War & Peace
poems and stories
scroll down to read poems and stories in our
latest strand
growing from April 2025
meet the poets and writers
A.A. Malik
Joan McGavin
Patsy Rath
Kathy Finney
Claire Booker
Hilary Hares
Sue Davies
Raine Geoghegan
Allen Ashley
Kate Young
Joseph Long
Lizzie Ballagher
Glenn Hubbard
Sally Russell
Sue Spiers
Andrew Howdle
Tony Cavender
War & Peace
Scroll down to read our latest poem
in memory of Kevin Barrett
No image, poem or text may be downloaded from this website or reused in any form without prior permission from the author and © copyright holder and never by AI.
Since completing her doctorate in Creative Writing, Joan continues to publish in magazines (e.g. Literary Imagination) and anthologies (e.g. Summer Anywhere). When free from grandparenting, she still occasionally teaches poetry sessions, most recently for Waterside Writers and during the 2025 Sark Creative Week.
On such a day
15th April, 2015*
On such a day
you can imagine
how every piece of litter
on motorway verges leading here
turned to primroses.
On such a day
you can imagine
how each blackened sheet
from a burnt book
drifted back to reunite itself
with its spine.
and every creature –
magpie, fox, badger –
rose up, renewed,
looked at the car
that made it roadkill
then turned away
into the trees.
On such a day
you can imagine
a kind of beauty
in the sweating, middle-aged,
lycra-clad bodies
of the cycling club members
crowded into Mr Bun the Baker’s teashop
in Church Stretton.
And on such a day
you can imagine
the dead of Bergen-Belsen lined up,
shoulder to shoulder,
all along the top of the Long Mynd
with their faces turned up to the sunlight
as its warmth enters their bones
and the spring breeze passes over them.
*15th April, 2015, the 70th anniversary of the liberation by Allied troops of the death camp at Bergen Belsen, was the hottest day of that year so far.
Joan McGavin
Photo Credits:
All Imperial War Museum Images: © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records
THE LIBERATION OF BERGEN-BELSEN CONCENTRATION CAMP, APRIL 1945
IWM (BU 4072) Portrait of a camp inmate eating bread.
IWM (BU 3815) A girl who is too weak to dress herself is helped by another woman.
IWM (BU 4103) Young girls suffering from typhus recover in their new cot in No 3 Camp. They have been bathed, reclothed and put into a clean bed.
IWM (BU 3734) Two malnourished women in the camp.
IWM (BU 3737) Women and children crowded together in one of the camp huts. There is no furniture. Any spare clothing is hung on the walls.
IWM (BU 3803) Women prepare a meal near the heaped bodies of the dead.
IWM (BU 4847) View of a filled in mass grave. The grave marker reads “Grave No 2 : 5000 lie buried here”.
IWM (BU 3728) A prisoner, too weak to move as a result of starvation, sits by the wire fence with an expression of agony on his face.
IWM (BU 4270) Roman Catholic Padre, Father Michael C. Morrison, a British Army chaplain, and Father Stanisław Kadziołka, a Polish Catholic priest and former inmate of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, conducting service over one of the mass graves before it is filled in, 24 April 1945.
Via Pixabay
Burnt Book: Life-Of-Pix
Primrose: Buntysmum
Repatriation
A soldier stands on a deck packed off to peace.
Ships pass in the night with a nod and a wink;
the war is over.
A welcome of noisy joy won’t waken the dead
but he flinches at flags and the band’s changed tune;
whirl-winded away.
He will keep to the humdrum beat of ordinary days
wear a face with a name in a place called home;
hold secrets close to.
When he gathers with comrades the drink will not open his soul
nor blot out the memory’s false armistice;
it will be like this.
When you lay a wreath for the nameless who died in the war,
hold closer the ones who live, unknown, in the peace.
Patsy Rath
Photo Credits
Imperial War Museum Images:
Caspar’s claimed my garden for his own
Caspar’s claimed my garden for his own,
reneging on accords our grandads made.
The soil’s spoilt and nothing now will grow.
Invasion comes from unexpected foe –
he digs for victory with shiny spade –
Caspar’s claimed my garden for his own
These few square metres form a battle zone,
a barren patch where phosphates have been sprayed.
