Write Stuff Anthology
Poetry from the Write Stuff Sessions
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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
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?
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.
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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