Five Poems by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

 

holding on to moonlight

the child slid her sleepy finger softly down
between her bedroom curtains
they parted an inch, then six or more

the super-mooned sky silvered her young face
and fey clouds drifted over lunar landscapes—
they filigreed her wonder and her round saucer-eyes
in awe, she promised a goddess she did not know
she’d hold this blessing safe and sound

next night, the super-moon was at its height
the girl filled a saucer with water
placed it on her dusty windowsill and waited—

in time, moonlight reflected the moon’s perfection
as it seemed, born again through liquid elements

desperate not to lose the sight
the lass covered the shimmering disc
with a dark, woven teacloth to hold it fast
beyond escape

then she realised her mistake, the moon she cherished
had vanished

in truth, it could only light her face and mind
if she was brave enough to watch—
and trust its moon-nature to reveal itself
in magic, transient moments
and shine, shine, shine

 

Mam-gu in 1950s Merthyr

53 Wellington Street
rented, toilet through the dark coal-cellar
a wooden board with a hole
newspaper to wipe
ghosts to dread

our kith and kin had died in this house
since Mam came here in the 1930s
old folk and young (TB took its toll)
my Mam-gu nursed each one
gentle-handed

once, sick with a tooth abscess
she’d washed vomit from my sticky hair
I loved her and though she never said
I knew she loved me

I wasn’t the only one, my cousins
were minded by Mam
while their mothers’ worked
(one sold sweets, pick ‘n’ mix
in Woolworth’s on the High Street)

I lived far away, and wished I didn’t

Mam magicked food from her tiny kitchen
blueberry and apple plated tarts
with sweet, yellow Bird’s Eye custard
roasted salt-marsh lamb with home-made mint sauce
and hot, thickened onion gravy
mashed potatoes and peppered cabbage
fresh white crusty bread with Llanbedr salted butter
she served it up, quietly happy
if we cleared our plates and asked for seconds

in Mam’s street her neighbours knew
she’d share: bring cawl when times were hard
entertain children, or keep watch
by open coffins after death

I never saw her sit for long and take her rest
her labours were her life, even at night
I’d hear her chat in Cwmraeg to my Taid
(who liked his pints of beer); when he slept
she’d empty his piss from the chamber pot
hidden beneath their bed: I’d hear her
creeping down to the cellar
footsteps tired

Mam’s unpaid work sustained our tribe
laid values in our hearts for life

I’d give the earth
to smell her sweet-salt neck again
touch her rough-blotched hand
and see her gap-toothed smile

 

The People’s March for Jobs 1981

On the coaches, men and women join their voices:
in unison they rally round and sing aloud
the Internationale—
bass and baritone, alto and soprano.

Once arrived, they march for jobs, march for rights,
march for peace, and march for freedom
from the grind of mundane exploitation.

Folk bang drums, play fiddles, blow tin whistles,
and yell slogans loud and clear:
Jobs not Bombs and Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Out, Out, Out.

Their feet pound London’s grimy pavements
for opportunity, equality and fair wages.

Back home in the regions, proud men raise pint glasses,
whilst unpaid, domestic labour reclaims the lasses.

 

Life-Long Learning

Time was, she laboured
to change nappies, sing lullabies, to care—
three children needed tending
in tiny pockets of free time, she worked as a cleaner
earning pennies to buy better cheese and tubes of smarties
small luxuries, love tokens

Later, she studied, qualified
became professional and still cared—
within strict boundaries
her salary sustained household, holidays
and grew desires—
spending distracted her from emptiness

Now, at beyond three-score-years-and-ten
her work occupies her mind and soul
she creates connections through art
and gains community, she cares
and grows more authentic—
she knows time is ticking

One day, someone may remember
her smile, the squeeze of her hand, her words
her impatience and her weird sense of humour
but no matter, if not, she knows in truth
towards the end, through creative work
she realised herself: she cared

 

freelancer’s frenzy

ideas are not confined to set working hours
thoughts spill out in dreams and flood the night
until I’m drenched in wakefulness
sleep stung by buzzing brainwaves and early morning light

thoughts spill out in dreams and flood the night
I net half-formed notions and drag them into sight
sleep stung by a buzzing brainwaves and early morning light
sore-eyed, I scribble notes on paper, bladder taut from mugs of tea