The soil’s spoilt and nothing now will grow.
I’m left to fight this bully all alone –
the neighbours’ WhatsApp group observes, afraid.
Caspar’s claimed my garden for his own
His barbecue, his labrador, his drone…
He’ll hold this ground until objections fade.
The soil’s spoilt and nothing now will grow.
He builds his empire, shifting marker stones.
With every war, the atlas is remade.
Caspar’s claimed my garden for his own
The soil’s spoilt and nothing now will grow.
Allen Ashley
Photo Credits: All via Pixabay
Ukraine Flag and Soldier: Lukasjohnns
Flowers: Ralf_Fotos
Dolls: Semppis
Planes & Snow: Vika_Glitter
Tank: SABIRAB
Lab: viaatje; Drone: dmncwndrich; Barbecue: AnnRos
Tank Map: joa70
Bullet: SaveUkraine
Boy Flag: ELG21
Strawberry Girl by Allen Ashley
The Teatime Tarzan by Allen Ashley
A.A. Malik is an established writer published in a range of media. Initially a reluctant poet her poetry can now be found in anthologies and journals, exploring the themes of spirituality, motherhood, and identity, with a focus on multi-sense belonging.
When not writing, she can usually be found drinking (or spilling) tea, learning to read hieroglyphs or sweeping legs in a dojo. Find more about the author at www.aamalikauthor.com
Unchained
She sits, pulling up daisies, one by one,
soldier-chains forming, peace-flags shining in the sun.
More flowers sway gently in the breeze
Kafan-white dots across fields of living green,
copious symbols of all the fallen men
when turmoil raged around them,
soldiers cast into Hell
asking, for whom comes the toll of the bell?
Left foot, right foot, no man’s land
destruction of life is hard to understand.
no time for arrogance, no space for pride,
Azrael descends, taking souls from each side.
She sits, pulling up buttercups, one by one,
soldier-chains breaking, gold glinting in the sun.
More flowers sway gently in the breeze
Pyrite-yellow dots across fields of living green,
like many of hers in the Burma campaign,
one of them caught, escaped, then captured again
finally escaping, he found freedom then,
not with the sword, but through the pen.
Ripped from the womb of the motherland
loss of life is hard to understand.
no time for arrogance, no space for pride,
Azrael descends, taking souls from each side,
the only sounds left are echoes of cries.
She joins forget-me-nots, one by one,
memory-chains forming, never to come undone.
More peace-flags lay, gently swaying in the breeze
true-blue dots across fields of living green,
copious symbols of all the fallen men
who paved the way for those after them,
South Asian soldiers, martyrs for the cause,
we remember all of those who fought in the wars.
A.A. Malik
Dedicated to every one of my many relatives who fought in WWII with the Allied forces, many of whom were deployed to Burma. Dedicated also to every commonwealth soldier of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh who risked, or gave, their lives and are often overlooked by history.
Photo Credits:
All Imperial War Museum Images: © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records.
IWM (H 21605); IWM (NYP 15766); IWM (E 1218).
Royal Indian Army Cops prepare their tents, groundsheets and blankets. 1942 (H 21605)
Boy on Bike via Pixabay
Fire: fredrikwandem via Pixabay : Image: IWM (TR 65682B)
Daisies: congerdesign via Pixabay
THE WAR IN THE FAR EAST: THE BURMA CAMPAIGN 1941-1945 (NYP 15766) The Campaign in North and Central Burma February 1944 – August 1945: A well armed patrol of American led Burmese guerrillas crossing a river in central Burma. Copyright: © IWM.
Buttercups: Nennieinszweidrei via Pixabay
THE BRITISH INDIAN ARMY ON ERITREAN FRONTIER, 1940 (E 1218) A camel patrol of the Sudanese Defence Force, attached to the 9th Indian Infantry Brigade, ready for action in the field near Abu Derrisa in Sudan, 22 November 1940. Copyright: © IWM.
