The Thicket issue 3

THE THICKET | MAGAZINE

issue 3

‘THE FAWN PRESS WRITING DEVELOPMENT PROGRAM ISSUE’

Welcome to a very special edition of The Thicket magazine. This issue we are showcasing the incredible talent that submitted to our submissions window of our writing development programme. What you are about to read is a treasure trove of incredible poetry from the very creme de la creme of what we received this summer.

These poems come from under represented and emerging writers from marginalized genders all across the country, and I want to thank our submissions reading team and our designer Joe for their hard work in helping to pull this together. I am very proud to see the thicket evolve to be in a position where we were able to pay our poets for their accepted work, thanks to Arts Council UK for making that possible Scarlett Ward, Fawn Press Editor and Founder

Here's la crème de la crème of current poetry in this third issue of the magazine. A beautiful combination of the runners-up to our development programme. We had to highlight the gems we received and share them to the world. As ever, it was difficult to select just a few and I am in awe of the talent and thankful for the poets' generosity. It is a real pleasure to discover new voices and I am already looking forward to the next.

Thank you for your trust and happy reading.

Salomée Lou, Thicket Magazine Editor

WHEN THE NEWS IS TOO MUCH Izzy Brittain

07

TO LET Emmy Clarke

08

ENTRY 198 - RELAPSE Manisha Dhesi

09

OYSTER Lorna Rose Gill

10

RECORD OF ACHIEVEMENT Anna Halsall

11

ON NIGHTS I AM Noah Jacob

12

IF YOU SHOULD FORGET Mina Jaff

14

A GIFT Katy Jane

15

ADRIANA 14 JUNE 2023 Nefeli Kautsky

16

FAITH IN THE FORM OF SHEEP Lara Kester

17

POLTERGEISTS Aiyanna Lund

18

MOVING BUT NOT MOVING ON Mahnoor

19

METHOD FOR A SUNDAY ROAST Sian Meades-Williams

20

BLACKENED WOODS Sapphire Moon

22

BAPTISM OF CIDER Katie Rackham

24

BEAR Heloise de Satge

25

TWO THIRDS OF A FAMILY Mel Scott

26

WHEN THE LIGHTS TURN GREEN I CAN HAVE A KISS Meier Smith

27

WATERMELON Milla Tebbs

28

MATRYOSHKA Jennie Turnbull

29

WHEN THE NEWS IS TOO MUCH Izzy Britain Remember, the roots of the willow are relentless. They will slowly devour the foundations of houses & other subterranean structures. Welcome to the belly of the whale.

You can lay down, in grace, in pain, in your own skin; your insides never forget how to worship the old gods, make ordinary magic; a foot massage, a chicken soup, watch wind ripple a puddle backwards uphill; hold the Ouroboros in the centre of your delicious tongue.

When the news is too much, we must honour the specific colour of the pain we are avoiding.

Invoke a visitation from a beloved ancestor.

TO LET Emmy Clarke to wrap my arms around my childhood home would not be enough i need to swallow her it would be only fair, now to let her dwell in the belly of me

ENTRY 198 - RELAPSE Manisha Dhesi

Relapse.

Lost in the cycle I call it a self-love ritual measuring my wrists with my fingers enslaved to the bathroom scales my head is heavy from the swollen glands.

I cover my mirror to never see the consequences I face I have decided to have short hair

as I am picking clumps out in the shower my arms are sore from pinching I decorate them with peonies.

Dhanvantari tells me to let go and you’ll be fine feeding me empty lies I pray and agree confiding to the returning hunger I am lost at sea 'tis healthy to be sick sometimes.

Recovery.

My roots anchor me to the floor this was the first time I met myself I dusted off my mirror and stood naked examined my body and felt my breast alone in my head the rhythm in my skin beauty in movement.

I rubbed lavender oil over my arms in a silent devotion I touched myself worshipping the lotus’s feet and thank Saraswati for this inherited home body not until we are lost we begin to find ourselves.

OY STE Lor R

na R ose Gill

my bo in th dy linge e in terti rs dal z one if yo u sp lit m i wil e l spi ll an open of g ocea rief for lives n unli i wil ved l spi ll of b roke a glitter n sh form el ed i nto ls a pe arl

RECORD OF ACHIEVEMENT Anna Halsall I’ve checked all the cupboards, Many times, You’re not there.

But I have this certificate That says you’re lost.

In fact, I have three.

(There should be five, But if you got lost before 2018 You can’t have a certificate.

Perhaps the government has decided You’ll never be found).

So I have this certificate That says you’re lost.

