#StolenMomentsPoetryProject – Ed. Katie Jenkins

What follows is a selection of poetry selected by Katie Jenkins from the work we received during our last open submission window.

Degrees of Grit and Retrospection in LS1 – Samuel Prince

Peckish rain on Brigatte. Caped Count vibes – my raised collar
in a shopfront reflection. The decades only deepen
in this direction: homeward. Here, I’m always the scaredy-boy,

affrighted by the bilious skies, bitter brickwork, the dry stone
walls of the Dales, seen through the back window
of the Austin Allegro. The character I’ve rehearsed

a lifetime for – he was killed off in the opening credits,
born under the sign of the Ripper, the city gripped, terrorised,
I dropped a butter knife Christening gift, down a drain hole.

Now, Leeds gutters run dirty blonde, my father’s pubs
are kicking out and the air is steeped in the after-breath
of belch and neat Scotch. No one merely saunters

from their house of nightmares – we’re all craven runaways
and the twist ending reveals fate doesn’t equate to birthplace.
I remember when I was all fields, tickling carp in Golden Acre Park,

but now I’m all wasteground, my headzone is scrapyard,
I’ve one worst side, and one I can’t decide. Rough demos,
sloppy edits – earlier versions of ourselves, we’ll never meet,

dumped in landfill memory, succumbed to concrete.
I tell myself a sob story, straight from the sickly periodicals
in the infirmary waiting room, where I sat before my date

with sterilised scissors, scalpels and the masked surgeon,
seen through caustic tears, as he lanced my infection.
I screamed so long and hard, they gave me a badge.

Asleep In The Sea – Geoff Sawers

The great grey water-engines land a stack of rain
a tree sprouted a mile out from the coast
syphoning up small boats, a brine-drenched beard,

the sleepy town’s tablecloth spattered with slates.
Don’t listen to the sea, it’ll shave your heart.
You told me you found a chaos of crystal boulders

tumbled anyhow and each was a giant’s head.
Curled up inside one enormous ear
to wait for the cold salt light to pass, the crank

of thunder, the sodden earth swelling like a baby’s crown
and the earth is tin, it’s copper, your teeth are brass
your eyes are suede, darkening in the dusk

buttoning up your sleep and breaking out
a beer on the rocks. You never said,
hanging off a lip, what you were doing there.

Lassoing – Cara L. McKee

I am listening
to my boss telling me why
the latest thing we’ve been told to do
is the right thing to do
– because it is –
while over her shoulder
the guy from estates
– and it’s very important –
is dancing back and forth
past the window
like a duck to be shot
– and it says it’s clear –
each time changing it up.
I read her out a bit
where I cannot find
a lot of meaning.
She nods. Reminds me
it’s very important.
He rides his rodeo pony,
arm lassoing the air.

Palimpsest – Celia Carrington

She is creating a garden,
within walls; beds and
paths of limestone. She
prises stone from the
ground; gathers it from
collapsed field boundaries.
It takes all her strength
to barrow it home.

Her hands weigh the
stones; sorts them into
sizes. Her eyes assess
the gaps. Experienced
wallers pick a stone only
once. Her stones are lifted
several times before they
find their place.

Her gaze becomes more
precise, tutored by
uneven sides of rocks,
irregular holes. A stone,
unpromising on its own,
is placed and transformed.
Out of the untidy pile
a garden emerges.

Threshold – Ed Limb (originally published in Lightouse Journal)

I locked myself out the day he died. I realised at the checkout, having gone to pick up a missing
piece of a recipe, as I packed my bag and reached inside my pocket.

Where was it? The familiar edge of the keys, the ring I slip my finger through and spin with my
thumb, enjoying the click and the catch on my skin.

Walking home, I check in my jacket, the back of my jeans – double check, triple – assuming this
time they’ll be there. It’s only a knot of worry –

as absent thoughts rehearse evening plans. First, I’ll finish cooking, then take the clothes off the
drying rack, edit some drafts, and then I’ll give him a call.

I reach the front door. Turn the handle, push. I know that nothing will happen. Inside, boiling
water turns eggs to chalk. Apple browns on a chopping board.

Without a word, it fills me like a stain – this knowledge the evening is lost. Even so, I wonder how
the meal will taste, what I’ll write, what he’ll say.

Some part of me enters. My body stays. On the garden path appear the first few specks of rain.
A prickle on my neck, the rising scent of earth.