Forget-me-nots: mariya_m via Pixabay
Hands and Doves: NoName_13 via Pixabay
Raine Geoghegan (she/her) is a prize winning poet with an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Chichester. Born in the Welsh Valleys, she is of Romany, Welsh & Irish ethnicity. She has been nominated for the Forward Prize, Pushcart (twice), Michael Marks Award and the Best of the Net. She has three pamphlets published with Hedgehog Press and a full collection ‘The Talking Stick: O Pookering Kosh’ published with Salmon Poetry Press. She is also the Curator and Editor of ‘Kin’ an anthology of Romany, Traveller & Nomadic Romany Women’s voices, also with Salmon Press. She has read at literary events in the UK, Ireland and Sydney and has also performed her work at the House of Commons. She founded ‘Writing as Sanctuary’ in 2023 and facilitates transformative writing workshops and ancestral healing session. She has appeared on Radio 4 for ‘Soul Music’ and BBC Radio Wales. You can find her on Instagram, LinkedIn and Facebook.
The Gypsy Camp at Auschwitz
February 1943: At Auschwitz-Birkenau, a family Gypsy camp was set up in a wooden barracks. August 2 1944: Over 4,000 Roma and Sinti men, women and children were murdered in the gas chambers. January 27 1945 at 3pm, Soviet soldiers reached the camp and found only one Rom among the survivors.
All Imperial War Museum Images: © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records
the branches on the trees bend and sway
leaves fall and settle on the ground
sunlight seeps through mottled clouds
and all is quiet
a woman with long red hair
picks a blade of grass
holds it up to the light
remembering her husband
the shape of his mouth
how he spoke her name, Narilla
men kek bissa: we will not forget
an old chal with silver hair
takes his hat off, feels the warmth of the sun
on his head
his chavo was four years old when they were imprisoned
a year later he was taken and was never seen again
he had dark curls and hazel eyes
a chavali runs into the arms of her mother
who remembers she once had twelve chavies
all had hair the colour of the darkest earth
and eyes like wolves
.
men kek bissa: we will not forget
winter birds mourning on the branches
the earth remembering
how it has given refuge to the dead
no longer dead leaves trampled underfoot
they have become wild breathing flowers
growing in the dust.
“Except for a few survivors, a whole people unique in its life-style, language, culture and art, was wiped off the face of the earth. The death of the Gypsy Nation was more than physical; it was total oblivion.” Azriel Eisenberg, Witness to the Holocaust, 1981 (New York) taken from Danger, Educated Gypsy, selected essays by Ian Hancock.
Romani words:
Men kek bissa – we will not forget; Chal – man; Chavo – boy; Chavali – girl; Chavies – children
Previously published in ‘The Talking Stick: O Puckering Kosh’ with Salmon Poetry Press, 2022 and in ‘KIN’ an anthology published with Salmon Press.
Raine Geoghegan
they lit fires, moved in close by Raine Geoghegan
Walking with the Wagons by Raine Geoghegan
A Memory of the Hop Fields by Raine Geoghegan
The Lungo Drom by Raine Geoghegan
Hilary Hares’ poems appear widely online and in print. She has also achieved success in various competitions. She has an MA in Poetry from Manchester Metropolitan University and her pamphlets, A Butterfly Lands on the Moon, Red Queen, and Mr Yamada Cooks Lunch for Twenty Three are available through: www.hilaryhares.com
The letters
Thirty of them, sent to Britannia Camp,
Korea and treasured over seventy years.
They came from Mum and Dad and Gran,
from girls, named Margaret, Sara, Bernadette.
Perhaps he met them at a Friday Evening Hop
at Kimbell’s or strolling round the funfair by the pier.
He didn’t know them well, they’d asked
if they could write a line or two to cheer him up.
Three girls who wrote of anything but war,
who spoke of football, Humphrey Bogart, hope.
Hilary Hares
Lament for a Lost Hare by Hilary Hares
On moving sideways through Hampshire by Hilary Hares
Photo Credits: All Imperial War Museum Images: © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records.
IWM (BF 522) A trooper of the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars writes a letter home from Korea.
Letters in string: Margarita Kochneva via Pixabay
Pier by Ebor via Pixabay
IWM (BF 10428) Members of the 1st King’s Shropshire Light Infantry man a bren gun as they view enemy lines through binoculars during Operation Commando.
IWM (BF 510) Members of the Royal Ulster Rifles advance in support of Centurion tanks of the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars.
