The Thicket

NOTE FROM THE EDITORS

SCARLETT WARD

Welcome to the very first issue of The Thicket To launch Fawn Press' digital magazine, I thought it would be apt to have the first theme as 'BEGINNINGS', and the submissions we received did not disappoint! My vision for this magazine was for it to become a free resource of excellent poetry, and a way to help provide a platform for writers all across the world. Remember, the links are 'clickable' meaning you can find your new favourite writers on social media! I hope that with the continued support from the fantastic writing community, The Thicket will continue to grow and the forest will thicken! This is a bi-monthly magazine, meaning that submissions for the next issue will open in March ready for release in April.

@scarlett ward

DANIEL KAY

It's been a real pleasure and privilege to read through each poem that has been submitted What really impressed me was the level of creativity displayed throughout all these works. Every single one of them showed a deep understanding of poetic technique and structure as well as an acute awareness of language and meaning

@dk4poetry

Book Reviews

MISSING OUT ON THE FAMILY YOU COULD HAVE HAD: On Faye Alexandra Rose’s “Incognito” by Bottlecap Press

Devjani Bodepudi 'For the daughters carried here on the hips of their mothers

Zara Al-Noah ‘Flooding a Matchbox’

KayleighJayshree @kayleighjayshree

SEAFOAM

Begin the slow unpicking of his hair he lowers himself into the bath arms hold the tiled walls hovering over the black mould I thread each knuckle through thickets of psoriasis his face turned away I bathe him, he doesn’t know I remember, treading fingers into shallow depths

murmur the other’s name he flinches. those old hands the cold damp narrow of a cave drag through his scalp clumps of moss

my body bleeds onto cheap lino first time in ages, hot tributaries no window, imagined air his doomed body on mine, brittle, star crossed the other’s name burned into iron there’s blood in the water cover hands with spit

I can’t imagine his face anymore; I can only see who he will become his body never found poison unfurls into thin purple waves

my bitter chill clenched around curls as I hold him down

I won’t be sorry I won’t be sorry

I will never be sorry again.

ConnorHarrison @HarrysunSee

Montreal Poem #6

Not long after we moved, when every sound was still alien, and new, there was a sudden thud on the living room window, where I found, sitting on the sill as red as a fresh heart, a finch, beating slow, blushing over its public faux-pas And for a while I watched it resting there, its head cocked keeping watch on me, in case I suppose I tried anything funny, which I did want to; I wanted to open the window and bring it in from that sill, where it looked as tender and as lost as a misplaced organ But in the end, worried I might go and ruin its life out of guilt, I put on my jacket and shoes, and walked instead to the shops

We needed milk, I think, or coffee Either way By the time I came home it was gone.

AlyssaWalker @agonyalyssa

Kitchen Table

Lay my love out on the kitchen table dine on sweet tastes of compersion choose to ignore the empty seats of those who couldn’t stay (or wouldn’t) focus instead on the ones who stuck around

From the outside in maybe I seem lost indecisive and afraid but tell me how could I accept these gifts if I didn’t know I deserved them tell me

would I still be here without this heart crammed full Feast on the feeling of self-made family let the rusted shackles wilt and crumble If you want a taste we’ll make some room feed you bite-size morsels to ease you in don’t you dare tell us to starve for the sake of your own guilty conscience

Nothing tastes as good as community feels

I will gorge whether eyes avert or not Shame can’t be felt if the act goes unseen but my love is a feeling that won’t be ignored

AlyssaWalker

Coming out

Peeled away my skin like an onion revealed the layers beneath shades of colour I’d never shown before but somehow you still prefer the grey

For the first time I can breathe but you flinch as if there’s flames spilling from my throat instead of celebrating my newfound oxygen

What is it about queer joy that brings you so much sadness What is it about me that feels so disappointing

I’m stepping forward into me embracing every nook If I have to leave you behind I will but believe me when I say I don’t want to

IG@ericajvanstoneT:@EricaIsBusy

EricaVanstone

Deus Ex Machina

May the man behind the door be the pink underside of a shell; iridescent irritations that swell against the world–the grain of sand that becomes a pearl

May the king behind the iron gate be a prophet in the belly of a whale, bending to god’s will and my grail, stilling the wave that reaches high until beseeching my repent

May the dark horse be the one who wins the race–a deus ex machina setting the pace of a storm on the edge of a desert; shifting my scorching sands in the palms of his hands.

EricaVanstone

Sweep the ghosts from the doorways

Sweep the ghosts from the doorways, lover; we must make way for the living–while we linger in memory, they dance without fear

Clear the corners and cracks of their sinewy dust; of our yesterday, last Wednesday, last year

Sweep the ghosts from our doorways, beloved; their eyes peer from the square panes of glass

Let me tighten the shades to hold back their gaze from the pink-hued lips, exhalations that beckon; soon the clamoring sidewalks below come ablaze

Sweep the ghosts from your doorways, my heart

They hold you back with their sullied sheets, the unraveled dreams dreamt upon them still haunt. Singing backwards rhymes, you’ve spent too much time yearning to decipher the old want

You are the ghost in the doorways, departed; the light has returned while you clutch at the dark With cedar and sage, I’ve cleansed linens of rage He knocks at the door, skin aglint in the sun; while you rail against time, I alone turn the page.

