The random uneasy moments resolve into the bluntness of grief. Honest and real.
The vote this time was oh so close, perhaps the closest it has been for some years.
But in the end it was the beautiful, moving simplicity of Stephen Keeler’s ‘Something about this’ which broke your hearts and saw this poem chosen as Pick of the Month for November 2024.
Stephen Keeler is a widely-published multi award-winning poet and memoirist. His collection They Spoke No English is published by Nine Pens Press. His memoir 50 Words for Love in Swedish by Archetype Books. He has held writing residences in Grez-sur- Loing, France, and Skara, in Sweden. He lives in a former chocolate factory, in York.
Something about this
Something about arriving somewhere new
just as afternoon is leaving
something about parking
in the market square set out
with tubs of civic planting
and stepping out across the space
looking for the narrow lane
frothed with late nasturtiums
like a bale of silk unravelling
as the street-lights come on
something about the yellow
in the little panes of glass
something about an open door
a half a dozen bearded men in sweaters
lifting beers high across the room
between the tables and the chairs
something about the gathering
the softening the spotlight
the woman in black
to check the microphone
a brief community in laughter
flashing bright and wild awhile
and something about leaving in the dark
the car already frosting
something about the road
tunnelling through the night trees
the windows down
to let the scent of nettles in
astringent hawthorn bracket fungus
smells like yeast like baking bread
something about a barn owl
on a fence-post like a memory
pasted in an album long ago
something about this
something about this
that makes me glance across the car
to check I wasn’t wrong
about your absence.
Voters comments included:
The richly layered imagery reflects the memory and loss so keenly felt, and so poignantly portrayed in this achingly lovely poem by Stephen Keeler. Evocative, melancholic, beautiful and sad all at the same time – a worthy “Pick of the Month”, for sure!
A quietly observed poem that expresses deep emotion without showiness or drama.
I love how his poetry replicates the fragmentary and impressionistic nature of memory… and then there’s the heart-breaking ending.
The ending stays with me
I love the simplicity of it which makes the fine ending doubly powerful.
It is deceptively simple and sensitively observed. It’s one of those poems that make you feel seen.
Simple but clever repeating of phrase leads to a sudden insight at the end as to the meaning of the poem. Understated with a big final punchline.
I love the ghostly image of the barn bowl
Powerful, emotive, wistful and melancholy
It resonated.
Moving and beautifully written.
Touching and spoke to my experience.
It broke my heart
Deeply felt the pain
It leads me along a path I sense I can follow, even beyond the poem, into the everyday.
Emotive and moving
I liked the contrast of light and dark, the atmosphere of camaraderie, and the ultimate emptiness
I like the message the poem has. I can understand and appreciate it.
The random uneasy moments resolve into the bluntness of grief. Honest and real.
Its level of intensity
From the outset, the title drew me in. Even before reading a single line, my mind was alive with the possibilities the title presented!
The beautiful melancholy of this poem is perfect for this reflective time of year.
THE REST OF THE NOVEMBER 2024 SHORTLIST
Yoga
For you, with your toddler bendiness,
the squat is a natural, easy position
while I hurt-strain, thinking of miners
crouched outside their front doors
on terraced streets, practising every day
in the cramped conditions of their work
until the body adjusted and it became
normal, like living without daylight
and breathing dust, just as we inhale
fumes, drink micro plastics and sieved
sewage without a second’s hesitation.
Forget all that, quiet my whirring brain,
show me how to bow to the animals,
down-dog and cat-cow, rear up together
like cobras, soar into eagles or graceful
cranes flying. Steady each other. My balance
is better than yours for now, though not
my equilibrium. Let us build bridges, cross
legs, fold palms in namaste, look backwards
between our legs, marvel at the topsy-turvy
world and lie side by side, gripping our toes
while I learn from you how to be happy baby.
Maggie Brookes-Butt is a novelist and poet. Her six poetry collections (as Maggie Butt) are coming together in a New and Selected in January. Her Penguin Random House historical novels are published as Maggie Brookes. Insta: @Maggie__Brooke.
*
Skins
My mother had a handbag made
from the skin of a female cobra
her brother killed in the garden.
No rrkk-tkking Kipling mongoose
to protect her, just my fierce uncle,
bantamweight in a stained banyan
brandishing cricket bat and torch.
Rain slid off the cambered hood,
the lady’s umbrella snapped shut—
red flickered in her blank black eye
as the straight drive landed true
the thick whip stopped mid-strike.
Her vast body, bulging coils in a bag
double-carried to the leathersmith,
who stretched it like a family fib,
stuffed venom glands with satin.
The tawny clutch appeared
on high-heeled evenings only,
slept in a nest of white tissue.
The bright pince-nez mark
watched from the laminated flap
traced by pink-fanged fingers,
each time the mouth opened
or shut with a satisfying click
the sound was a soft, hissing salute
from one bloodsport queen to another.
Natasha Gauthier is a Canadian poet and journalist living in Cardiff, where she runs Tiger Bay Poetry. She is a member of the 2024-25 Representing Wales programme. She has been published in Poetry Wales, Scintilla, Acropolis and Amphibian, among others, and won second prize in the 2024 Welshpool Open Poetry Competition.
*
1
There is one
wondering what he will do
he asks himself after passing a sliding door
the bus stop in the rush hour
in front of the perspective line of a suburban avenue
he asks himself in front of an apple
of a dying father at the cut inflicted by a mad god
from a mad person from an idling engine
One wonders what to do
then takes a few pills
even pills do something
plans a trip
buys new glasses
sees people in line
he will go through life waiting for hols
Giulio R.M. Maffii was born in Florence (Italy). His studies are dedicated to poetry (linear experimental-visual) and its diffusion. He has published in many international magazines. He collaborates with “Bubamara Teatro” Theater Company. He teaches at the University of Florence.
*
Generational Divide
She only speaks to me these days
through groaning floorboards in the night
and slammed doors. Through
eye-rolls, half-eaten dinners, and empty packets
of birth control pills. Her friends
and their mothers are ghosts,
glimpses of them fleeting and faceless
in my periphery. If I could find the words to ask,
would she let me remember
the warmth of her cheek
or the arch of her hip under my creased palm?
I’m too afraid of her rejection to risk my own
voice. In passing, I reach to stroke her hair
but she slips away like a silverfish
scurrying inside the walls.
Romy Morreo (she/they) completed her MA Creative Writing at the University of Chichester. She has since had work published in various literary magazines and anthologies, with a focus on free-verse poetry and dark fiction. Instagram and X: @romymorreo
*
Essay on Craft
Because a woman woke up
and her head had become a flower.
Because the images were placed
in a way that pleased the eye.
Because if she’s not careful
the scalpel can cut.
Because once a woman is glued down
it’s difficult for her to become unstuck.
Because when a woman steps off the page
a prince might see an opening.
Julia Webb is a a neurodivergent writer and artist from a working class background. She has three collections with Nine Arches Press: Bird Sisters (2016) Threat (2019) and The Telling (2022). She is a poetry editor for Lighthouse – a journal for new writers.