Poems by Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon, Vicky Donnelly, William Howard Taylor and Diarmuid Fitzgerald

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    Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon has worked as a Probation Officer, a Mental HealthSocial Worker and Practice Educator. She lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been published on web magazines and in print anthologies. These include Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Alliterati, Stepaway, Poets Speak (whilst they still can),  Three Drops from the Cauldron, Obsessed with Pipework, Picaroon, Amaryllis, Algebra of Owls, Write to be Counted, The Lake and Riggwelter . She completed her MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University in August 2107 and graduated  in December 2017.

    Fisherfolk Isabella Jobling (1851–1926)
    Laing Art Gallery

    Jobling, Isabella; Fisherfolk; Laing Art Gallery; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/fisherfolk-36422Used under “fair dealing”
    Fisherfolk

    (after Isabella Jobling’s painting, Fisherfolk 1893, Laing Art Gallery, Newcastle)

    I am heart-sore
    I mind the night
    the sea swept my Da away
    without trace
    my Mam endures
    does not tug against His will
    and still my brothers
    follow the deep-sea shoals
    and my own man
    your canny lad
    trawls for herring

    the sea is good to us hinny
    as you were raised to know
    our men harvest mackerel, cod
    and herring for pot and market
    we women beachcomb and mend nets
    gather limpets and sea lettuce
    driftwood and sea coal
    and in times of mourning
    we must honour the ocean

    my eyes turn inland
    and restlessly I dream
    another life

    recall the wedding vows you took
    flounced in your pretty dress
    laced tight with its blue silk sash
    you are tied to your husband’s fate
    tethered to the sea

     I see your eyes run with tears
    when stung by the sea air
    but you do not weep
    by the empty graves
    you simply stare

     there’s work to do
    learn patience with the rest of us
    salt-water soaks our boots
    and our feet turn icy cold
    whilst we stand blathering
    nothing will change                                                                                   

    last night in the gloaming
    I chatted with a farmer’s lad
    he had merry eyes
    quipped fast jokes
    he made me smile
    I knew him as a child
    long before I wed
    and how I wished him in my bed

     I’ll clip your cheek
    I’ve heard enough
    I’ll take your arm and hold it firm
    and hard I will restrain you
    for certain     you’ll remain here

     when your crooked back is turned
    I’ll turn tricks in beached boats
    behind The Jolly Fisherman
    save my coins against the day
    the mermaids take my husband down

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    Born 1965, I live on the Wirral peninsula, Uk.
    I have been writing poems since 2011. Previously my life was complex, I helped make it that way; now, I keep it simple and fun.

     

     

    Her compulsion to disinfect

    Nan washed her smalls in the sink
    till the soap flake scum hugged a rim,
    then boiled them in a pan
    with my school socks, I recall-
    the smell of it all;
    her pegged-out compulsion hanging
    carbolic, in a factory haze.

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    William Howard Taylor – A career teacher of English, now retired and living in a small village in Northamptonshire, he has been writing poetry since his teens in the 1960s.
    He has been an active performance poet for a dozen years and was a regular at Peterborough’s Pint of Poetry until its demise in 2017. He has been an ever-present performer at Stamford Pint of Poetry since its inception. He has performed at the Edinburgh Fringe, and at poetry events in Kettering, Oundle, Whittlesey and London. He was Stamford Poet Laureate from 2014 -15 and runs poetry workshops in schools around the area where he lives and has run a monthly Open Mic music and spoken word event in his local pub for two years.
    He used to write personal stuff but since writing for performance he has branched out and writes about current affairs with a particular love of berating the world of media and politics.
    When not writing or performing, he can often be found cutting grass on his village playing field or drinking beer in the local.

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    Tokotoko

    He took the tokotoko,
    The listeners sat,
    Cross-legged,
    Awaiting the orator.
    He waved the wooden staff,
    All dropped silent.
    “We went to Waitangi.
    We have made peace.
    The white man has his sovereignty
    But we still own the land, the water,
    The fish and the fowl,
    The flowers and the trees.
    We are still masters of this land
    And will always be so.”

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    A tokotoko is an orator’s staff which gives him authority to speak in front of fellow Maoris. The Treaty of Waitangi is as important in native New Zealand history as the Declaration of Independence in USA or the Magna Carta in UK. It was signed between the Maori chiefs and the Representatives of Queen Victoria’s government giving Britain sovereignty over New Zealand but allowing the Maoris rights which have been a source of contention ever since. They are currently trying to sue the British Government for breaking the treaty.

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    Diarmuid Fitzgerald was born in 1977 in Co. Mayo, Ireland. He grew up in Co. Cork. He now lives and works in Dublin as a teacher. He had previously lived in Japan and in the UK. Thames Way was his first collection of haiku and tanka poetry, and was published in 2015 by Alba Publishing. He is currently working on a second collection of haiku poetry called A Thousand Sparks, which is nearly ready. In 2016 Diarmuid walked the Camino and he wrote poetry along the way. This forms the basis of a chapbook collection called Camino Cantos.

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    Dawn over O’Cebreiro

    Black gives way to many colours.
    The rain assaults the windows of the albergue.
    I get up at 5 o’clock, rustle as quietly as I can from bed.
    I want to avoid walking with anyone.

    Mist is powerful here.
    A row of lights shines like angels.
    Wind washed clothes are scattered
    on the footpath outside the albergue.

    I see the sea then realise it’s not the sea,
    but clouds through which high peaks come through.
    A yellow arrow points the way. I am tempted
    to go round this corner that I am not supposed to go.

     

     

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