I net half-formed notions and drag them into sight
pick ‘n’ mix examples with exercises, and aim for alchemy
sore-eyed, I scribble notes on paper, bladder taut from mugs of tea
I’m dizzied by low blood-sugar and fizz with anxiety

I pick ‘n’ mix examples with exercises, and aim for alchemy
this is the work I tend and love, a creative delight and yet
I’m dizzied by low blood-sugar and fizz with anxiety
as I plan workshops for others to find their voices and write

this is the work I tend and love, a creative delight and yet
I’m terrified my mind will empty
as I plan workshops for others to find their voices and write
might I arrive wordless, tongue-tied, with nothing left to share

I’m terrified my mind will empty as I plan since
labour is not confined to set working hours
might I arrive wordless, tongue-tied, with nothing left to share
drenched in hyper-wakefulness                                                              deadheaded by 

exhaustion

 

 

Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon, [MA Creative Writing, Newcastle, UK, 2017]

Ceinwen writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies; these include Northern Gravy, Ink, Sweat and Tears, London Grip, Tears in the Fence, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Lake and Dreich.  Her first chapbook was 'Cerddi Bach (Little Poems), [Hedgehog Press, 2019] and her pamphlet is 'Scrambled Lives on Buttered Toast' [Hedgehog Press, 2024]. After a career in Probation, Mental Health Social Work and as a Practice Educator with an NHS Trust, she is developing practice as a participatory arts facilitator, mainly working with elders and intergenerational groups. She believes everyone’s voice counts. 

Seven Poems by Stephen Kingsnorth

 

Puff, the Magic…

 

Those dragons, aways women - why?

For, her indoors - that’s what he calls,

as too landlady, or the boss,

but female only - what’s the cause?

It’s not the makeup, face flesh art,

unless it’s warpaint, statement stance;

mascara, shadow, eyes red, blue,

puff powder magic, warts and all.

 

It was not me, the woman said;

it was not I, the snake instead,

but I count dragon which I chased,

a foiled attempt to drag me down.

There’s myth about that flaw was mine,

but Puff was magic, always youth,

down by the sea in innocence,

as I grew old, asthmatic wheeze.

 

So is it fire, that flaming tongue,

flared nostrils, he obsequious,

or nagging pain, worn wearisome,

with lash of falsely telling tales?

If dragon’s known then less to fear,

unless our quest is focussed there.

Obsession often queers our pitch

at knight time, fighting in their dreams.

 

Ironical, our patron saint

not even English - Turkish lad -

defeating dragon - still his brand,

but like St George, our myths merge, mix.

Flag’s celebration, weaponised,

creed, colour, immigrant now beast,

with wings spread, spearhead tongue and tail

is this fear’s fantasy to build?

 

So who’s enthroned, the Dragon Queen,

as if a game played out on screen?

Not weight, bland brown, Kimodo, while

neither Welsh, red on green field.

How many dragons in my youth,

all overseen by lampshade art?

They were a saintly lot I guess,

like grandma bearing bony me.

 

Uncharted

 

Here’s AI up the Amazon,

‘Shop pirate fiction’ the command;

though locals there indigenous,

and not piratical at all.

But that is what our stories for,

to prompt imagination’s call,

evoke the questions we should form,

as revel, stored experience.

 

Cut coconut, walnuts on board,

with stranger wooden disc on deck.

Intrigued by metal ring around

what is this instrument about?

Not ashtray of a later date

nor assumed compass, distant take;

some candle holder, clock work piece,

or further fiction on a plate?

 

So billowed galleons sail on -

no sale please note is cited here -

cumulonimbus onward blown

to rocks, palms, huts on treasured isle.

Turquoise sea, aquamarine scene,

waves flood the fiction, open book;

admire inventive artistry,

perspectives freed from normal frame.

 

So see a visual stimulus

to read, explore beyond ourselves,

accounts from far communities

with global spread in place and time.

But what is posed beyond ships’ charts -

part played by fiction from our start,

both skull and crossbones, history,

and turning leaves in mystery? 

 

 

Bonds

 

It’s argument of the old school,

that Ockham’s razor put to test,

narrated tale, short, simple state.

Delay dementia at all cost -

with active mind, argue, debate.

