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The First Christmas<\/strong><\/p>\n away from home you invite me as family; Fingers of cold inch through layers, I walk the blanketed roads and pavements; Chilled beyond expectation I knock at your heavy door. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Madelaine Smith<\/strong>\u00a0grew up in Australia but hated long hot summers. She has had poems published in South Magazine, Paper Swans anthologies, Perverse Poems, Northampton Poetry Review,<\/em> and the Winchester Loose Muse Anthology<\/em>. Madelaine works for Winchester Poetry Festival.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Strange Folk from Under the Stairs<\/strong><\/p>\n December, they tumble out, God love them, chubby faces Only I know about the years Soon there\u2019ll be parties, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Joanne Key’<\/strong>s poems have been published online and in print. She won Second Prize in the National Poetry Competition 2014, and Charles Causley 2016 and was Runner-Up in the Prole Competition 2017. In 2018 she won the Hippocrates Open Prize.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n First Winter Estranged<\/strong><\/p>\n Before she leaves the apartment The bus is so full of snowy people The way that it keeps coming down at her With Dante in her left pocket Home, she\u2019d say The girl is here at opening time <\/p>\n <\/p>\n London-based Caroline Hammond<\/strong> is part of the LetterPress poetry collective and was published in their Anthology in 2015.\u00a0 She has read at the Aldeburgh Festival in 2016 and the South Downs Poetry Festival in 2017, where her poem, the Firetail,<\/em> came second in the Festival\u2019s competition<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The First Christmas away from home you invite me as family; more used to a summer celebration I brave the weather to join you. Fingers of cold inch through layers, pinch ears in unkind clasps, bring tears to my eyes. I walk the blanketed roads and pavements; […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[97],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18007","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-twelve-days-of-christmas-2018"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18007","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18007"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18007\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18018,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18007\/revisions\/18018"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18007"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18007"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18007"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nmore used to a summer celebration
\nI brave the weather to join you.<\/p>\n
\npinch ears in unkind clasps,
\nbring tears to my eyes.<\/p>\n
\nsnow-covered, featureless, silent ground – blue in the dark –
\neach corner the same and unrecognised until I arrive.<\/p>\n
\nYou fling it wide and hug me in,
\nwelcoming me \u2018home\u2019 when I am nowhere near.<\/p>\n
\ncovered in dust, shy as mice.
\nI tend their breaks and grazes,
\nmake them comfortable
\nby the fire where they sit
\nsmiling like little children.<\/p>\n
\nlit up like full moons, all except
\nthe girl \u2013 the light has gone out
\nof her, still, she makes an effort
\nin her red dress and silver shoes.<\/p>\n
\nshe spent alone and broken,
\nhands clasped in silent prayer.
\nEveryone said she was beyond
\nrepair. But now look at her!
\nShe\u2019s as good as new.<\/p>\n
\nand everyone will try
\nto get her to shine,
\nbut she\u2019s happy sitting alone
\nin her dark corner, lips sealed,
\ndolled-up to the nines.<\/p>\n
\nthe girl hides all her notebooks;
\ntears a hole in her skirt to stop herself
\nwondering if she\u2019d remembered.<\/p>\n
\nstuck together like wet hair,
\nshe dives back into the crowd
\nand runs through the coloured lights
\nand music to the gallery.<\/p>\n
\nshe stops brushing away the snow,
\nleaves it to pile on her shoulders
\nas statues do.<\/p>\n
\nand two matchboxes in her right
\nshe looks hard at the painting of winter
\npretends that those trees can cry
\nthat it\u2019s true: you can snap a twig
\nand hear the voices of suicides
\nlamenting.<\/p>\n
\nIs made of paper, spoiled by wet snow
\nBut the question is never asked.<\/p>\n
\n9am in summer, 10 am in winter
\nand leaves when they suggest it\u2019s time to close.<\/p>\n