Not that you were born (because you weren’t), Not that you died (although you did), But that you’re lost.

And I can’t find you.

So what do I do with it, this certificate?

At school we had a Record of Achievement, Red plastic leather, gold letters.

They said, “Put your certificates in, take it to college, show the world who you are”.

I’ve got an A Star for this, Not-so-glowing for that; But still I had a go See? I’m a rounded person.

And now I’ve lost 5 babies and have 3 certificates Do they go in this Record of Achievement?

Maybe now I’m a fully, completely rounded person?

I’ve checked all the cupboards, Many times, And I can’t find you, my babies.

Instead, I have these certificates; this Record of Achievement.

Is it now complete?

Because now, although you’re lost, I can show the world, I can tell them: You were here.

ON NIGHTS I AM Noah Jacob a girl again I am unemployable as woman don’t do the work beg at corner of ends on leg too short for the cripwalk into sensible trousers tailor cigar to this halfman mouth bring it to my halfmoon mouth lycanthrope into womanbeast giant in swagger neckdeep neuroses around stiff collar fail the interview I’m hideous mama On nights I am a girl again phone autocorrects butch to bitch bitch at spine my body autocorrects me back to bottom cupboard it’s been years since you’ve made a man of me it’s been years since I touched the stuff testosterone prescription undulate back to girl point and laugh at mirror mirror a second set of fingers pointing and laughing at me marching tightlip back round the backdoor to the background from one gender to the bottom rung of the ladder

On nights I am despite my protests dyke in this or female eunuch on the pavement language well awkward gruff fade press gently now though I won’t burn incense dry of the empire.

a girl again here I am lifetime small fire learn the lcycle high abackpat goodbye over bathtub the skin is softer admit it. in place

IF YOU SHOULD FORGET Mina Jaff - he let you down and you deserve better than the lust of little men filled with thoughts of boobs and wet cunts and he will not treat you like the shrine you deserve like the girl who sings in her car on her way home from the shop like the girl who bled through her favourite trousers and cried to have to change her clothes like the girl who sucked her thumb till her teeth became crooked and wore braces all through school like the woman that silenced a room like the girl who thought she'd never be up to scratch like the woman whose shoulders hold up heaven in secret like the woman who sucked his dick when he felt sad and made him breakfast before work like the woman who

A GIFT Katy Jane As your light slowly faded And we laid you to rest The world seems less bright Through my eyes The lights don’t seem to twinkle The roses don’t smell so sweet But then, where I feel lifeless The trees are leafless I realise I am grateful Every moment is more precious Laughter - more important Relationships - more treasured Every day - a gift So, here we dwell In this dichotomy Heartbreak, loss and pain Coupled with the truth There’s nothing more beautiful Than the mundane

ADRIANA 14 JUNE 2023 Nefeli Kautsky Mediterranean sea Tourist paradise / A wet tomb My body submerged,completely surrendered to the currents Eastern winds bring grave tidings The bodies of my sisters forever swallowed by the waters The waves echo their cries Seagulls mourn But the West never heeds the invisibles’ pleas

FAITH IN THE FORM OF SHEEP Lara Kester The day’s gone black and I am open — I dream of sheep, their foggy brows soft, burrowing, baah-ing in the distance.

I dream of milking cows, in the softest way I can, in days of old, alongside their calves, feeding her babies, whilst I feed mine.

I bathe, I bake in brine, the salt of our tears.

I teeter on the edge of words, tip-toeing, I try to reach them, writing out, writing out, I flow.

Practising poetry the way I practise meditation, returning to the word, for the word is the beginning.

I watch my past lives come and go, the ebb and flow of observing, there are future lives too, those I do not know.

And I return to the deep hum, the bell drop numb of the sound — and the way it surrounds me.

Its thick, fat resonance of comfort, of sleep, in the fog, on the hill of my dreams.

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ST I E G R E T L PO

es r dom e h d sse e er dre h t o m oal fir c d n a a m r r a a ne My G ueous cre ducts rnalist o r q p A g u With se cleanin the jo d e s u i v t ’ ad Don father d n smiles a l r a g n y i f M ’s ildren h c e h dt e athere g e blaz e h t h S n i ehind Left b wspaper ne With aid Post s d a e atesh s ld girl The G cent act o r a e y de n His in two thirtee re atu st Again erious in n en childr ’t s n d s e t a n W a ever w n r e h ot randm mother G t glass y s n i M r a e g ged a ikely h Nor l 's faces fog bestos s en and a s Wom m a t scre ghters u a Infan d s e r to he g pota clothes of n i l e e d the ated p She h she stitche om fr ill But st dies bricks ern sea rth bo Their k of the no tar n The s wome n y b d re ol ry unt grandchild footprints o t s i h g ir The by the ists treadin d e t i c ge Is re polter sus d n i f e cen Who h t n i s ed storie e Unlist m i t d me be e me d a e r ancer lik to t C d s e d u s j r u wo irls She ung g or said the o y t u ct ry Abo the do te her poet n e h ri So w d to w e s i m I pro

MOVING BUT NOT MOVING ON Mahnoor There were no consequences for my actions, At least, none that I'd have to face, While fighting the comforting embrace, Of that familiar suffocating place.