Three Women: Image by Pixels from pixabay
IWM (A 32308) The Royal Marine Band from HMS BELFAST entertains troops ashore in Korea, September 1952.
Claire Booker is a Brighton-based poet. Her work has appeared in Agenda, The Dark Horse, Magma, The Spectator, Stand and Words For The Wild, among others. She won The Poetry Society’s 2023 Stanza Competition, and was longlisted in the 2023 National Poetry Competition. Her collection, A Pocketful of Chalk is out with Arachne Press. Her pamphlet, The Bone That Sang, is with Indigo Dreams. More info at www.bookerplays.co.uk.
The feral dogs of Moscow
smell which way the wind blows
have ferocious appetites
prefer rusks to bread, caviar to fish heads
know back-routes to the Kremlin
vote with their feet
are not prejudiced in any way
wear fur beautifully
set honey traps
scratch backs
lick the hand that feeds them
defecate off the beaten track
have perfected the opening of Metro doors
eyeball the idle rich in cafés
hang out at nightclubs and store openings
are stabbed, gassed, drowned, shot
sleep it off
roll in their own mange
let forests prowl in their heads
never forget what the moon is for
grin with wolves’ teeth
kill rats, rivals, the underdog
are the terrible brainchild of Baba Yaga.
Note:
“We shall fight against them, throw them in prisons,
and destroy them.” Vladimir Putin.
Claire Booker
Photo Credits: All via Pixabay
Staring poodle: chili71; Moscow night: EvgeniT;
Ridgeback: guvo59; Caviar: Be_Stasya;
Cafe dog: Sklorg; Toller: Dez_Mez;
Snarling dogs: jrstymiest; Casino: zikiline;
Running dog: Wolfgang157; Moscow skyline: Makalu
Rich dog: PETFOTO;
Red collar dog: coffy; Witch: JoelFazhari.
Ascending Mullach Mor by Claire Booker
Blackpool-born poet Kathy Finney explores dialect, identity, and memory through a distinctly northern voice. A mother of three and lifelong learner, she holds degrees in English, Poetry and Creative Writing. Her poetry draws from Lancashire tradition, folklore, and persona as a poetic device— amplifying untold stories and lending shape to memory and place.
Throstle in France
Just a line
to let thee know am well
an’ that thi letter came.
It cheers me
to read aboot whome.
Preesall’s a gradely place
when blozzums oot
an’ fleawers are comin’ on
a blazzin.
Here summer burns
an’ spreads its embers
on a land that’s seen
better days.
Theer’s nee hedgeroows left
in France it seems.
Nee heckberries to pick
nee leef-buds
unfurlin.’
Tell me Mother
has owd throstle in’t sycamore tree
found a mate?
Mi that brid could warble.
Ah should like to be wi’ thee
when he begins to sing.
****
for L/Cpl John Dodgson (1893-1915)
1st/5th King’s Own Royal Lancaster Regiment
[Throstle Lancashire dialect for Song Thrush]
Kathy Finney
Image Credits:
All Imperial War Museum Images: © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records.
IWM (Q 53320): British infantry troops positioned in a roadside ditch, looking out for the enemy. Belgium, 13 October 1914.
Man Thinking: StockSnap via Pixabay
Sue Davies grew up in London. She practised as a nurse at Westminster Hospital before going on to work for BBC radio. She married and lived in Oxford and then moved to Cyprus with her husband to teach English. On her return she studied English Literature and Linguistics at the University of Sussex and Southampton University. She lectured in English and now mentors writers and poets.
Her first poetry collection Blue Water Café was followed by Split the Lark, published by Oversteps Books. Her third collection Broken Love is being prepared for publication. She is a prize-winning poet and lives in Hampshire.
Her poems have appeared in The Observer, Poetry Wales, The Interpreter’s House, Acumen, Orbis, Magma and many other poetry magazines. In 2022 her memoir Susanna: the making of an English girl was published under her unmarried name S.M Saunders. Her poem The Reader was awarded first prize in the Edward Thomas Fellowship Poets competition.
