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Write Stuff Anthology

Poetry from the Write Stuff Sessions

By Lauren M FosterPublished 3 years ago 13 min read
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Plane by Rob Miller, Write Stuff logo by Lauren

About Write Stuff

Write Stuff was a series of writing workshops aimed at fostering creativity and wellbeing in persons with enduring mental health conditions. There were eight sessions with a total of ten participants, six of whom submitted work for this anthology. The participants were encouraged to write freely and without censorship, and some of the poems talk frankly about mental health issues. A couple of the poems contain strong language.

The Poems

A Bad Night

Take 1 food mixer

Put all thoughts, feelings and emotions into mixer

Switch mixer on at full power

Every 30 seconds add a negative voice into the mixer

Once everything is blended down into an unrecognized

mess pour into baking tin, cover with sarcasm then bake in

oven until kitchen explodes

Jeff

Mornings in Bed

Endless ruminating

the tone of which

depends on what type of sleep

REM produces a waking state of

suspicion, hopelessness.

It’s like this everyday.

It’s hours since the normal

working folk set of in their motors

And since then

in and out of half-a-sleep-ness

voices outside and inside have

scorned me and slagged me off.

Is it the neighbours

or just my imagination?

Jo

Cigarettes give Grammar to a Day

Cigarettes give grammar to a day, from the initial capital lettered Breakfast Fag, they add the verbs, describe the nouns. Filters, papers act like subjects, objects placed in their right order. Light a sentence, spark a comma, punctuate the emails, texts and vines.

Without these rituals, thoughts seem foreign, strange conjugations and collocations. Like a Polish builder without an article, ideas seem rude and blunt.

Analogy seriously harms you and others around you.

Mark

Haiku

old broken table

robin pecks biscuit crumbs, flies

to nest in air-duct

Lauren

I’m Eating Confused Skittles

I’m eating confused Skittles

it’s okay

one by one

little evident sweeties

I turned on the light switch

my finger stuck like glue

I laughed

a tear trickled down my face

like bubbly water

I heard a buzzing

noise

I was in a beach shack

drinking coconut water

on my own

with tweezers

it was brilliant

I was getting confused

milk

I txt my friend but

txt wasn’t invented

I had issues

evasive

bubbles floated by

washing powder

I bit one more Skittles

the green one

it tasted strange, like sour apples

my head exploded

it was effluent

riot, wow!

Kirsty

Photo by Rob Miller

Red Lines Left Behind

Red lines left behind

Everyone ignores it

are they blind?

A flash of pain as my blade bit

all the words and actions unkind

pain released with every slit

No, too deep, you can’t rewind

Keep them covered, they don’t understand it

With bandages your wounds they’ll bind

Your arms are covered you stupid tit

Jeff

Being Bipolar—One

A middle-aged battle-axe

Shallow breathing gasps

Hungrily hissing in dog-end rasps

In waspish hacks

Bipolar is always there

At least I’ve still got my hair

My pills, my food and my fags

An addiction to handbags

And crap tabloids and mags

I’m becoming a burnt-out old hag

Dressed in teenagers gladrags

Jo

Legend

They said he was a legend

in his own lunchtime but

he never meant to be. He

worked in the old dog days of

Fleet Street, with fat expense

accounts and lovely drinks

in Vino’s and the legendary

meals in Charlotte’s and the

the days & the nights went on.

No one ever saw him in

the cracked light of another

morning in the grim pre dawn.

Because even his third wives had left

him and daughters had abandoned him

when even the blackbirds

coughed.

David

Every Day is Just Like Punday

Oh Morrissey

you’re a miserable sod.

Do you think you’re an indie god?

I’d rather have an

indie dog

(ah, that’s where the biscuits are)

Lauren

I’m Ur Bratz Doll

I’m ur Bratz doll. I’ve an inkling I

wasn’t needed, but u brought me

because u think ur a lil girl. don’t u.

do u know my name… no

don’t worry I’m okay. I just watch u.

I like it in ur bedroom. I perch

infront of the unused dvds with

my legs crossed. u can c right

up my skirt… great. I’m only a

doll. I have blue hair & gothic

stitches on my legs – u like that

‘cause u damaged ur body.

I divert my eyes when u dance in

front of the mirror

I’m brave but envy the dolls

that do get played with. I feel

like an object. blank

I watch u put ur earrings in

the silver elephant jewellery case…

… I’m waiting.

Kirsty

Haiku

Haikus are stupid

Rules are made to be broken

Screw your dumb limits

Jeff

artwork by Lauren

Being Bipolar—Two

I prefer to believe

That I’m thinking straight

Then have to accept

I’m in an altered state

I am a hospital linoleum creeper

A haggard dog-end choker

Always looking over my shoulder

Par-boiled by Bipolar.

