government can get the stain out.
I mow my lawn, I pay my taxes
but the world is breaking down my door
with axes. How can I relax on my patio
when boatloads drown in the sea?
Robbery continues by the banks,
the share price of morality has crashed,
The bounced cheque of the future
can’t be cashed.
Writing Mr Ordinary - By Robin Dalglish
​
Out of a blank page I give him a face.
a whole lifetime led him here
and I single him out in a crowd:
not too humble, not too proud,
not too clever, so he can fit in.
He’s a commuter on a train,
a shout in a football game,
his mother loves him
and his children bear his name.
Ordinary is special when
you come to weigh it up,
say something about this everyman,
how he drinks from life’s cup,
how he goes about his business
with a smile or a frown,
how he has to keep on swimming
or he’ll drown.
27.
Refuges - By Rosalind Irving
​
A minor fugue, like tiny bubbles rising in a kettle,
Of people, like cattle driven by fields on fire, and floods and dust,
To the edges where lands meet seas.
There, islands safely seeing them,
Throw up their hands in castles built of fear on sand.
Where careless waves fan fires from distrust,
Refusing refuge for them, not us.
A major fugue, like water boiling in a pan,
Of people, like frogs flopping, relaxed, in barmy summers, ignoring facts.
They leap into a world on fire, but find
No islands benign with holding hands.
They now move in swarms, in fear they fanned
Around the earth, a fishbowl filled with dust.
The only refuge then is us.
28.
Displacement poem - by Y Asare
Displacement is a passive word, it speaks of being done to
It lacks agency, control, any spark of creativity.
The displaced person loses their humanity.
The old self morphing into a ghost, a memory, already fading
As they move across the border, to inhabit another country.
Displacement speaks of damage inflicted,
Cruel outcome of the affairs of nations
Tearing people away from their known situations.
Displacement is being forced into the wrong space
The disturbance of people away from their own place
It tells of the loss of belonging, of imposed degradation.
The fact of displacement disturbs the self…..
Like a piece of a jigsaw violently forced where it doesn’t fit
A spelling mistake which corrupts an elegant sentence
A vicious red stain spoiling a cream-coloured carpet
Or a wrongly placed comma which disrupts the paragraph’s flow.
The displaced person’s new habitus is awkward and tense.
At a loss, bewildering, failing to make any sense.
And in all of this turmoil what else has to be borne,
By those who suffer the pain of being torn
Away from their country and all that they once held?
The process of media sniping and political storms,
The lies that denigrate, humiliate and defame,
The headlines and sound bites which inflict further scorn,
The labels and insinuations designed to bring shame.
This is the fate of the displaced, the done-to, the ones who hold pain.