fires in the north

2

Editor'sNote TheideaforFiresInTheNorthwasconceivedearlyin2013.Bythistime,myinfatuationwiththeNorthwasamajorpartofmydailylife,andIdesperatelyneededanoutletthroughwhichIcouldsharemythoughts,ideasanddesiresaboutallthingsnortherly.Ialsowantedtoinviteotherpeopletodothesame.SoIdecidedtocreateanon‐linecommunitywhichwouldcelebratetheNorthinallitsforms.Withthispublication,Icanproudlysaythatiswhathasbeenachieved.FiresInTheNorthfeaturesnewandestablishedwritersandartistsfromacrosstheBritishIsles,exploringtheNorththroughpoetry,proseandart.Ihopeyourenjoyyourjourney,andbesuretoletmeknowofyourexperienceatkatiemariemetcalfe@hotmail.co.ukKatieMetcalfe.February2014

CarlingfordLoughwasfirstpublishedbyEveryDayPoets,November2011

Acknowledgements

WithspecialthankstoPhilRobinson,SamMetcalfe,DorrieFearnley,ZedandAndrew

McCallum.

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ContentsRosieGarland

‐ExplainingCold

‐NorthernGods

‐RepairingYorkshire

BobBeagrie

‐Wolfling

‐DeathSongforMosesCarpenter

‐Tampere‐Jyvaskyla

OzHardwick

‐BurningtheBush

‐Blade

‐Landscape

MaeveBuckenham

‐Winter

‐LegatoShadows

‐BirdBonesinWinter

MarionClarke

‐CarlingfordLough

‐CarlingfordLoughfromWarrenpoint,NorthernIreland‐oilandacrylics

NickPemberton

‐OnceUponatimeinCumberland

‐Carlisle‐Summer‐Foot&Mouth

AndyHumphrey

‐DolphinSeason

‐ArcticTerns

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AndrewMcCallum

‐Sumvya

‐Maeshowe

‐Carsluith

FayeWylie

‐BottleofNotes

ChristyHall

‐Bracken

‐WedroveouttoAnywhere

CarolFenwick

‐Beowulf

ChrisRobinson

‐LochNess

5

RosieGarland

Explaining Cold No,it’smorelikethis:acountrysofar

tothenorththatwaterturnstostone

ifleftoutdoorsinwinter.Youhide

yoursmilebehindyourhand,embarrassed

thatI,afriend,couldtellsuchlies.

IwouldshowyouwhatImeanif

therewasthewhitehulkofafridge‐freezer

andelectricitytopowerit;iftherewasanything

butthisheatthatpinsmedowneachafternoon

squeezingsweatintothemattress

whilesteelhammerssteelbehindmyeyes.

Letmetryagain:itisahandthatcanthrottle

thelifeoutofaman.Hemusthideindoors

atnight,wrappedincoats,inshirts,ineverything

heowns.Youshakeyourhead,shrug

thisevening’swarmtheasyfromyourshoulders.

Likethis,then.Itisabootkickingastranger

inanalleyway.Itisthewordsspat

againstyourfaceatabusstop.

Thisismyhome.Thisisthebiteofcold.

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Northern gods CommutersonthebusfromArmley,

fatwithcarrierbags,knowwehate

thoseblokesinLondon,wieldingcuts

toourhospitals,ourschools,ourheating.

WemightnotremembertheHarryingoftheNorth‐

WilliamtheBastardandhisthugsslaughtering

ourfathers,mothers‐butweknowdarksoil,

themoorsmarkedoutwithsheep,daubedred.

7

Repairing Yorkshire Firstyouhavetodismantleit.Nopointtrying

toplugholeswilly‐nilly.Thestonesturn

greencheekstothesurpriseofOctobersunlight.

Hebends,shavedheadrussetfromthelifting,

sweatersnaggedattherightwristandunravelling.

Hecradleseachboulderasyoumightababyoutofacot.

OvertheCalderValley,theskychangesinthespace

ofmoments.Themancrinkleshiseyes

asacloudshapedlikeananvilhammersdownthehorizon.

