The Thicket

THE THICKET MAGAZINE

Featuring Moira Walsh Kayleigh Jayshree Emily Mayled Alyssa Walker Erica Vanstone Sophia-Maria Nicolopoulos,

ISSUE 01 FEB

Laurie Eaves Paul Paveley Alyssa Walker Leah Atherton Danielle Holian Carly Gardner

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

Table of contents

KAYLEIGH JAYSHREE

01

Seafoam

CONNOR HARRISON

02

Montreal Poem #6

ALYSSA WALKER

03

Kitchen Table, Coming Out

ERICA VANSTONE

Deus Ex Machina, Sweep The Ghosts From The Doorways

04

Table of contents

LAURIE EAVES

05

The Potter,

PAUL PAVELEY

06

Pocket Fluff

LEAH ATHERTON

07

Threshold

(POET OF THE MONTH)

MOIRA WALSH DEAR AUTHOR

08

Book Reviews

DANIELLE HOLIAN

10

Zara Al-Noah ‘Flooding a Matchbox’

SOPHIA MARIA

11

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

CARLY GARDINER

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

12

@kayleighjayshree

Kayleigh Jayshree 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.

@HarrysunSee

Connor Harrison 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.

@agonyalyssa

Alyssa Walker 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

Alyssa Walker 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 @ericajvanstone T: @EricaIsBusy

Erica Vanstone 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.

Erica Vanstone 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

Laurie Eaves 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

@paveley.poet.prat

Paul Paveley 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

Leah Atherton 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.

POEM OF THE MONTH

@poetbynecessity

Moira Walsh 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

On Zara Al-Noah's ‘Flooding a Matchbox’ by Sunday Mornings At The River 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’s writing is engaging and heartfelt.

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 poetry collection a memorable read.

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

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 ‘Quietly Awake’ Zara Al-Noah conveys, “There is always so much to say before an explosion,” creating a tear-jerking moment for the reader to stop and breathe in this poem with all its pain and glory.

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 ‘flag of identity wavering in gusts of uniform, puppet hands ransack our suitcases as they bleach my father’s heart’ make this book a well-versed poetry collection.

Zara Al-Noah’s personal story of fleeing Iraq to the United Kingdom makes it clear that this story could be any of us.

Zara Al-Noah lives in the UK and is a medic in the NHS. She is happiest in wellies, 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, published through Sunday Mornings at the River.

Danielle Holian is an Irish writer and photographer, specialising in multimedia journalism and publicity, born in the west of Ireland.

She studied media in college, moving on to flourish her creativity through art. She continues her passion for words through her media work, documenting her interests and amusements as she captures moments she relives through her art.

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

by Sophia-Maria Nicolopoulos, Reading Rose’s work is like treading the forbidden creepy forest at night with a torch whose flame never ceases to light your way. Incognito is a small chapbook 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 was but a little child, her father—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 that remains behind. It’s a beautiful ode to the “what happens next?” question that proceeds a traumatic familial event.

Thirteen poems make up this collection, poems that experiment with prose like “The Missing Piece” which is blackout poetry, or “Through the Lens” that reads like a piece from a child’s diary. Incognito places you in the vicious cycle of wondering how life would have been had your estranged father been part of your life.

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

abandonment manifests itself in ways in which I feel complete, where half reality and half daydream of what could have been meet sometimes the weight of a ghost can be too much to carry on your shoulders and the void that is left is then filled with mirrored 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 someone when, in fact, you have no idea if it would be as you imagined it, the feeling of idealizing a past that you could 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’s not what you truly seek

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 more stressed.

@fayealexandrarose

We read

just a love that’s left unnourished, dreaming of a life that could have flourished Words flow like rivers of unbound emotions in this emotional exploration of family trauma and parental absence; they fly like birds whose feathers are on fire. I’d like to end this review by elevating 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 continue living and falling in love with life:

You live without fear of rejection when rejection was your first lesson, navigating a world without your first knight, no fairy tales can distract you from life’s edges.

And even though Mother warned you: “Monsters are one’s masked with kindness,” you look straight into the danger’s eyes, and continue to love despite its consequence.

For the poet, to demolish and deconstruct the ‘damsel in distress’ trope that even governs family relationships means accepting that your trauma doesn’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, and there’s beauty in the cracks of your childhood soul.

Sophia-Maria Nicolopoulos is a Content and Publishing Editor from Greece. She holds a BA with distinction in English Language & Literature and an MA in English & American Studies from the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki.

She’s the writer of two poetry collections, “Dried Daisies Sprouting from my Desk” self-published in July ’22 and “How Long your Roots have Grown” to-be-published by Querencia Press in March ’23.

She is known as @lostlenore_ on Instagram and Tiktok and @sophiam_weaves on Twitter. For further information on her work and developmental editing services, find her at: https://sophiamarianicolopoulos.wordpress.com

DEVJANI BODEPUDI

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

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.

“𝑩𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚-𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔. 𝑩𝒆 𝒂 𝒈𝒂𝒍𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒎 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒊𝒄 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔. 𝑩𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏” 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.

www.fawnpress.co.uk @Fawnpress @Fawnpress