IG:@laurieeavespoet.T:@mrleaves

LaurieEaves

The potter

after the smash // she superglues the shards // as they once were // in time // finds the fault // lines rub her irises // returns to the wheel // works // wet clay // feeds in fibres & sand to strengthen // over the slip // hunches tongue tucked to teeth // remoulding to new // designs with each little revolution // now ready to let go // she’s grown // walls thumb-thick // kilnfirelicked she resurrects // her prize // solid & sturdy // in earthenware palms // a second splits // she thinks of sharing // this thing she’s built // herself // & it tumbles // from her hands // fingertips flying // to catch // before // it // breaks

PaulPaveley

Pocket Fluff

I’ll find some fluff in my pocket, place it between my thumb and forefinger and roll it into a ball

I will give the fluff a name, that I might grow attached I will call it A Start

When I feel my most lost and desperate I will reach into my pocket and gently move A Start between my thumb and forefinger to remind myself that I have the power to give it momentum.

The plan is to get up and get dressed every day that I might get through the maximum number of pockets, help A Start build up enough fluff to earn a new name. On that day, I will call it Progress

Over time I expect bits will fall off or I may even lose the whole ball but there will always be new pockets to check for fluff

I can always repair or even, start again

One day I will invite you to the opening of a great roadside attraction like the ones they have in the States

Ladies, enbies and Gentlemen, I present to you this really bloody big ball of fluff It took a long time to build, but as it grew I grew to love it and on that day, I named it Paul.

@poet on the run

LeahAtherton

THRESHOLD.

The dogwoods are bleeding again

It is the season of rain, and the water is high and reeking of iron and salt

On the riverbank, her hands emerge first, sharp black crocuses against smooth ochre

She used to come here for paint, before

It is ugly work, becoming –gobbets of earth and moss pulled from

her skin, new and pink as fresh meat; inkcaps disgorging from a slackened

jawbone relearning to clench, gums peeling back from gleaming new teeth

She tears through sinew and fat discarding her mother’s mouth, her father’s eyes, bone

bright words of promise clawed into delicate clay, she gulps down soil in fistfuls, smears

the blood of her rebirth on the open door of her chest and swears never again will evil pass here

By the time her bare feet touch the ice of cobblestone, she has perfected a smile red and sweet as

the year’s first fruit, loam-dark gaze soaking up the city that cast her out

Vengeance has always been women’s work

POEMOFTHEMONTH

DEAR AUTHOR,

Funny how quick the body forgets

Remember the pull? Your cape drenched from drowning?

Or bowed down under a blizzard’s worth of water yet breathing treelike

Yes, it was pain And you stood with it with-stood it. There is no

account for love but we are grateful Even as you doubted

you believed in us And so we are

BOOK REVIEWS

OnZaraAl-Noah's

‘Floodinga

Matchbox’by SundayMornings AtTheRiver

Danielle Holian

Dedicating Flooding a Matchbox to her father ‘who bravely taught me how to live’, and to her husband and children ‘who taught me how to live’, Zara Al-Noah sets the poetry collection up for a sentimental read.

The complexity of Flooding a Matchbox makes it an endearing read with nostalgic and bittersweet moments, overall, Zara AlNoah’swritingisengagingandheartfelt

The contents of the book are delicately written expanding the reader's mind whether they can fully relate to the storytelling or not The poise of love and loss, of yearning and comfort, make this poetrycollectionamemorableread.

Exploring the conceptualizations of topics of Zara Al-Noah’s life regarding her childhood and adulthood, she showcases an admirable yet devastating account throughpoetry.

The poetic language inspires affection almost to the point it’s like Zara Al-Noah is reading these poems to the reader There’s an urgency to keep reading to know how the story unfolds.

The opening poem ‘Braced’ paves the way for what’s yet to come in Flooding a Matchbox Zara Al-Noah expresses, “All I know, and ever will, is my name was chosen by my father, as my mother cried in relief.”

In‘QuietlyAwake’ZaraAl-Noahconveys,“Thereisalwayssomuchtosaybefore anexplosion,”creatingatear-jerkingmomentforthereadertostopandbreathe inthispoemwithallitspainandglory

The vivid imagery and lyrical tones describe how ‘it is hard to adopt a new language’, and how she had her dignity ‘strip-searched’ so her family had their ‘flagofidentitywaveringingustsofuniform,puppethandsransackoursuitcases astheybleachmyfather’sheart’makethisbookawell-versedpoetrycollection.

ZaraAl-Noah’spersonalstoryoffleeingIraqtotheUnitedKingdommakesitclear thatthisstorycouldbeanyofus

ZaraAl-NoahlivesintheUKandisamedicintheNHS.Sheishappiestinwellies, exploring the countryside with her husband and two small children Her mixed heritage includes Iraqi descent This, alongside her extensive travels, is the basis of her passion for writing. Flooding A Matchbox is her first collection of poetry, publishedthroughSundayMorningsattheRiver.