Anunpackedsixfootstretchofdrystonewall.Eachonelaidout,

readytobesetright.Toeachside,thewallcollapses

inalitteroftoppledmarkers,asfarashecansee.

RosieGarlandhasalwaysbeenacuckoointhenest.Sheisaneclecticwriterandperformer,rangingfromsinginginGothbandTheMarchViolets,toalter‐egoRosieLugosi,twistedcabaretsinger.Herlatestsolocollectionofpoetryis‘EverythingMustGo’ HollandParkPress .Heraward‐winningdebutnovel‘ThePalaceofCuriosities’HarperCollins isoutnow.Hersecondnovel,'Vixen'isdueinJune2014.

8

BobBeagrie

Wolfling (after Angela Carter) indenofwood,notrailoutmeringedbyskinsoftreesgaggingonreekoftwoleggedonesmethrash,mespitandsnarlandshithowtheybleatlikefear‐flockedsheep‐up‐climboutofgraspofclawswipeandbitethewindinmesendsmelashingwhirl‐quakeinstormgusts;mehuffandpuffandblowandbreakafatmoon‐wailvomitsfromme’slipstornfromme’sthroatandmekeenme’spackonthehighscarpcallback,

callback!andcome‐on‐comeclosertohere’sdeadwooddenwherehotsun‐tonguesbreedbadandcackleinblackstonehole‐meshakeallupsidedown

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Death Song for Moses Carpenter SlidingthroughrapidsoflightanoceanoftreesdeepastheseaswecrossedtotravelthesetownstosellourbottledwarestocatchourdeathinsmogSlippingthroughflamesofleavesinFallmoccasinsilentinthisplaceofflintkeeperoftheeasterndoorharvestsunlightgrindseedSweepingthroughshallowsofshadowchaffhuntdownthedarkbleedit,skinitspreadoutitscarcasebottleitsjuice,carveoutaflyingheadBreathingthroughphlegmofastalelakesnowcloudsrollfromthemountainstofillmyribcagefreezesinewandbonecarrymehome

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Tampere - Jyvaskyla IdlemachinesittingMustamakkarafedrucksackcrampedsuit‐casedtomorrowsmelodiousretentionscaseendingchattercompactFinnnounsstereosungBeatles“Letitbe,letitbe!”stridingstonestepsofspiralledobservationsunsprayingpaleraysonearlywinteredwoodslakeskimmingtostakeunknowing’sflungedgefortribalslowmigrationtrailsglacialmeltssealhuntersinstepstrappersgrittedteethreindeerbreath‐quillsdrivendue‐frostNorthfrominvadingderelictioncomeseasonsthrusttheoldsausagefactoryit’snowhereladderit’scrawlspacemapsit’surnsofspiltdustmotherMarycomesout‐headingcitylimitsfornight’selkforestswithroad‐lulledlidstowardweird‐pluckedhearthomeoflearningsteepedinwildwisdom“Letitbe,letitbe!”BobBeagrieisapoet,playwrightandseniorlecturerincreativewritingatTeessideUniversity.Hehasperformedatnumerousfestivalsandvenuesinternationally,aswellascollaboratingwithmusicianshehasalsoworkedcloselywithvisualartistsonpublicartworksandwiththeatrecompanyThreeOverEden.HisworkhasbeentranslatedintoUrdu,Dutch,Finnish,Russian,Spanish,andSwedish.HismostrecentcollectionisGlassCharacters RedSquirrelPress .

11

OzHardwick

Burning the Bush Theyear’smidnight.Coldbreath,hardasstones,fallsupwards,rattlingstars.Beforethefirststepsonpolishedtiles,listenasoldleavescrackletoflame.Hawthornandmistletoe,twinedandtied,bloombrightbloodtothecomingdawn.

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Blade I am sword, the gold of kings or men, generous, with precious stanzas to give away. I come of men whom fame should reconcile with danger: precious matter for my pay. The magnificent king demands iron thought, entrusts his people to a greater strife. But his son is furnished for his brave deeds: royal, generous, and he may speak with Gods. No, he gave a task but I explained that I can serve only one lord. Behold, old farmers fear such undertaking but the defender stands with his back to you. Look at this: your kinsmen wait on the fells with rich rings. I place words frankly among your supporters: Mark the snake’s earth. My oath comes later than I intended. Send them back.

