2.6 Challenge: A Poetry Collection Supporting Sufferers of OCD

The 2.6 Challenge: A Poetry Collection Supporting Sufferers of OCD

The poems that follow have been compiled by over 26 different people as part of the 2.6 challenge, which took place across the U.K. on April 26th in an attempt to raise money and save the country’s charities during a time of international crisis.

Many people who contributed have never written poetry before, and some are people with a long-enjoyed passion for creative writing. What started out as a very small idea has grown into something wonderfully collaborative and comforting during a time of such uncertainty.

We hope these poems make you smile and remind you, as they have done for us, that despite the chaos or turmoil the world is under, humans have a beautiful way of coming together for positive action.

If you would like to donate to the cause, please visit: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/natalie-saturnia – Natalie & Luisa

Design and illustrations by Luisa De la Concha Montes Illustration no. 11 by Daniel Brown

Home My grandmother’s pendant hangs heavily upon my neck; I feel my tiny hairs caught in the gold chain like woodlice.

Each pinprick that reminds me of her presence, tells me equally of her loss.

My home is a half-melted candle; too special to burn, a book whose spine I have cracked until it turned white with ache, my grandad’s tobacco pouch, weathered and worn.

I cling to this idea of stability And like a precious painting I grasp it tightly in my fists, desperate not to lose it, my knuckles turning white with resolve.

Blinded by my own desperation, I am naïve to the oils in my hands eroding the image, my fingernails becoming slick with paint, black and blue.

– N. S.

Excuse me as I wax lyrical about something I adore, About a certain doughy miracle (that I bought at the grocery store) My heart belongs to this wonderful food; unlike any other dish, For this is the one that owns my soul, fuel of my every hungry wish.

You can eat it for your breakfast, smothered in avocado, Or for lunch with the fancy soup (that one you ordered from Ocado?)

You can even have it for dinner, or as a midnight snack, It’s perfect for whatever the mood (it always has your back) It’s wonderful when it’s toasted, And equally so when left cool, You can butter it or leave it bare, Just the thought of it makes me drool.

If you know what I’m talking about, then I’ve found a kindred spirit, We’re on the same foodie wave length, we’ll chalk it down to kismet.

It’s the type of bread that’s trustworthy, that never would finagle, It wraps you in a hug and loves you. And you love it back. The Bagel.

– U. L.

Shut out of the Classroom Desks remain empty; A thin film of dust collects; No need for laboratories; Or classrooms of myriad subjects.

The playground screams its silence; School dinners go unserved; Forget to do your homework?

You can mute a telling off well-deserved.

AND YET… Heads are still being scratched; Questions still asked and resolved; Learning has not stopped occurring; It has simply evolved.

Teaching does not need the classroom; It is the transformation of ideas; Students are the keen recipients; And my job is simply to steer.

Classrooms have moved to Youtube; Discussions replaced with e-mail; But life itself is an exam; And my students will not fail.

Perhaps when this is over; And we all go back to school; We’ll catch up in the corridor; And appreciate it all.

– B.D.B.

I can see the trees through the window and the table in front of me and the door behind you and my friends watching me and my hands shaking.

I can touch the wicker of this chair and the rough fabric of the seat cushion and the sleeve of my jumper and the curls of my hair.

I can hear the birds outside and I can hear you talking and oh god this is hard and I feel stupid.

I can smell my own deodorant and I can smell old wood and warm dust.

I can taste my own tongue and it tastes like a promise. – Megan Schlanker

My worry is a pearl Tomorrow it will make me rich and keep me safe; if I could only wrench it from my brace. – Gwyneth G.

There once was a dog called Lou Who really had nothing to do.

So he watched as the cat Got more boring and fat, And laughed when she could no longer move.

There once was a cat called Fluff Who thought she was well up the duff.

But she wasn’t at all, It was just a hairball, And a bunch of other weird stuff.

There once was a worm called Jelly Who woke up inside a cat’s belly.

But before he could shout He was suddenly out, And crawled back to his husband called Kenny.

– Laura Garnier

The View from my Window A warm Spring Day, No children playing, No barbecues, No cars, Nothing Silence.

But birds tweeting, Blossom on the trees, Adults painting, DIY jobs being done Blue sky radiating heat Cats meowing And dogs barking Simple pleasures in this, Unknown world Keeping distance Supporting loved ones Supporting each other Quite simply The View from My Window. – Laura Russell

Hercules and Omphale It’s not something we often address But once upon a time Hercules wore a dress Knowing what I know now It was probably a chiton Or a peplos A great Grecian gown But when I can’t sleep at night I think of a hairy hero Wearing oranges, fusicas and Bright emerald greens A 1950s housewife in lion skin capes The slayer of stymphalian birds in a short sequin slip Or a Creatan Bull ball gown with a neckline that drapes So I think about Hercules in clothes not his own and all these years later I feel less alone –Y. G.