Jo

Closely Observed Winter Train Journey

Warmth in moonlit morning, un-layering

Black

Sheets of cotton wool and wax. Placing

Coffee in a chair holder, reaching book

Out of bag.

Watching sunrise unfurling over a

Cinematic landscape, 24 window frames

A second. The sky unrolls its seasonal

Adjustments blues hues

Of faded brown and muted green.

Not being somewhere, being in-between.

Rhythmic

Rocking, not quite erotic, expectation or release?

The company of silence scattered by

Apple, Samsung, Motorola

Tweets bleeps and bongs. While

Others watch Outlook, Kindle and Netflix.

Brave ones make calls, stutter appointments

Interrupted by tunnels and blank spots

They practice for work, write

Un-send-able emails and enter data into sheets

I sip my coffee and count the sheep.

Mark

Barking Mad

Sit!

Good God Anubis.

Cerberus, Fetch!

Cerberus, Fetch!

Cerberus, Fetch!

Lauren

Negative Thoughts, Blurry Thinking

negative thoughts, blurry thinking, I like

pain, ppl didn’t care I played up

to it cunt. I worry if ppl like me

little girl lost I crazy. I took pills

I hated life. fear. I cut wrist

I shaked my head. mental institution

I liked it I hated & loved myself.

I damaged my leg. I was a

mess, my thoughts were racing. I

watched too much tv.

One day I thought no.

I want to be a baby’s mother.

Kirsty

I Wear it like Armour

I wear it like armour, my source of protection

you see me coming and it’s your source of intimidation

to you, an item of clothes: to us, a flag of brotherhood

Message sent clear and loud: we’re taking back our neighbourhood

Those sinister kids must be up to something

Stupid Adults, they understand nothing

Drugged up thugs and nothing more

Those ragged hoods conceal an innocent core

Nightmare on the streets they called us

Nightmare on the streets they said

Jeff

Photo by Lauren

Sectioned

I’ve tried to escape from the loony bin

I knew if I failed I’d be sectioned

So yet again for the millionth time

I’m returned to the seclusion section.

And when they’ve administered an injection

Despite my attempt at rejection

The seclusion room is their observation

Of me in my apparent oblivion.

But to my frustration

The effect of the medication

Is more like panic than oblivion

It’s a no-win situation.

Jo

There’s a Man in My Neighbourhood

There’s a man next door in

my neighbourhood. He always

causes a fuss and fight

He slanders and curses and

blackmouths peoples name…

he’s more trouble than

he’s worth...I wouldn’t give

him a black threepenny bit

if he had no oats

to eat...I have no pity

or respect for the blackheart

unclean man...I’m sick of the

stench of his din and

listening to his twisted

and bitter words...I’d

send him to hell and back

but he’s already on his way.

David

Silly Little Sheep with Closed Eyes

Silly little sheep with closed eyes

Blindly they follow the pretty little lies

Over the pit they let the bait dangle

As over their heads the sanction sword drops

With fear they rule. In debt we are tangled

To the streets we should go. To hell with cops

Where is the strength? Where is the courage?

Until we are free I shall rage rage rage

Jeff

Necklace’s Ode to its Owner

Will you choose today to wear me?

Will I match your attire?

You keep changing my pendant

To what do you aspire?

Your other necklaces

Are so similar to me

Slippery silver snakes

And you are a snake to me

You’re just so vain and fickle.

You keep buying these chains for yourself

And then I am usurped

And I feel ashamed of myself

And then I’m just yesterday’s bargain

I hope you die in the night.

While I will still hang on your bathroom mirror

Glistening in the moonlight.

Jo

The Pants Speak

Oh god, here she comes.

Heard her again at midnight,

foraging in the freezer.

Just how much toffee

and honeycomb ice-cream

can one woman scoff?

No, please, I can’t cope

with being stretched any further—

oh no, here we go, over the left foot,

then the right, hoisted

over thunder thighs–argh that hurts—

just what else have you been stuffing

woman? And isn’t it about time

you sorted out your shrubbery?

Those bloody hairs stab me

like tiny hypodermics....

and as for the chilli you had last night,

well, don’t get me started.

How would you like it eh?

Lauren

Photo by Lauren

Exquisite Corpse Group Poems

Exquisite Corpse, also known as exquisite cadaver, was a creative game used by the surrealist artists from about 1918, similar to the parlour game Consequences’ While the surrealists used art to make up the whole, Write Stuff participants each wrote a free-write sentence at the top of a blank sheet of A4 paper and then passed it to the person on their right, covering the previous person’s writing, until each page was complete.