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Landscape Iseeyoushortlyafterdawnorperhapsatsunset,yourshadowscratcheduponripefieldsthecolourofoldpaper,inkinglinesthroughsoftlight.Yourstill,tautlimbsbecomeboleandbranches,carvedtoasemblanceofyourself,staringunblinkingatthesun.Memorymakesstatuesofusall.

Widelypublishedinjournals,OzHardwick’slatestpoetrycollectionisAnEschatologicalBestiary DogHorn,2013 ,andhehasperformedhiswork,bothsoloandincollaborationwithavarietyofmusicians,inEurope,theUSA,andthroughouttheUK.Byday,OzisProgrammeLeaderforEnglishandWritingatLeedsTrinityUniversity.

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MaeveBuckingham

Winter Islipmyfingersintoyourfreckles,Embellishinganoutbreathonyourbedside.Winterreducedyoutosparsity,Butyouweatheredit.Igesturethespoontowardsyourlips,Detachinavacancy,aswhispersdissipateonmytongue.Horseteeth,yellowingandelder,chomponthemetalbit,likerockgratingAgainstcement...Applesaremajesticallydecomposinginthewalledgarden,edible,butugly.Iblink.Soonitwillcometopass.Theholewillovulate,Circumnavigate.Winddiscreditstheludicrousheat.Watererasesseconds...milliseconds,fromapocalypticdestinies.Screamsdisheveltheblackness,evadingonlyyourEyes,likejetdiamondsinwhitespotlights.Youaremistrustful,glaringwithaninsipidvengeanceBeneathyourferalbrows.TearsLeaktheirwillowyrivulets,downtoyourjawbones.Iknowyouhurt,butIamrawtoo.Youweren'ttheonlyone,carvingthenarwhalmeat.Thewindowencompassesyourpara‐suicidaltendencies,ButIamaccustomedtoyourdeceit.Besides,you'vedrownedyourselftoomanytimesbefore,Inavirulentseaoftorsion.Thereisnothingleftofyourformerself.Ishouldknowthatbynow,butIstillpersist.Ipersisttoechoyourwilderness,tofollow

15

Your shadows imbued by waxen lavender. It will be the full moon tonight, And you still haven't uttered a word. You haven't ingested any of those cigar biscuits that only Granny could caress beyond your moistened tongue. You're already transversing, scraping your talons impatiently Against the stone walls, and howling with a feral Brevity. The door swings on its hinges, thundering With your paradox. There is nothing that can contain it. Can I?

16

Legato Shadows LegatoShadowsfellacrosstheirfaces,Aresidueofmoonlightdilatingthecaptive'spupils.Dovehandsunfolded,consolingTuesday.Itcametoosoon,behindthelidofMonday,thatBlackenedtoveilReykjavik.Thesparrowcorpsewastuckedupinthesock,Thecolourofmilk.Shewashedthecreamfromthelining,letthecandlewhineintoherskin,tilltherewassilence.I'veownedtomorrowsinceIwassixyearsold.Comatoseintheattic,coalescingwiththedawn,daisychainslingerandinterlinklingerandinterlinkPirouetteandclink....Shadowsskeweredouridentities‐shewouldnotlethimopenthegate,tothebottom.Sheburiedthesockdeeperinherdrawer,camouflagingthebodywiththoseredandwhite'oneinamillion'Booflesocks.Lilygaveherthose.Memories,scatteredsomewhereinthecoffeejar,glareatmesilkensinister.Hazeleyes.Ebonylashes.Conveyerbelts.Outofout‐breaths....Mascaradribblesdownyourcheeks.Streams,Likewillowbranchestiptoeingacrosstheice.Ice‐skating...wedidplentyofthat,Flickeringasbutterfliesexfoliatetheflaw,thecore,saggingmelancholy,fallingdowntobeslippedaway.Snowflakes.Toastwithagavenectar.Bubblesrisetoasurfacethin.Lanugohairadornsthefrailsummerlemon.Dovehandsconstrict.White.Kleenextissues.Whitewhitewhite...Andwaxentears,nimbleearlobeswithholesToogapingforanepitomeofthroat,Infiniteforamicrocosm.