I've tried to explain where I'm from, Handed them my CV*, Nights alone are scary, when I struggle to see me, I call home to feel better, knowing it'll make things worse, My mom looks for her glasses, with the phone too close to her eyes, We don't get a chance to prepare, or space to rehearse Never thought I'd cry for home, but now I've realized.

She's speaking way too loud, And I've endured a lot.

I say, "Mom, I'm right here," when I'm actually not.

You can't hear me because of faulty connections, And by that I don't mean internet, Generational divide and conflicting perceptions, Take your thumb off the camera, I won't say you're incorrect.

With no warning she hands it over to Abo, Did you always have those wrinkles and that weary smile?

I guess superman has to grow old too, Did you always look this tired or has it been a while?

It's almost over, and it's just begun, I'm having the time of my life, but am I having fun?

I'm getting closer, to I don't know what, Can't keep up with fate, as I come undone, My family lives in my phone, The strangest love I've ever known.

When can you fly to me? I'm all alone, I can't call the people I'm living with my own, But once you do something, it's not so bad, The hard part is realizing the value of what you had.

This choose-your-own-adventure seems to have a few pages missing, Oh don't mind my rambling, I'm just reminiscing.

* I grew up in a place called Canal View or CV (in Pakistan); I’ve used that as a double meaning with curriculum vitae Abo means father in Urdu

METHOD FOR A SUNDAY ROAST Sian Meades-Williams I didn’t know, then, to drizzle carrots with honey. To glaze them with sweetness until my teeth squeaked and my shoulders relaxed into the rest of my body. I had no idea the patience needed for a potato to crisp around the edges without losing its softness. Or that red cabbage is most deserving of affection from nutmeg and cinnamon. Tenderness is not my area of expertise, but I’ve learnt that without it, dryness will choke the life out of you. A thin gravy cannot save that. No matter how much floods your plate, stopping just short of the rim, it will still be lacking. So add to it the very bones of a life. Make it thick with richness.

After all of the mistakes, failed attempts, tweaks, this feels like the backbone of my kitchen. My mainstay.

Hundreds of Sundays passed before I realised how liberally I could season my life. The salt was always there, in the blue ceramic bowl, ready for me to grab by the fistful.

BLACKENED WOODS Sapphire Moon She caged herself In hearth and fire So far from sea Cravings for me Flavoured in claret Much less savoury Gnarled willow bark My back did rest Cocooned in elation Here, euphoric rhapsody.

BAPTISM OF CIDER Katie Rackham When I was born, I emerged swathed in smoke with volcanic cries of ash. The parasitic, grey tendrils tunnelled through my veins before I even had a name - before I even had a name I was grey. I was to be this bright shining thing, all the colours of petrol spill, but you set my insides on fire before you burned my body.

I was small and you were my god, my baptism of cider, that honeyed and oh so sweet thing, that traps all the buzzing and hissing flies and the buzzing does not cease like rising alarm bells as they usher me to join them lifeless on the windowsill. ‘Lie still with us’ they whisper ‘we become ornaments here after a time and we are forgotten.’

The illusion of childhood was shattered by the bottle you hurled belligerently towards me, shattering the panes of my youth. I am the reeking, rancid abhorrent thing that you soaked ready-made and flammable for the flames of contempt; I came into the world partially lit.

We were but strangers blinded by the smoke, because you made sure I was never extinguished so that you could be blind to all that you did. ‘There was a screen’ you’d say ‘I couldn’t see’ you’d say ‘it wasn’t me’ you’d say - it was the drink. That never ceasing fuel that you spat on every living thing ‘but it’s flammable’ you’d say ‘see, I can’t put it out’ you’d say ‘I will always be on fire’ is what I wished you would say.