I. The Sun went Behind the Clouds

the sun went behind the clouds

And as it did the rays began to fade into shadows

shy and hidden

Suddenly, from the shadows, a shape

began to grow, getting bigger and bigger and with

more and more form

And then the walls of the room sort of just

fell away and dissolved and the shape in the shadows

rose up before the people and shapeshifted into an

angel who then said to them:

Ten percent of all sofas

She didn’t have enough money unless

there was 20% off

Looking around, she saw a well

dressed man. He had left his coat

on a chair while trying on hats.

She strolled nonchalantly over towards

the chair, trying not to attract attention.

Then she dropped her purse and felt

inside the coat pocket. Bingo!

She had found it! Much to her surprise! Relief etched

her face.

Photo by Lauren

II. The First Time I Saw Henry

The first time I saw Henry my jaw dropped

in amazement.

I had imagined him to be about my

own age, twenty-one, but he was considerably

older, maybe in his thirties, and was

really scruffy and covered in dog hairs.

His clothes were dirty and hadn’t been cleaned for

a long time

He went to the laundrette & paid for

them to be cleaned

Once he entered the laundrette, he

could sense something strange. There was

a smell of only fish and boiled

sweets.

This was mixed with the fragrant smell of

fabric conditioner and the drone of the tumble dryer

Having an allergy to most man made

perfumes I soon began to cough, sneeze

and wheeze, so I foraged in my bag for

antihistamines and very soon, as they took effect,

mixed with the half a bottle of gin I had

consumed, the tumble dryer took on a sound

reminiscent of Hawkwind and I began to sing along

until the psychiatric nurse entered the laundry room

the scary one who I knew hated me, and I recoiled

and sat on the bench in there, cowering.

Henry said nothing, just sat there in his

crusty pants watching his clothes go round

and round in the dryer.

Photo by Rob Miller

III. The Topic of Reincarnation

The topic of reincarnation had been discussed and

the girl was imaging what she would like to

come back as in her next incarnation.

Some kind of cat sounded good but she knew she

wasn’t that lucky

until she went down a dark alley &

met a dog.

‘Hi’, said the dog. ‘This is a

dangerous place to walk at this time

of night.’ The dog looked her up

and down. ‘Let me accompany you

to the nearest pub’.

Pitter Patter went the paws towards the warm glow

of the public house.

The faithful hound knew her human

could often be found in the Olde Frog and Fly,

many was the time she’d made the journey to

escort him safely to his bed.

So off the dog trotted to the pub to re-join her

beer-drinking master thinking nothing

much except about pork scratchings,

The gnawing hunger would never leave her again

Photo by Nat Venn

IV. She Sat Quietly at the Desk

She sat quietly at the desk and thought…

‘If only the trees could walk and talk and

come out to play’.

And then, ‘this is what loneliness feels like’.

Once again she found herself looking for something

to cut herself with

her peace had turned to pain

She broke a cd & wondered what to

do next

Staring at the shattered cd, she

could see rainbow colours refracting

and projecting against the white wall

like a psychedelic film projector. She

wished it was sunny and raining, so

there would be a real rainbow.

Like a

sticking plaster that could heal her. Rainbows.

One with picnic baskets at the end, bought from the

pots of gold that once sat there.

The baskets were full of all sorts of

goodies and as I was ravenous I at once set to work

devouring the contents, unbeknownst that

the enchantment was still present in the place.

Again she sat quietly and thought, pain or pleasure,

what will it be?

Photo by Lauren

V. The Eye of Terror has Opened

The eye of terror has opened and they are coming through

100s and 1000s of black beetles

Walking quickly from the deep black hole of sanctuary,

away from crushing feet and toxic substance.

Ah. Quiet and peaceful in this place, far

from crowds and chaos, and I felt my

eyelids close and entered into a most

surreal half waking dream-state.

The dream took a positive amber-tinted

glow which I felt radiated from and protected me.

The feeling was amazing as it passed through my body

I kept fallin’ and fallin’ down the

rabbit hole.

It wasn’t as if I even liked

rabbits. Fluffy tailed vermin. I looked

around, nothing in sight. Just darkness.

A sound, like a far away drill

was just discernible. The earth

smelt warm and wet, like a tent

after a storm. I walked down the

tunnel.

Photo by Lauren

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Lauren M Foster

Writer, artist and musician based in Charnwood, UK. Drummer/vocalist in a psychedelic-punk-band The Cars that Ate Paris.

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