17

Bird bones in Winter ThefleshwasincandescentlywaningFromherwearybirdbonesLikeacommiserationwithdeath.Sheknewtheafterlifealready.Youcouldseeitinhersunkenmooncageparameters.Youcouldseethecoarsewrinklelinesofexperience,thatetchedhermotherhoodacrosshereunuchwomb.Thebrokensilence;thatwasunfathomabletotheoutside.Hereyeslulledtheechoesfromwithintheshadows,Lurkingdiabolicallyontheoutskirts.Shewasunhinged,alwaysGazingabsentlyintotheforlorndistance.ThewindowremainedfractionallyajarAndyoucouldjustaboutmakeouttheindistinctweepingOftheAutumnrainThatseldomceaseditsWaferwhisperingupontherooftiles.TherewasnothingforherBeyondtheroomshehadencased,and,pervasivelydeconstructedhersoulin,ThecompartmentsshehadsofugitivelyretainedFortearsForurineForeyesForbileForblood;Andofcoursehervisceralheart,stillpulsatinggentlyLikeaflounderinggauzecurtain,Billowinginthehushedbreeze.Shewasbroken.Therewasnothingthatcouldconsoleherconvulsinglimbs,Hershatteredbeating‐Herconvictedribcage.Noonedaredaddressherbyname,OrcarefullyparttheCurtainsofunkemptblackhairThatvexedherelf‐likefeatures.Itwasoverlongagoandsheknewit.Theglasswasfracturedwithinhergarnishedhands,Yethersteelyabstinenceevadedscrutinyorderision.Sherockedminutelyinadistractedstate,mullingovertheyearsShehadsharedwithherego,andnoneoftheothercallers.Therewasvioletthereonce.TherewascolouramidsttheforlorndecadenceOfsilentsleeping.

18

MaeveBuckenhamisawriter,filmmakerandphotographerfromtheSouthEastofEngland.ShegraduatedwithadegreeinfineartinJune2013andhashadherwritingpublishedinBigEyesmagazine,aswellaskeepingaregularblogwww.throughtheglassontheotherside.blogspot.co.uk.Herworkconfrontsmentalillness,inparticularAnorexiaandBulimiaNervosa,socialanxiety,depressionandAutisticSpectrumdisorders,basedonpersonalexperiences.AtthemomentsheisstudyingparttimeforanMAinfineart.

19

MarionClarke

Carlingford Lough Thismorning,asIwalkalongthewintershore,aweaksundribbleskissesontothetipsofnewbornwaves.Adullardhulkoffreightcarrierslicestheseawithunexpectedgrace.ItsslatereflectionsulkspastthestubbornmassofGannawayRock,powersup,headsdownthelough,stretchingtowardsthefirstblushandfreshbreathofanewhorizon.Piftsofsmokesoartocopywispsofpearlycloud,imitationsofthemountainoutline.Behind,rose‐lighttearsthesky,asthesungathersstrengthtowarmthegrowingday.

MarionClarkeisawriterandartistfromWarrenpoint,NorthernIreland.Herworkhasbeenpublishedinprintanthologiesandonlinejournals.HerhaikufeaturesinBambooDreams–thefirstnationalcollectionofhaikufromIrelandandin2012MarionreceivedaSakuraawardintheVancouverCherryBlossomFestival.

20

Painting‐CarlingfordLoughfromWarrenpoint,NorthernIreland‐oilandacrylics–MarionClarke

21

NickPemberton

Once Upon A Time In Cumberland Heremembersnowhismemorytense,bunchedlikeafist,howbytheflowerstallinthemarketbackin1956‐orwasityesterday‐theskinofhiswristbrushedhercuffanditwasenoughandhowinAugustoutwesttheylayamongstthefireweedandthefoxglovesintheraggedgrassacrosstheriverfromwheretheclatterandwheezeofthesteelworkstrucksandthehoarsequackedlaughteroftheestuaryducksrangintheairandhowshekissedhimandhekissedherandhekissedheragaininAugustoutwestandthenhowbecausetheywereyoungalltherestfellquiteperfectlyintoplace‐thesunlitroomadriftinspaceherwordsonthemirrorherbreathonhisfacethechildren’svoicesinadistantstreetthecreakofafloorboardbeneathherfeet‐andhefeltthenandknowsnow‐ashestandsbytheflowerstallinthemarket‐today,notyesterday,not1956‐thatallofthesethingsareonething‐fist,flame,flower,hand,heat,heart‐thatfoldsmomentsintomemoriesthenunfurlsthemaspicturesoftheworldagain.