Lé Tueûthie The holy mills grind ever on, the Old One’s council spread By the cleansed vessels of the eye who tend the sailors dead To grasping fingers of the land through coastal mists they came To seek the well of slaughter’s secrets, enraptured by the hallowed flame The Lord and Lady watch the wreck, of steed upon the sea The ettin’s breath in killing-chants, sets soul from body free The white-robed goddess drags the dead, who follow to the well Their ashen skins are made anew, beneath her rising yell The mother calls the risen dead, into her darkened womb Into the other-world they crawl, into the yawning tomb Then back they turn towards Sun’s light, with secrets in their ears And on the ferry they emerge, under the prince’s leer – Perry Mesney

On Frank’s Fridge Storm, cry your wind.

An end of something, Rain music.

Winter skin, Silent mountain walk.

– Alessio Philip Grain

I’ve been exercising with a bag of bricks, “keeping fit (as best I can)”.

It helps to distract: the push and the pull and the press pumps out thoughts, deep deep into the sea, where I can forget them For Awhile.

I like that it’s so basic: makes me think of the past, of making do, of using a body, and the dullness whets my mind into a vessel for this One Purpose: there is no need for me otherwise, anymore.

Maybe this motion, this moving, can shape that rustbucket love still crushed within my jaw into something more useful: undent the dents, wax down the silver, and craft me a kinder soul.

– Ed

You can spot a mistake When you see one Because you Get to look at yourself In the mirror [all the time] And at night You dream to dig a hole And walk right in Let dirt swallow you [hide you] While you’re watching Leaves spiral upwards Onto heaven. –Anonymous

Hope?

My hope is a delicate thing Battered by worries, and anxiety and What ifs?

Yet I grasp at it, like A woman starved of food, A child without restraint, My cat when faced with ham.

I am greedy and Always wanting more and Fighting to get more and The dread of losing it makes me...

Careless.

Now, cultivate hope.

Let it grow, nurture it With my gentle hands And a soft voice.

The undying hope that We will be okay. – I.K.B.

Soñé que atravesaba una playa Y pasaba despreocupado entre la gente De ojos fijos que se dirigían al horizonte, Torcido en su llano por las olas encimadas.

De un momento a otro Se volvió la arena un callejón Y en el mismo instante anocheció Era tal vez de día y de noche, Por eso mismo el callejón era de arena Al mirar atrás, creció de aquella torcedura una ola desmedida. ¡Tan grande como los límites de un sueño Y sentí los pasos galopados de la gente!

Huí, acorralado por los muros Junto con otras dos personas Que igual y eran personajes O era sólo yo en otros dos lugares.

A lo no tan lejos y a toda velocidad, Se aproximaba un borde.

Soñé con haber visto caer a un hombre Que saltó intentando sujetarse de algo.

Soñé saltar y haber caído Intentando sujetar un cable.

Soñé estar asomado en la ventana Mientras cortaba un cable que colgaba.

Mientras caía También me veía caer Y en ese mismo instante me maté.

Por eso mismo era de noche y de día Por eso el callejón era de arena.

–Bernardo Panamá

I dreamt of myself moving across a beach Passing, unworried, amongst other bodies Stand-still eyes were directed towards the horizon I found myself in their tangled flatland between stacked up waves.

From a moment to the next The sand turned into a passageway And in that same instant, night fell Maybe it was both, day and night, It was hard to tell amongst the sand passageway When I looked back, An unmeasurable wave started growing from beneath the tangle.

As big as the limits of a dream I felt the galloping steps of those around me!

I ran, trapped within the walls Between two bodies That could have been characters Or maybe it was myself, repeated.

Not so far, and in full speed I could see a corner, approaching.

I dreamt of a man falling He jumped, trying to hold on to something.

I dreamt of myself jumping, and falling Trying to hold on to a cable.

I dreamt of myself looking out the window As I cut off the hanging cable.

As he fell I also saw myself falling And in that instant, I killed myself.

That is why it was both, day and night, Amongst the sand passageway.

Translation by Luisa De la Concha Montes

Rose Bones Roses burrow into my hands like grave worms.

Sprouting from flesh-picked fingers Like kisses.

Like mouths ripping skin and sinew.

A bed of flowers is all I knew I would become.

My feet forget-me-nots, My eyes columbines.

Mud-soaked, infinite, nothing.

Mythologised.

Decomposing like a melody whispered into biting breeze.

Bones like wind chimes Confiding stories to the gale.

Clattering and singing. – Izzy

Doorway Lady Lying, sitting, whatever the bottle decides.

Crying, laughing, influence held inside.

“Oi mate, you wouldn’t go halves on that ciggy would ya?”

A true gentleman, sings our doorway lady - la, la la, la.

Silence, rest, some would call that peaceful.

Shade, from the sun, the bottle soon too lethal.

“There’s a person lying there, she might steal from us” A loud whisper, but doorway ladies can’t make a fuss.

Watching, waiting, for the hours to pass by.

Drifting, sleeping, her days kept under the sky.

“Damn, she’s a sweet one” a passerby shouts to another, A true cat-caller, yet seen. Unlike our lone, rogue, ragged other.