Do you remember that gash on your arm? How I wanted to pry it open with my fingers, stretch it wide and gaping and reach into the very heart of you. Rip out the poisoned tissue, pump your body full of salt, pull out the void and swallow it whole as my burden, then stuff you full of candles so there was light in those crevices

Is that why the coroner filled you with fire? Did they see that you had only been filled with dark and unforgiving things? When they reached there, did they pull out god in the shape of a bottle to be handed down so we could keep the worship alive?

I feel like a woman now... but you are not here to see. You saw only flickers of the fire I was to be, because it was you who taught me best, how to always set myself alight.

But I forgive you and promise to drink water sometimes.

BEAR Heloise de Satge

here I am long skirt hair in awkward stage you know all bobby pins and desperation like a backwards drag queen blush faded by falling asleep twice on the train the inspector accidentally saved me woke me up to check I’d paid five minutes from my stop thank god I didn’t end up in Edinburgh it would have been almost as bad the man who came up to me on the platform to raise his voice then sit back down and laugh an inside joke and I won’t lie this whole bear or man thing didn’t leave me choosing the bear I would rather live as a survivor then be mauled but another man was rubbing the seat next to him at seven this morning maybe changed my mind and the raised voice man had an anger in his eyes

stay calm he is unpredictable talk calmly let him know you are human stay still do not run make yourself as small as possible stay on level ground leave and take a detour do not play dead play doll without the house just a bench on the platform do not move stay so still maybe it would have been better if I’d ended up in Edinburgh

TWO THIRDS OF A FAMILY Mel Scott We passed twelve weeks; thought we were safe.

Nothing could happen after that date.

We had only to wait, two would become three.

Soon, we’d become our own little family.

We thought we had it all arranged, but in an instant, everything changed.

The galloping horse slowed to a trot, the most precious sound in the world just stopped.

Fast through the doors, a mask on my face.

A masked person to hold the mask in place.

Fell asleep, cheeks wet with my own tears.

Woke up. The words. Confusion. The fears.

We arrived ready for two to become three but instead, became two thirds of a family.

WHEN THE LIGHT TURNS GREEN I CAN HAVE A KISS Meier Smith

i fucking love reality tv & hearing men talk to me like i’m not as horny as Christine or as opinionated as Sarah or as fucked off as Laura or like i don’t have a face that i’d want to study in a LED-lit mirror or like i couldn’t use the money from going on Love Island for a month & securing a brand deal through my dms or like i just watch these kinds of shows so i can switch off when in reality i am my most switched on consuming anything men might consider trash i want to be handed a basket of sex toys by Alessandra told to be honest by John & Mel i want to reveal that i’ve decided to stay with you another week but that we’re on the rocks i want to steal a $3,000 kiss from a prize pot we can just win back at the end i want to be handed a bachelor’s rose i want to make it to the final three i want to be binged on the small screen i want my back to be arched over a white leather tanning bed i want to have a best bikini & analyse the right morning to put it on i want to do one of those female empowerment workshops where they tell us to paint a canvas period blood-red apologise to our yonis for what we’ve put them through cleanse out all of the one-night-stand energy we’ve been storing in our wombs hold hands in a circle & roar i want to share beds with the hottest women i’ve ever seen & help them curl their hair each evening tell them they deserve better & tell them of course i have the perfect lingerie they can borrow for the private suite yes i fucking love reality tv & how all the women end up rich & tanned & better off after dumping whoever that guy was i want to be described as too hot because i think i’ve already got the can’t-be-handled part covered

WATERMELON Milla Tebbs Because the patient sang hymns as a tumour the size of a watermelon was drained on Christmas day 1809. Because a woman waking up with a belly as bloated as a whale, abnormal bleeding and excessive urination is wrongly diagnosed as pregnant with twins. Because some things are rare enough for scientists not to care enough about to research. Because a mother being alive to witness her first-born son’s wedding in October 1993 was too much to ask for so, eyes sunken with grief stare at me through the photo album. Because calling something the silent killer reminds us to speak in whispers. Because the survival rate has improved less than 10% since she died, three decades ago.

Because I didn’t learn her name until I had to draw a family tree for my gene therapist.

Because I’m given a leaflet of my ‘options’ which consists of prayer or removal, I opt for the latter because if I die at her age, I’ve already lived half my life.

MATRYOSHKA Jennie Turnbull In the bus on the boat on the train across a continent scarred and uncertain heading for a hard winter you carried the seed of your daughter within you.

From your seat on the bus hand in gloved hand checking your suitcase stealing a look at the husband beside you you carried the seed of your daughter within you.

Through the window of the bus on the road out of town you dare not look back cocooning the seeds of your daughter and granddaughter nested within you apprehension nested within you nausea joy and love.

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