22

Carlisle - Summer - &Foot Mouth Thedeadman’svoicecarriesonthewindwhile,outsidethecitythisyear’sgrassgrowsthisyear’sbirdssingthisyear'sflowersbloometceterabutthistimeroundthedealisdifferent.asallaroundthecountysicknessandeconomicsemptythefields.SpringpassesinawetwaxypasteofsmokeandsummerburnslargerstilltheholeinourcommonsensewhilesomewherealwayssomewherealwayssomewhereelsedeathrattlesdownawindpipelikeanemptywellingtontuggedfromthesuckingmudwhileherealwaysherealwayshereandnowamotherwithskinlikecurdledmilkpushesabuggyhomefromhappyhourinthesunshineandakidwhothinksacowacomiccartoonmysteryandnotaconstructofbloodboneandmoneywalksbehindherwithSpidermanonhist‐shirtandtugsherhandandwailsforspacedustuntilshecracksandslapshimasaboyracer'sdumpvalvecoughsandBobMarleyrepeatsthequestion:“Isthislove?IsthislovethatI’mfeeling?”

AtdifferenttimesNickhaswrittenpoems,plays,paperbacks,comicstrips,tvannualsandpiecesforvariousnewspapers.Heusedtorunapoetrynightandacreativewritingcourse,too.He'ssixty‐sevennowandretiredfromthelatterandspendsalotoftimeonhisboatlookingatcharts.

23

AndyHumphrey

Arctic Terns Iceland,July2007 Itwasfeverandashthiswilderness:aplaceforgargoylesnotbreathingthings,earthspittingglobulesofsulphur‐mudcrackingeggshellbubblesbeneathourfeet.Sothin,thiscrustofground.Yetthehot‐coldairshrilledwithlife:swiftwhitecometsofslenderwingsloudwiththeirfeeding,theirmating.Onthatlava‐shelltheynurturedeggsnuzzledhatchlingsshieldedheadsfromgreedybeaksofskuas.InthecollisionofArcticairwithsea‐spittleandsteamtheysnatchedatnourishmenttheskythickwiththecryoftheirstriving.Itseemedobscene,theweightwecarriedacrossthatsplinteredfield,aheftofskullsbowedtothewind‐lash.

24

Theyringeduswithmotion,awhisker’stouchfromourlumpsoffingers:sicklesoffeather‐boneplummetingspirallingsoaring.

25

Dolphin Season

“Isthisapictureofme,Mummy?”

She’sholdingsomethingouttome.Apieceofcrumpledpaper,snatchedbyher

littlehandasitskitteredacrossthecobbles,swirledintheeddiesoftheharbourside

breeze.Shecaughtitthewayshecatchesdandelionseedsuponthemountaintopthat

overlooksthetown.

MystomachgivesalurchasInoticethefaceprintedontheflyer.Justanother

child,atfirstglance:thesamebobbedbrownhair,thesamegap‐toothedsmileyou’dsee

inanyplayground.ButIknowthatsmileverywell,theslightlopsidedup‐curlofit,and

thecheekyangleofthelittleroundhead.It’sElliealright.

ItrynottoshowthepallorI’mfeelinginside.“Itcertainlylookslikeyou,darling,”

Ismileback,andreachouttoruffleherhair.

Shethinksaboutthisforaminute.“ButIsupposelotsofpeoplelooklikeme,”she

saysatlast.“EveninNorway.”

“Ah,”Ilaughandwinkather,feigningcheeriness,“butthey’renotallascheeky

asyou!”Shegigglesback,andinanothermomentshe’sskippingoverthecobblesonce

more,intentonherlatestfavouritegame.Chase‐the‐Seagulls.