– Liz Mills

A record is playing, between hours we fought, The lyrics sung down to a whisper The feeling of company, brief love, who’d have thought?

A fruit fly screaming, behind the blinds he’s caught, Squirming and hitting and thrashing so dire The sizzle of an insect, bass so quiet, wings so short A phone call, one that had been deeply sought, The phone message all that’s left to savour The feeling of company, brief love, who’d have thought?

A blue bottle on TV, to the bright light he’s been brought, The channel has him confused to a simmer The sizzle of an insect, bass so quiet, wings so short A sunset embracing, using the daylight she’s bought, The grass stains grow on my feet yet thicker The feeling of company, brief love, who’d have thought?

A hover fly ascends through the window, wings still and taut, Joining me in song, now each string plays smoother The sizzle of an insect, bass so quiet, wings so short, The feeling of company, brief love, who’d have thought?

– Craig

Locked Down Pigeon For the last four weeks The wood pigeon and I Have been watching each other.

She on her nest, me on my chair And then, yesterday She left- without a word.

I can understand her feelings Sitting like that With nothing to do, Locked down on her bundle of twigs.

I’d been worrying About her mental health.

Whether she had enough stimulation With only occasional visits From her mate, taking his turn So she could walk cautiously Round the garden Eyeing my sister’s seedlings.

It’s not as if We hadn’t been communicating, I talked to her every day Telling her what I’d been up to.

But to leave like that.

I suppose she’d had it with waiting.

Now the sparrows have come And are taking her nest apart.

– Rachel Feldberg

A struggle this was A poem to write To talk about what?

A creative, I might Ideas they float No good for me It’s perfection I seek A problem maybe 8 poems I’ve made The best I must pick A decision too hard Cos I think they’re all shit Well I guess this is it I hope it’s alright A struggle this was A poem to write – J.H.

Why are you in my house Sleeping in my bed Taking up my space Wandering around Leaving things in my place – Kitty Purrs N.R.O.

How are stars manufactured?

I hate you for using those words Now I can only imagine God wearing industrial overalls Measuring hydrogen and helium on test tubes Fixing the conveyor belt of the universe And fighting with delivery men over the phone: “Why is Andromeda taking so long to arrive?”

I hate you for using those words Now I can only envision Angel Gabriel Advising Michael, from his twentieth-floor office, “Forget about the stairway to heaven, You should be busy climbing the corporate ladder!”

I hate you for using those words Now I can only see Lucifer Getting an employee-of-the-month badge Only to be demoted one month after For confessing to Judas: “I’ve been forging my pay checks.”

I hate you for using those words They make me wish I was there To make an investment On the Big Bang – Luisa De la Concha Montes

Things people tie to their suitcases.

The distinguishing features that let other people know what isn’t theirs.

‘Red wool on the handle of a Samsonite’ Or however it goes.

– Ronnie

I’m angry.

I’m angry for you.

I don’t pity you, You know I’ve had the same thing too.

But I’m angry About the world of boys and men, Who take and take; The brothers, fathers, friends and children even.

You deserve better.

You deserve better than this shit.

So that’s why I’m angry; Fuck their toxicity and the power that comes with it.

– Bop Gye

A long, winding Spring indoors. Old Music plays. Hit Me Baby Once More – Hazel Lawrence

Please don’t look at me Don’t acknowledge I exist But is that half the picture Or should I just call it quits But I need to be seen And I want to be heard And I’m trying to put it into clearer words For it’s one thing to be seen And another to be heard So do I need to speak Or do I just want a fuss And what does it mean for us I worry you don’t care Please don’t listen to me Forget I even spoke I was trying to get out something But it seems I’d rather choke – F.M.

One Body We’re all connected on a plain of existence If not for each other we’d suffer endless These times beg for unity Teaching each other and learning together Let’s make the best of what we’re in Without each other we wouldn’t know what to care for So take these slow times to yourself But remember you’re never alone because you have one another – M.E.

Baths I ease my way in toe, calf, thigh, feeling the burn numb the length of my joints.

I brush the hot tap’s sting with the base of my spine before soaking, releasing, slowly unpicking the rib knit stitches which pinch at my sides.

Rose to soothe, lavender calm, inhaling, exhaling.

My breath skims the surface as I meet the meniscus, catching my gaze in the tap’s clouded distortion.

Knees marbled by lilac veins and yellow flecked bruises crest in a careless tangle as they fade the steam tingled pink.

I squeeze the shrunken tips of my oversoaked fingers in the prayer which concludes my daily baptism.

– P.T.

Water-egasa (Water terror) I feel the rush of words from tongues unknown A thousand words for water, one word alone Stirs up the multiplicities of darkened earth and winds that moan Simplicity, necessity has silenced words of mouths that spoke before my own And now the thousand words for water flow Freely in our minds, the glittering river stone – M.C.

and the lovers danced and the children cried and the elder slept.

And so the world remained unclarified. – Constanza Bonatti