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Christmas Politics<\/strong><\/p>\n I sang with my neighbours today We don\u2019t call ourselves If only we didn\u2019t feel We\u2019ve missed several weeks We\u2019ve forgotten last year\u2019s harmonies, We\u2019re all holding our tongues We expect radically different outcomes There\u2019s tinsel, mince pies, We\u2019ve no time to get it right. Some of us pray and hope <\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a0Hannah Linden<\/strong> is and award winning poet, published widely including with Magma, Strix, Under the Radar, Proletarian Poetry, Atrium <\/em>and the 84 Anthology<\/em>. She is working towards her first collection.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Christmas Eve<\/strong><\/p>\n There\u2019s a stillness tonight, a silence. Not so much a sense Silence nudges the mind into overtime, imagination circling Or used to know? Or thought you\u2019d left behind? No: is gone when you look again. Call it a night. Forget about cars came in April; the year before it was February the estate of snow. Soon it\u2019ll be permanent: a year-long snowfall, The future is circling, unsteady, about to enter freefall. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Neil Fulwood<\/strong> is the author two collections with Shoestring Press, No Avoiding It<\/em> and Can\u2019t Take Me Anywhere<\/em>. Additionally, he has published two pamphlets with the Black Light Engine Room Press: Numbers Stations<\/em> and The Little Book of Forced Calm.<\/em> He lives and works in Nottingham.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Season of goodwill<\/strong><\/p>\n Birdsong caught my ear The Sainsbury\u2019s manager sang <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\nin our ramshackle way
\nstruggling to find
\nthe starting notes,
\nso our carols won\u2019t be
\ntoo high or too low.<\/p>\n
\nsingers. Really it\u2019s just
\nan excuse every fortnight
\nto be together for an hour.<\/p>\n
\nthe need to perform
\nthe Christmas rituals,
\nthe pressure to be
\nmore tuneful than we are.<\/p>\n
\nwhilst some of us have been too ill,
\ndesperate or weary,
\nand my voice still croaks
\nbetween the cracks
\nin the floorboards.<\/p>\n
\nand the ease of banter is rusty.<\/p>\n
\nuntil the New Year, muffling
\nthe clash of beliefs about the PM,
\nand the outcome of Brexit.<\/p>\n
\nso we don\u2019t talk politics here.<\/p>\n
\nand one woman drumming
\nan irregular beat against the table-tappings.<\/p>\n
\nSo we just pretend it will be
\nenough somehow.<\/p>\n
\nfor some support from the village
\non the dark, rainy nights,<\/p>\n
\nfor miracles,
\nunder different shades of fairy lights.<\/p>\n
\nof magic in the air or peace on earth settling like the snowfall
\nyou still hope to wake to Christmas morning; no,
\nthis is more the silence of ennui enveloping the estate,
\nno-one bothering to force a door or steal a car,
\nno siren or alarm, no searchlight, no helicopter circling.<\/p>\n
\nlike a drone. Nothing to see here, but sixth sense
\nsmacks down common sense each time. That car –
\ndented side panel, paintwork the dirty white of driven snow,
\naerial snapped off, a car you\u2019ve not seen on the estate
\nbefore – behind the wheel: is that someone you know?<\/p>\n
\nit\u2019s just your mind and the night playing tricks. Circles
\nof coloured light reflected back from the one house on the estate
\nstill going for broke with decorations gives a sense
\nof brightness, of festivity, but otherwise nightfall
\nis absolute. Streetlights accept defeat. The car<\/p>\n
\noccupied by shadowy figures you may or may not know.
\nYou\u2019ve spent too long at the window, like a child waiting for snow
\nthat won\u2019t fall – not tonight anyway. Snowflakes circling
\nin the streetlights\u2019 weak penumbra? No sense
\nholding out for that Christmas miracle. Snow on the estate<\/p>\n
\narmed itself with shovels, dug out driveways, cars
\nfishtailing on ungritted streets, slewing with all the sense
\nof movement and grace of a new-born foal. No,
\nit\u2019ll be snow in June next year, winter\u2019s isobars circling
\nthrough the summer forecast: frost, low temperatures, a fall<\/p>\n
\ngreat drifting snowbanks barricading the estate,
\nhuge walls of ice sealing off streets, encircling
\nthe city, river frozen to a hard unmelting scar.
\nWhite in its endless dirty variations will be all you know.
\nCold unremitting. Hands, feet, heart will lose all sense.<\/p>\n
\nDying smoke mingles with incense. Leave the estate,
\njoin the caravan. Adapt. Abandon what you know.<\/p>\n
\nin the park this morning:
\na blackbird chorusing
\nthe grey sky, sweet as rain
\non slate, and robin
\nin the garden, singing up
\nthe leaves I raked \u2013
\na charm against the dark.<\/p>\n
\na tuneless, glassy note:
\nthe broken bottle a shoplifter
\ncrashed onto his bare head.
\nOn his phone he showed me
\na photo of the three-inch gash.
\nHe explained glue and staples,
\nand why he was wearing a Santa hat
\nto match his Christmas jumper.<\/p>\n