Submissions by Northern_Soul
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
There is a trick to get out of your skin 🖤
SELF POEM
Published
2nd Apr 2024 9:36am
2nd Apr 2024 9:36am
Hymn to Cernunnos
I threw up in the alley
shortly after leaving the car.
It was a mixture of things—
the smell of the place for one,
how my stomach lurched
the second I turned a corner
to see that old market cross
standing in the square
and there it was
the old flat rented out
in somebody else’s name,
the carpet shop quite gone
replaced with books
and barbers.
I looked up at the window.
Where [x] happened.
That thing.
I still can’t speak its...
shortly after leaving the car.
It was a mixture of things—
the smell of the place for one,
how my stomach lurched
the second I turned a corner
to see that old market cross
standing in the square
and there it was
the old flat rented out
in somebody else’s name,
the carpet shop quite gone
replaced with books
and barbers.
I looked up at the window.
Where [x] happened.
That thing.
I still can’t speak its...
#pagan
#Britain
#DomesticViolence
152 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
1st Apr 2024 8:43am
1st Apr 2024 8:43am
The lighting of the flame
I walk barefoot
calling to the heart
of Brigantes land
listen to the crow of moorland
shiver those dark, dead bones
… do you hear me, old ones
is your howl the feral fire
that stokes this Pagan blood
.
.
.
hail to the watchtowers,
the cardinal directions
hail to the sun, moon
and all her stars
hail to my beloved England
as she unfurls before me
singing the song of place,
the indigenous birthright
of alchemy—
stoke your fires deep within
...
calling to the heart
of Brigantes land
listen to the crow of moorland
shiver those dark, dead bones
… do you hear me, old ones
is your howl the feral fire
that stokes this Pagan blood
.
.
.
hail to the watchtowers,
the cardinal directions
hail to the sun, moon
and all her stars
hail to my beloved England
as she unfurls before me
singing the song of place,
the indigenous birthright
of alchemy—
stoke your fires deep within
...
#pagan
#Britain
155 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
31st Mar 2024 11:32pm
31st Mar 2024 11:32pm
The accidentals
Told a woman on TikTok
she saved my life
imparted her wisdom,
allowed me to
grow.
I don’t know her from Adam
but there was a calmness
in the way she spoke
rivers through mountains.
I think where I’d be
without her—
without her strange accent
comforting this question mark,
without all those affirmations
I’ve filled my brain with
reaffirming that wheels
have worth.
Some nights, I think of the ones
that came out of nowhere,
appeared from poems
book clubs ...
she saved my life
imparted her wisdom,
allowed me to
grow.
I don’t know her from Adam
but there was a calmness
in the way she spoke
rivers through mountains.
I think where I’d be
without her—
without her strange accent
comforting this question mark,
without all those affirmations
I’ve filled my brain with
reaffirming that wheels
have worth.
Some nights, I think of the ones
that came out of nowhere,
appeared from poems
book clubs ...
#inspirational
#humankind
121 reads
4 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
24th Mar 2024 7:19pm
24th Mar 2024 7:19pm
Still Life
If we broke it down
into palatable pieces
I’d of said something
about Jackson Pollock
and the colour of blood
how I’d never seen red
roll down glass outside
of movies.
Perhaps there’d be
the part where your spit
hit a cheek. How it burned
with the fury of lava—
this skin, a village
waiting for destruction
all terror,
all terror in the flood.
Some days, I float above fists
thinking of them as canvasses
on crooked easels. Blots
on fingers, feet &...
into palatable pieces
I’d of said something
about Jackson Pollock
and the colour of blood
how I’d never seen red
roll down glass outside
of movies.
Perhaps there’d be
the part where your spit
hit a cheek. How it burned
with the fury of lava—
this skin, a village
waiting for destruction
all terror,
all terror in the flood.
Some days, I float above fists
thinking of them as canvasses
on crooked easels. Blots
on fingers, feet &...
#art
#StreamOfConsciousness
#DomesticViolence #metaphor
#DomesticViolence #metaphor
276 reads
12 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
17th Mar 2024 11:45am
17th Mar 2024 11:45am
Ode To Misery
I’m a stone in a world of flowers
the curious call of moors,
the old crow language
of wings circling
their ancient dead
peat bodies rotting beneath the weight
of seventies murder. The swaying
New Romantics surrendering to the dark.
I am grey beaches in homeless overcoats,
banshees of Tudor shipwrecks
shaking bone rattles in violent storms.
I am poverty
and steel
and recklessness
an IRA wound on a city wall; coal crowns
of Thatcherite rule haloing unforgiving
stomachs...
the curious call of moors,
the old crow language
of wings circling
their ancient dead
peat bodies rotting beneath the weight
of seventies murder. The swaying
New Romantics surrendering to the dark.
I am grey beaches in homeless overcoats,
banshees of Tudor shipwrecks
shaking bone rattles in violent storms.
I am poverty
and steel
and recklessness
an IRA wound on a city wall; coal crowns
of Thatcherite rule haloing unforgiving
stomachs...
#grief
#LifeStruggles
#ghosts
#despair
#Britain
263 reads
13 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
13th Mar 2024 00:33am
13th Mar 2024 00:33am
The next train arriving at platform two…
I hold you.
Place my hand on the back
of your troubled head. You
smell of coconut shampoo
and I wonder if your fear
is in your blueprints;
if you’re feral and wild
under your sweater
made of exit signs,
born of complex tunnels
beneath concrete.