Doyouknow,Ireallythoughtweweresafethistime,thetwoofus.Therearea

fewotherEnglishpeoplehere,tobesure;expatriatesforthemostpart,familiesof

fishermenandoilrigworkers.Justenoughofthemforusnottosoundtoooutofplace.

Apartfromthem,mostEnglishpeopledon’tevenknowthistownexists.Butit’shere

alright.Here,withitsbeautifulcrispseaairanditsgreenencirclinghills.Withits

26

welcomingtangoffryingfishanditsbustleofbright‐faced,sea‐burnished,anonymous

people.Ireallythoughtthatifwemighthaveachancetobehappy,itwouldbehere.

Ilookmorecloselyatthepaperinmyhand.Theprintisblack,bareandblocky:a

fewsparsewordsinalanguagethat’sstillunfamiliarevenafterallthesemonths.ButI

don’tneedatranslationtotellmethemeaningofthatbig,starkheading,orofthe

telephonenumberprintedatthebottom.

AseagullpunctuatesmythoughtswithaflutterandasuddenCraaak,divingfora

raremorselofdroppedfoodontheusuallypristinestreet.I’mstruck,onceagain,by

howsolitarywearehere,evenamongstthebustle.Cutoff,likethetownisbyits

mountainsandthesea,invigoratedwiththetasteofsaltandthelusharomaofresinous

pine.Freelikethevapourthatcurlsupfromtheforestsintheearlymorningsun.

Untiltoday.Untilthiscrumpledpieceofpaper,andmygirl’sfacelookingout

fromit.

“Comehere,Ellie.Don’tplaytooneartheedge.”

Sheslinksbacktomyside,mockingmyover‐protectivenesswithanonlyhalf

seriousfrown.Shetakesmyhand,pullingmeonwardswiththatjoyous,limitlessenergy

ofhers.“Comeon,mummy!Iwanttoseethedolphins!”

Thenshestops,lookingthoughtful,acloudobscuringtheearlysummersun.

“Mummy?”

“Yes,darling?”

“Willwebegoinghomesoon?”

“Soon,Ellie,Ipromise.”

“That’sgood.Idon’twantmyothermummytobesadI’mnotthere.”

Idon’tknowwhattosaytothat,soIsaynothing,andwecontinueourwalk,

handinhanddownthecobblestowheretheboatiswaiting.Icursesilentlyforbeing

27

madetothinkaboutthatothercouple:theSurreycouple,thestridentoneandthe

overfedone,andtheirlittlebroodcrawlingovertheirlaps.Iwatchedthemonthenews,

likeeverybodydid,forthefirstfewweeks;butIwaiteduntilElliewasasleep,soasnot

togivehernightmaresortears.Theypromisedthey’dkeeplooking,keepplasteringmy

littlegirl’sfaceinshopwindowsandbusshelters.

Theykeptlooking,alright;justinallthewrongplaces.

They’dneverhavegivenherdolphins,thatotherfamily.Justchildmindersand

supermarkets,aratraceofhighexpectationsanddisappointment.Iknowwhattheyare

like.Besides,theyhaveanotherthreeoftheirown.Morethanenoughforthemtocope

with.

Theydon’treallyneedher.NotthewayIdo.

Thepleasureboatsarebackontheharbour,brightwithfreshpaintandpromise.

It’sdolphinseason,andElliehasbeenlookingforwardtothisoutingfordays.

Istuffthecrumpledpaperinmypocket.Later,whenEllie’sinbed,I’llburnit,so

shedoesn’thavethechancetoaskmeaboutitagain.Then,Ihavetothinkaboutwhere

we’llgonext.Furthernorth,Ithink,alwaysfurthernorth;thelastplaceonearththey’ll

thinktolookforus.Thereisanicesafe,quiet,prettytownfurtherupthecoast.Aplace

whereyoucanseereindeer,andNorthernLights.

IknowElliewillloveit.