All logic check with rationale,

delight from past ‘compare, contrast’ -

such is the grammar, studious.

It’s strange when two sites offer, dual,

a challenge in the jousting lists,

encounter being with ourselves,

dislodging errant night’s reproach.

That’s when I ponder what may be,

Sir Gawain, green in corridor,

that fluence of past disciplines,

not creeping, but delighting work.

Life’s learning, propositions stayed,

a voyage of discovery,

vocation, gifts for every trade

as complementary bricks in wall,

the binding bond that builds it all. 

 

 

On Reflection

 

Here’s corporate, anonymised,

cellular bodies, occupied;

efficient use, compacted space -

in case of fire, can route be traced -

a brand where people lose themselves,

amongst the herd of common mark,

compartments, hutches beyond hatch,

enhanced battery, human farm?

 

To doorway frames, vertical bars,

like lines laid down in corridor;

but not, I fear, secure unit -

enlightened wing, HM detained -

but packed into their padded dwells,

where muffled cries are medicate,

or straitjackets fit the décor,

both out of sight and mindfulness?

 

The art’s a job lot gallery,

though stripped, suggestive, bearing stare;

one hopes not a dementia home,

devoid of guiding prompts retained,

where muscle memory reclaimed

though music, photos, synapse aimed;

see curvature - diffused glass light,

door number, knob, fob, pic bracket?

 

But shapes predominate for me,

that lineage, family tree,

horizons that need stretching out,

the vert diverted by degrees,

like Verdigris of copper belt -

thus history, philosophy,

and antique dealer’s chemistry -

are these some tutors’ offices?

 

Describing what we see, a truth,

discerning what we view, may be;

ekphrastic puzzles, further work,

another look as some suggest.

The riddle focusses the mind,

event horizon interplay,

as I refocus on the blurred,

and question where the point is stayed.

 

Presumptions, visions doomed, dismayed,

poetic explorations flayed,

for grand designs imposed, implied

soon bite the dust, my theme decayed.

I float the options - poets should -

but choice conclusion, readers’ charge,

though when re-reading challenge, task,

ambiguous in word, phrase, marks.

 

And so I query, ponder clues,

for much fake news, disseminate,

dissembling forces to distract -

but what is fiction, fact, redact?

In boyhood trained to honest, trust,

so little knew, post-war corrupt -

those boys in blue, the Lodge, the Krays -

no clue, abuse, parents naïve.

 

Incongruent geometry,

sum math’s dept, university;

that is conclusive proof for me,

the theory tested, Q.E.D.

 

But now I’m certain.  Trompe l’oeil;

reflective glass, a cul-de-sac,

until that carpet couldn’t lie,

unless lens laid a foot away. 

 

 

Skittering Through the Woods

 

The autumn fall of dancing leaves,

with flutter flit, snow’s early flakes

fits well, suspected roots in Norse;

yet jerking bait across the pond

or pet at play, as tales of rat -

these neither sit amongst the trees.

 

Such scurry, dart brings deer to hart,

with flexing limbs as branch from trunk.

Though less appeal, the naïve child,

in carefree skitter, forest path,

where grim expected, witchery,

as lore dictates, some loss designed.

 

So which the scene to dream about?

The sympathetic season’s call,

fly fisher, art, outwit with sly,

that rat at play, as alert doe,

or fairy tale naivety?

No, scamper, scuttle, skip through glade. 

 

 

Drift

 

And what is it, night’s early chimes

in whiching hour of questions posed,

close questions from insomnia,

the what, why, wherefore model stance?

 

Exhausted, but for mind alert,

those queries flow, poetic muse -

what purpose should the verse fulfil,

and why should I be purposeful,

and wherefore opted marking glyphs?

 

So ponder, wonder, wander dreams,

adrift as testing how sound words,

a spell that tells of wizardry.

with grains that shift, forever sand

or snowflakes melting all around. 

 

 

The Hook

 

Hear factories, industrial,

when millstreams powered large machines,

noise travelled, spreading quickly, loud.

 

Did trout or salmon, channel, course,

or even coarser fishes there

sense spinning tales from waterwheel

through flicking tail, a fin or gills?

 

By gobbled worms and larvae laid,

detritus lying on the bed;

’mongst pebbledash and layered sand,

in crumpled sheets like widow’s weeds,

which tastes like gossip, pillow talk

in rising bubbles drowned in speech.

