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 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
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 goSee? I’m a rounded person.
And now I’ve lost 5 babies and have 3 certificatesDo 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
I am woman work beg of ends too short into sensible trousers this halfman mouth my halfmoon mouth womanbeast neckdeep neuroses stiff collar
I’m hideous mama
On nights I am phone autocorrects bitch my body autocorrects to bottom years since you’ve me it’s been years the stuff prescription back to and laugh at mirror a second pointing and at me back round to the from one gender of the ladder
a girl again unemployable as don’t do the at corner on leg for the cripwalk tailor cigar to bring it to lycanthrope into giant in swagger around
fail the interview a girl again butch to bitch at spine me back cupboard it’s been made a man of since I touched testosterone undulate girl point mirror set of fingers laughing marching tightlip the backdoor background to the bottom rung
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.
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 threebut 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.