AndyHumphrey’spoetryinterweavesthetimelessvoicesofnature,mythandfairystorywithcontemporarytalesoflovegainedandlost,heartbreakandcelebration.Hisdebutcollection,ALongWaytoFall,waspublishedinMay2013byLapwingPress.http://andyhumphrey1971.webs.com

28

Andrew McCallum

sumvya* bluepodsrattleonagreentidemoon‐kelpaselkie’shairwashingmyanklesvoicesrollinmybreathoverthesaltofmytongueintoningwordsIhearasmemoriesfromthemouthoftheseaawavescuttlesitssealegsinfluorescentfoamwheresky‐caveshangalonegullopensitsbeakherring‐bonesofrecedingsurfwhispereternalafterwordsmotherfatherstrangeryouareallherespeakingthroughthecreek‐cleft’sthroatyouwhohavegoneaheadofmetokindlethismoon‐glowattheedgeofthings*‘sumvya’isanoldNorsewordfor‘cleft’or‘creek’.Itisthewordfromwhichthename‘SmooCave’comesfrom.SmooCaveisawonderfulsea‐cavernnearDurness,themostnorthwesterlyvillageonmainlandScotland,whichisonlyaccessiblebyboat.Insideisadeeppool,intowhichafterheavyrainsatorrentplunges,creatinganear‐splittingroarthathasgivenrisetotalesofdragons.Accordingtolocalfolklore,itisanentrancetotheOtherword,whichcanonlybeunlockedbymusic.

29

Maeshowe Thenbeginsthetrueceremonyof thesun… GeorgeMackayBrown,Maeshowe:MidwinterYouaccompanymebythelowroad,brothersinstone,handinhand,fingersentwined,byStennessandBrodgar,fromtheyettsofSkaraBrae;passingendsofperfectionyouenvisagedasgracethreadingthrougheachcrookedaperture,thefaultlessline,theperfectcircle.Otherkingshavepassedwholeftremainsoftheirforgottennames,peculiarcrowns,shardsofskeletons,fish‐heads,unpronounceablewords,indecipherablerunes,commandments,eulogiesgraveninstone; butwhereveryourreignsetsdownlivebloodinmortalveinsyouleaveusradiant,resplendent.Andeventhoughyourtombisempty,itsdarknessisablazewiththelightofyourpresence.Onthethresholdweclinkourcups,asyougivealasttouchtoafacethatalreadydreamsitsresurrection.

30

Carsluith 57‐FOOTFINWHALEBEACHESINSOLWAY HeadlineinTheGallowayGazette,18thFeb.2013frominsidetheheartbeatsofearthbornemothersanunbrokenimpulseleadstothisblindingmezzanineofsandandskyshethrustsherselfonewaveatatimeoutofthedeepgreenfathomsofoceanfallawayfromherhereyesaredullshelumbersheavilyinthegravityofthisunusedmediumonlimbsnowarticulatedfordeeperflightssheexploreswithherbeakthefinecircuitryoftimeinsidetheshiftingsilicabeneathgull‐shadowsand‐criesshehearsonlyherblooditsimprecationsnottodrowninthisfirebeforeherflamecanswim

AndrewMcCallumisaplump,middle‐aged,marriedmanwithadickytickerandNietzscheanaspirations.WhennotstrikingromanticposesonScottishhilltops,hewritesdeepintothenightsustainedbyoutrageousamountsofcaffeineandtobacco.Hehasrecentlydiscoveredthejoysofmixingandsamplingwordsandmusic.

31

FayeWylie

Bottle Of Notes ThisbottlecarriestheliqueurofemotionsfeltbythevoyagerHisadventureistoldwithinthetwistingbusywhitewritingYoucanalmosthearthecrewsingingastheyguzzledownthesweetcontentsThesounds,smellsandvisionsflickeringthoughyourmind,asyoutrytoreadtheentwinedwordsIntheheartofthebottleisthesecretbluecodeTheflowingwritingtellsofthelovefeltbytheartist’swifeBubblingoverwithprideathiswork,hiscreationGigglingtothemselvesasonlytheyknowwhatitsaysThebeat,thepulse,thelust,thepassionNowwehaveprobablythemostimportantpieceBlackstopperhatthatsitslikeaproudcrownOntheheadofadignitaryflauntinghimselfTightlykeepingtheencasedmemoriessafeLookinglikeamysteriousbottlewasheduponabeach

FayeWyliewasbornandbredinMiddlesbrough.She'shadaninterestinpoetryandshortstoriessinceshewasachild.Shefirsthadtheopportunitytowritewithawomen'sCreativeWritinggroupandhadsomepoemspublished.Sheenjoyswritingaboutherexperiencesandotherpeople’sexperiences.