 

I heard them say, those river sprites,

like rainbows in the rumour mill,

without wait, using fishy scales,

the weight of evidence suggests,

and heard it from authorities,

reliable, so reel it in -

no better than she should be line.

A hook too popular by far.

 

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal.  He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com 

 

Three Poems by C. Oulens

 

nevermind

love came one day on

a fine day or maybe on one

finer than non-finer days

when fog’s both thick and thin

for some joy to steal in

it came in unrefined

undefined almost

as an unpaid

apology it came inside as if

both coming and not coming’d

earn it a heavy fine and I said

when it came I daresay

but nevertheless I said and I said

without (or almost without) apology

oh fine

it’s free let it come in let it be love’d

cost me no dime

but hey

said love then said (abruptly)

never mind

but what said I do you mean

bringing in

the mind in-between

what said I does luv-a-duv need

the mind for

yeah well no said love (pensively)

well

you know

(then kindly)

never mind and

no said I (insistently)

well I’ve met never

quite a few times before and yeah

I’m prone to mind sometimes and oh

I’ve also I think on some

highfalutin

perfunctory plane I guess

(yes I most certainly have feigned)

to have known the mind but no

I don’t seem

to have heard nevermind

sing in sync outtatune in style

ah the cost love replied

(giving up almost)

when you let in

(almost) love but

but love now sang (unsure of almost)

(tryna tune) once again

(and I hummed the refrain in sync

attuned old style)

nevermind dammit never you

mind

A Midsummer Noon’s Nap on Snooze

Oh yes, ’tis true I dreamt of you a

loopy midsummer noon’s nap—it was like

a blink-n-miss flip—like a tincy-wincy

daydream’s cartwheel—like a star-eyed

Broadway tap-tune

sling-fling pocket-glitz—

a ruth-mirth face, less-fulled then

flopped…O yes,

I recall…’twas the heat trap

on concrete pavements ’tween glass

facades…crowning

a garland of sweat beads…on the

forehead of my snoozy midsummer

noon’s nap…It was just that…

Oh, my dear goodness…’twas Just That…

but I woke up soaked / in

slashes / of an incoherent Indian

monsoon’s // splash I woke up burning

I woke up enveloped / in a rain’s wrap / I

woke up strummin’-ta-ra-rum-hummin’

the rain’s rap until // un-desilted drains

choked and carried me ’cross the

expanse / and scope of a city’s map and I

woke up / to a jolt // I woke up.

Once again. In trance. Not of you.

Not from some substance. I was woke.

To a bleak new rain. Of yellowed leaves.

Light collapsing. Scratching skin.

Transfiguring. Screeching. ’gainst silence

shrieks. This time. I think. I drowned.

In deluge. Of Fall’s wrath. In godhuli’s

dust-haze…

and winter…The

winter wouldn’t get to know

my name…That winter…Did you

cup for me snowflakes…Yes that long

winter…it froze spring…The spring

ring…my name…Somewhere mid-you…

mid-realm…’neath frost…in that

midsummer noon’s

tip-trip - trappy-nappie streamin’ dream.

There’s NoFuture in This Bound Hourglass

that which wecamearoundto prepondering—the future

thatwhichpresseddownpoundingona

couple of poor grains at

the narrow

neck

piling up

piteously at the

bottom of this time-plagued

hourglass

Is

nothing but

the past flipped and posing as Future

everforevernever to be a

to be,,,

            oh! i forget! i’m trying to break

                         free

                                       of shards

           that came with   being

t o b e.

C. Oulens is an upcoming poet and ex-academic from India. She's the winner of “3rd Annual Poe-It Like Poe 2025” poetry contest. Her works are published/accepted in The Broken Spine anthologies, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Starbeck Orion, The Candyman’s Trumpet, The Wee Sparrows, Verseve, Sixty Odd Poets, SciFanSat and in haiku journals namely PHR, 575haikujournal, Poetry Pea, Haiku Pause, Solitary Daisy, FolkKu, Failed Haiku, Haiku Pause and Heterodox Haiku. Her poetry engages with radical questions on the individual and society, suffused with sentience, wit and satire. She is active on social media on BlueSky @owlnsquirrels1111.bsky.social