Allow me your carriage
in the dark—
your underground tracks,
those tangled subways
allow me
to search your mouth
and brown eyes
and bones
until our pinpoints
become treasure maps
let me
kiss your hand the way...
Place my hand on the back
of your troubled head. You
smell of coconut shampoo
and I wonder if your fear
is in your blueprints;
if you’re feral and wild
under your sweater
made of exit signs,
born of complex tunnels
beneath concrete.
Allow me your carriage
in the dark—
your underground tracks,
those tangled subways
allow me
to search your mouth
and brown eyes
and bones
until our pinpoints
become treasure maps
let me
kiss your hand the way...
#women
301 reads
5 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
10th Mar 2024 7:14pm
10th Mar 2024 7:14pm
Because chopping boards sound like
destruction
in a different skirt
like taut wires
on old pianos
hammering out
their dust
their ache
tools
and nails
and fistfuls
of earthy
silence
that blunt blue button
that wiped out the air
like umbilicals
butchered fresh
from the womb
like police cars
and terror
like your bomb
I have not allowed
to bloom
in a different skirt
like taut wires
on old pianos
hammering out
their dust
their ache
tools
and nails
and fistfuls
of earthy
silence
that blunt blue button
that wiped out the air
like umbilicals
butchered fresh
from the womb
like police cars
and terror
like your bomb
I have not allowed
to bloom
#confessional
#StreamOfConsciousness
204 reads
6 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
6th Mar 2024 2:30pm
6th Mar 2024 2:30pm
On watching animated films on a strange and silent afternoon
I am looking at Pinocchio fold
into piles of pine. Watching
the joints slide backwards
until the lie takes over
and gravity becomes a cold bed
in which to lay the bones down.
I think of my own body
splintering in what can’t be seen.
How this day comes and there
is nothing, but a dark whale
and the tenacity to escape.
Did anybody tell him
years later, in his trauma,
that it is better to be made of wood
than to eternally be made of stone.
I am looking at Pinocchio...
into piles of pine. Watching
the joints slide backwards
until the lie takes over
and gravity becomes a cold bed
in which to lay the bones down.
I think of my own body
splintering in what can’t be seen.
How this day comes and there
is nothing, but a dark whale
and the tenacity to escape.
Did anybody tell him
years later, in his trauma,
that it is better to be made of wood
than to eternally be made of stone.
I am looking at Pinocchio...
#women
#MovingOn
#acceptance #DomesticViolence
#acceptance #DomesticViolence
214 reads
9 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
2nd Mar 2024 6:58pm
2nd Mar 2024 6:58pm
It’s not where you’re from, it’s where you’re at
We drive through flats
that are more grime
than home
it’s where we’re at—
at the supermarket
where yellow stickers
dishonour good food
in a way it doesn’t deserve.
There were two food banks
on the way
but it’s exactly
where we’re at
filling a trolley to a tenth
of its capacity until
a stomach reminds
a human how little
the body needs
to survive
.
.
.
I struck gold today.
...
that are more grime
than home
it’s where we’re at—
at the supermarket
where yellow stickers
dishonour good food
in a way it doesn’t deserve.
There were two food banks
on the way
but it’s exactly
where we’re at
filling a trolley to a tenth
of its capacity until
a stomach reminds
a human how little
the body needs
to survive
.
.
.
I struck gold today.
...
#Britain
#poverty
#FreeVerse
198 reads
6 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
1st Mar 2024 8:06pm
1st Mar 2024 8:06pm
Three & Nine
In a box on a book shelf
there’s a picture of me
on my eighteenth birthday,
a champagne bottle pressed
against my lips like a gun
an arm full of bracelets
which looked pretty,
but I knew what they hid
just in the same way
I noted my eyes
as glassed as that weapon
in desperate hands.
I’d like to pretend
I gave a fuck about today
as my calendar celebrated
another safe trip around the sun,
but I didn’t. Not especially so.
I just laughed at the fruit smoothie
I made with...
there’s a picture of me
on my eighteenth birthday,
a champagne bottle pressed
against my lips like a gun
an arm full of bracelets
which looked pretty,
but I knew what they hid
just in the same way
I noted my eyes
as glassed as that weapon
in desperate hands.
I’d like to pretend
I gave a fuck about today
as my calendar celebrated
another safe trip around the sun,
but I didn’t. Not especially so.
I just laughed at the fruit smoothie
I made with...
#birthday
#SelfReflection
226 reads
16 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
27th Feb 2024 10:13pm
27th Feb 2024 10:13pm
A deal with nothing less
#LifeAsAWriter
#WritingPoetry
355 reads
27 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
25th Feb 2024 1:25am
25th Feb 2024 1:25am
Tell It To The Bees
When I was eight, a bee stung my face.
Tangled itself in my hair
saw me as an enemy
and shot hot venom into my skin.
My Mother ran to her screaming kid
as a moment of pure panic erupted
on Sunday’s lawn,
but the damage was done
my head throbbing, numb
where a bruise turned a vivid shade
of violet, as bold as my new fear
of small latching insects.
Fast forward thirty years
and I...
Tangled itself in my hair
saw me as an enemy
and shot hot venom into my skin.
My Mother ran to her screaming kid
as a moment of pure panic erupted
on Sunday’s lawn,
but the damage was done
my head throbbing, numb
where a bruise turned a vivid shade
of violet, as bold as my new fear
of small latching insects.
Fast forward thirty years
and I...
#illness
#bees
#disability
#StreamOfConsciousness
#fear
244 reads
17 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Northern_Soul