32

ChristyHall

Bracken I’mbroughtbacktothebankofanox‐bowlakeanddoesn’tBracken,thatincessantlanddwellinglichen,alwaysfillthevalleywithcumin?Pushedoverthemistandmoor.Heavyinthenose,bullyingtheair.Brackenfrondsthepasture,clingingtothehill‐sideandrocks,rough,above,under,andmaybeaddersshudderthere.

33

We Drove out to Anywhere Spittingmandolinsofduckbreast,sizzling,starttosuggestthings;thecomingtogetheroframblers,wemasqueradedasthem,onaMaymorning,beer‐gardenedandpeckingatKPorWALKERS.Aslurportwoofshandy,flatandwarmedoverconversationaboutworld‐travelormutualfriends.Wecouldtalkthefizzoutofcoke.Thegloopyremainsareonions,peppers,orangejus–forkedintoacorneroftheslate.Andthenon,ontoabull‐field,emptyanddog‐leggedunderaroad‐bridge.Weblanketedourselvesontartan,swappedsunglasses,laidbackandlistenedtocrowsandgullsandfarawaydogsbarkandarewalked.

ChristyHallisaNorthernpoetcurrentlyresidingintheSouth.HehadhaspoemspublishedinprintonbothsidesoftheAtlanticandrecentlyoneofhispoemswasusedinaliterarypamphlettosecureHullasEuropeanCityofCulturefor2017.HehasaMaster'sDegreeinCreativeWriting.

34

CarolFenwick

Beowulf

DidIcomebyBeowulfthroughforeignshores?Folkloreexemplified,historypersonified?Grendel,theevilmonster?Washistoryone‐sided?Wereyoupure,theotherretarded?Orwastheanswerunclear?YouhavenoissuesButyourownmind‐setworriesBleedingyouinahurryforearlydeathThoughmychildfromnorthernshoresonsouthernclimbsSimplybideyourtimePatienceisvirtueDon’tturnyourselfintoGrendelwhenBeowulfbeamsthroughyou.TreadtheroadlesstravelledWorkinghardwillgetyoufarPursuingdreamslikegoldeneaglesFeedingegosYourtimewillcome,waitandsee.Ontheperiphery,beyondthehorizonAnewdawnsettlesinWaitingforyou,nopainbutgainandgratitudeThankhewhomakesthesunriseintheEast.Findlove,yoursentencewillbereleased.Immortality,radiantasagoldencupBeowulfsighs,breathesanotherday.InEngland,now,afterSeamusHeaneytookhisfinalbowHistranslation,PoeticprowessBeamsfromtheNortonAnthologyonmybookshelfNotetoself,begratefulforwhatyouhave.

GeraldineWardisafull‐timemumandhousewife,withahugepassionforwritingandpublishing.SheiscurrentlyinvolvedwithCopperBeechandSilverBirchPublishingandchildren’scommunitypublisher,MuckyPupsandChinaDolls.ShehasseveralcreditsincludingBeautifulScruffiness EdsKatieMetcalfe Blacklightengineroom EdsPAMorbid andhasindependentlypublishedapoetrycollection,“Now”currentlyonAmazonaswellasherrecentnovella'CaringfortheCarer.'

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ChrisRobinson

LochNess

ChrisRobinsonisanemergingwriterofpoetry,proseandshortplaysandaspokenwordartist/performancepoet.HerwrittenworkhasappearedinanumberofanthologiesandherplayshavebeenperformedatARC,StocktonandduringMiddlesbroughLiteraryFestival.ShehasperformedherownpoetryatvariousvenuesandeventsthroughoutthenorthofEngland.Shehasalsobeenplacedandshort‐listedinagoodproportionofcompetitionsinrecenttimes.Shegraduatedin2011fromTeessideUniversitywithaMaster’sDegreeinCreativeWriting.