DanielleHolianisanIrishwriter andphotographer,specialisingin multimediajournalismand publicity,borninthewestofIreland. Shestudiedmediaincollege,moving ontoflourishhercreativitythrough art.Shecontinuesherpassionfor wordsthroughhermediawork, documentingherinterestsand amusementsasshecapturesmoments sherelivesthroughherart.

COULDHAVEHAD:

OnFayeAlexandraRose’s“Incognito”by BottlecapPress

by Sophia-Maria Nicolopoulos,

Reading Rose’s work is like treading the forbidden creepy forest at night with a torchwhoseflameneverceasestolight yourway.Incognitoisasmallchapbook published in 2022 that navigates what adolescence and womanhood is like with an absent parent. While I’m stranger to this feeling, Rose’s excellent skill at profiling the characters in this work—in particular, the person who walked out on the persona when she wasbutalittlechild,herfather weaves a cautionary tale of absent parenthood and warns the reader about the consequences of irresponsible parenting. At the same time, it strengthens the ties within the family thatremainsbehind It’sabeautifulode to the “what happens next?” question that proceeds a traumatic familial event.

Thirteenpoemsmakeupthiscollection, poemsthatexperimentwithproselike“The MissingPiece”whichisblackoutpoetry,or “ThroughtheLens”thatreadslikeapiece fromachild’sdiary.Incognitoplacesyouin theviciouscycleofwonderinghowlifewould havebeenhadyourestrangedfatherbeen partofyourlife.

We read in “Daddy Issues: Spoken Word,”that:

abandonmentmanifestsitselfin ways inwhichIfeelcomplete, wherehalfrealityandhalf daydream ofwhatcouldhavebeenmeet sometimestheweightofaghost canbetoomuchtocarryonyour shouldersandthevoidthatisleft isthenfilledwithmirrored behaviours.

If I could choose two stanzas to summarize what Rose’s collection is about, then these are the ones This honest and unfiltered feeling of missing something you could have had with someonewhen,infact,youhavenoidea if it would be as you imagined it, the feelingofidealizingapastthatyoucould have shared with them, the oxymoron of yearning for a ghost’s touch and love, when you can never know if this touch and love would fill your needs Subsequently, you ask for this missing reassurance by others, or by behaviour that’snotwhatyoutrulyseek

Weread

The absence of a father figure is what has led the persona to question the meaning of family, love and companionship, The idealization of the life she could have had with him is what has urged her to fall victim to unfulfilled love by the idea of him. In “The Love I Wish I Could Give,” this theme is even morestressed

Words flow like rivers of unbound emotionsinthisemotionalexplorationof family trauma and parental absence; they fly like birds whose feathers are on fire I’dliketoendthisreviewbyelevating another theme running in this collection, the one that keeps you reading page after page in the hopes of finding redemption: survival in a ruthless, selfish world In “An Ode to Who I’ve Become,” Rose establishes the lack of the fear of rejection as the oil in the gears to continuelivingandfallinginlovewithlife:

justalovethat’sleft unnourished, dreamingofalifethatcould haveflourished

@fayealexandrarose

Youlivewithoutfearofrejection whenrejectionwasyourfirstlesson, navigatingaworldwithoutyourfirstknight, nofairytalescandistractyoufromlife’sedges.

AndeventhoughMotherwarnedyou:

“Monstersareone’smaskedwithkindness,” youlookstraightintothedanger’seyes, andcontinuetolovedespiteitsconsequence.

For the poet, to demolish and deconstruct the ‘damsel in distress’ trope that evengovernsfamilyrelationshipsmeansacceptingthatyourtraumadoesn’t define you It means that your childhood fear drives you towards being a better person, parent, grandparent. It means that you take risks and let your heart open and vulnerable; you become your own knight or princess or queen, or nothing but just a woman that survives against odds that were meant to pulverize her There’s power in the humble metaphors Rose uses, andthere’sbeautyinthecracksofyourchildhoodsoul.

Sophia-MariaNicolopoulosisaContentand PublishingEditorfromGreece.SheholdsaBA withdistinctioninEnglishLanguage& LiteratureandanMAinEnglish&American StudiesfromtheAristotleUniversityof Thessaloniki.

She’sthewriteroftwopoetrycollections,“Dried DaisiesSproutingfrommyDesk”self-published inJuly’22and“HowLongyourRootshave Grown”to-be-publishedbyQuerenciaPressin March’23.

Sheisknownas@lostlenore onInstagramand Tiktokand@sophiam weavesonTwitter.For furtherinformationonherworkand developmentaleditingservices,findherat: https://sophiamarianicolopoulos.wordpress.com

'Forthedaughters carriedhereonthehips oftheirmothers'

By Carly Gardiner

The latest pamphlet from the gorgeous Fawn Press is Devjani’s work, and it is beautiful. Her words transport you through place & time to view the world through the eyes of others, to see how trauma bleeds down through generations

I particularly loved ‘A fear of snakes and birds’ & ‘Your house is full of plants’ (the line “The pink flowers like the colour of playing at being grown up”), the latter of which you can listen to Devjani read on her instagram profile.

I’m definitely looking forward to reading more of her work in the future.