<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Christmas List<\/strong><\/p>\n Is this the dream we have had all year \u2013 <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Julia Webb\u00a0<\/strong>lives in Norwich where she teaches creative writing, mentors writers, and works for Gatehouse Press. She is a poetry editor for Lighthouse and helps organise Cafe Writers. She has two collections published by Nine Arches Press –\u00a0Bird Sisters<\/i>\u00a0(2016) and\u00a0Threat\u00a0<\/i>(2019).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n 1984, Clonomara<\/strong><\/p>\n There is tinsel and a lantern coloured in red There are my childhood hands collecting stout There are men and moans about played cards. There is being noticed and sentenced to bed. There is a jolt. I clamp my eyes shut and force <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Joanne McCarthy<\/strong> is a poet and spoken word artist who writes in English and Irish. Two of her videopoems featured as part of the 2019 Modwords Festival, Waterford. She is published in the current edition of Visual Verse<\/em>,Vol 07 Chapter 2.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n I\u2019m sprawled over <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Karen Little<\/strong> has exhibited her artwork internationally, and is widely published as a writer in the UK and further afield.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Christmas List Is this the dream we have had all year \u2013 the whole house smelling of burnt toast, the black and white cat sitting on the bottom stair chewing tinsel while the ginger tom looks on, a floor littered with screwed up paper, tights from grandma \u2013 a size too small, […]<\/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":[114],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-20863","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-twelve-days-of-christmas-201920"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20863","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=20863"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20863\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20928,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20863\/revisions\/20928"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20863"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20863"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20863"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nthe whole house smelling of burnt toast,
\nthe black and white cat sitting on the bottom stair
\nchewing tinsel while the ginger tom looks on,
\na floor littered with screwed up paper,
\ntights from grandma \u2013 a size too small,
\nplastic soldiers lying in wait for stockinged feet,
\nraised voices in the kitchen,
\nthe clatter of baking trays dropped on the floor,
\na half empty selection box under the tree,
\nthree kids lounging on the patched brown sofa,
\none reading, one making a gun with his fingers \u2013
\naiming it at the dog, and one staring into space,
\ntwizzling her hair round her finger, sucking her thumb,
\nwaiting for permission to turn on the TV?<\/p>\n
\nand green crayon. There are fags in honeymoon
\nashtrays, a picture of Santa Ponsa clouded under
\nsmoldering\u00a0 Sweet Aftons. There are playing cards.
\nA matchstick currency. What\u2019s the count now?
\nThere are numbers shouted at players.
\nBottles of stout. Circulating bottle openers.<\/p>\n
\ncaps in a shoe box treasure box.<\/p>\n
\nThere are stand offs about cold and reneged
\ncards. There is my mother making hot whiskeys.
\nTalk of a turkey drive.
\nWould you let the fire die down woman
\nfor the love of God.
\nThere is the ossified uncle shouted down
\nas he starts on the rebel songs.
\nWould you fuck off with your Boolavogue.<\/p>\n
\nThere is rain sleeting off single glazing with wind
\nrattling through panes. A stash of teddies.
\nIt\u2019s your turn now. The blue one is my favourite.
\nYou go first.
\nThere is coughing into darkness and an evening
\nplayed out in my mind. My father is winning.
\nMy mother is laughing.<\/p>\n
\nmy thoughts to a halt.
\nYou have to be a good girl for Santa to come.
\nThere is the bedtime count.
\nOne sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four sheep.<\/p>\n
\nthe cigarette machine\u2014
\nsnogging David Barlow\u2014
\nwhen Mum marches in,
\nhauls me home.
\nIt\u2019s the seventies, I\u2019m 14\u2014
\nstill expecting a rake
\nof presents, nut roast
\nand all the trimmings
\nto magically appear
\nwhile I\u2019m down the pub,
\nbeing all grown up.<\/p>\n