More recently Winter Curfew Breakers was shortlisted by Wells poetry and other poems have been highly commended by Canon’s mouth, including Whimsy and Solace of Bearings, and In the end. Other commended and prize-winning poems appear in her collection Split the Lark.
To Poison was awarded 3rd prize by the Welsh Poetry Competition in 2024.
She has also contributed to anthologies published by Grey Hen Press celebrating women’s contribution to the world, and selected poems are being translated into Romanian from English in preparation for a Romanian publication.
She takes an active part in the Winchester Poetry Festival where she has been invited to read her work, including further readings at the English Heritage readings in Winchester. She is a member of Winchester Muse which meets to read and celebrate guest poets such as Helen Ivory, Jo Bell, Martin Figura, and many other wonderful poets.
Stolen Land
Please take this key and keep it safe. It’ll open
our kitchen door by the pomegranate tree.
Under the window a bench scrubbed white
is where Grandpa confided in his dog, pulled
off his boots, worried his beads, enjoyed a smoke
and let his mind go down with the sun.
If you take the mountain road east, the sun
will glide your shadow ahead on the open
road and from a ditch by the cornfield, smoke
may rise from a fire made from a fallen tree
warming orphaned lambs and goats pulled
from the ravine, the shepherd’s hair white
as Easter wreaths turned brittle and white
by strokes of the fearsome summer’s sun.
As a child I was sent into the fields to pull
up wild rosemary for the stew pot on the open
fire while Dad waxed the raw pine tree’s
wood to glow gold, as olive leaves smoked,
perfuming the linen chests he made, smoke
lingering in his workshop as he carved white
Lilies of the Field, wild cyclamen and fig trees
to the delight of brides. Finches flocked in sun-
lit trees for their springtime symposium, open
to bee-eaters, and copper butterflies as if drawn
from dreams, from the blood-shot sky, drawn
away from shell cases, mess of war, battle-smoke
in the hills. But once on the veranda my eyes opened,
then closed on love as I kissed a boy among white
gardenias, their leaves wilting in the dying sun,
while Mum’s hens burbled in our myrtle trees.
Please make a note of the places where lemon trees
might grow again, despite burnt roots roiled
by tanks destroying everything under the sun.
These are men who set caves on fire to smoke
out women and children, cowering in fine white
ash blown from the firing line. So please open
your heart, take this key, return to tell battle smoke
no longer eclipses the sun, and you in your white
helmet approached in peace, our door opening….
Sue Davies
Sue says:
‘I knew the maker of dowry chests and ordered one to be made in his house in the tiny village of Lapithos, North Cyprus. Sadly when we met again his family had fled from the Turkish invaders. The invasion was horrific and brutal. It was common to keep a key to one’s house hoping one day to return…it was such a beautiful place…’
Photo Credits: All images obtained via pixabay. Credits go to:
pomegranate: ulleo; key: Pezibear; house: dimitrisvetsikas1969; chest: Bru-nO; boy river: Gaspartacus; kiss: Tumisu; red sky: javelin; tank: rozbooy; open door: ultimatebipin; sunset: rperucho.
Sally Russell is a Hampshire-based writer and musician with an MA in creative writing. She writes poetry that examines social relationships and family. Her work can be found in a number of journals and anthologies including Canberra University’s AXON, the Bangor Literary Journal and the Welsh Poetry Competition anthology. Sally has provided technical support for Loose Muse and facilitated a poetry critique group. She also belongs to Winchester Muse and the Hampshire Writers’ Society.
Take One Hundred Boys…
…freckle-faced, sandy-haired,
chestnut eyes, tight black curls.
Tall boys, short boys, cocky lads, shy boys,
ciggies on lips, bitten nails,
boys with coal dust in their shoes.
Proud chins thrust high under peaked caps,
khaki tunics, sweetheart’s picture tucked away,
hobnail boots march left, right, left, right.
Oh! The glory.
Plunge into a melting pot of icy winds,
flooded trenches, mud, rats, lice.
Mix in a common purpose, a fire of shells,
grenades and tanks.
Stir with the gasp of poison gas,
whose poker-hot fingers singe the lungs.
Sniff an aroma of rotting flesh, faeces.
The stench of Hell.
Yields 12 amputees, 14 razor-scorched chests,
11 walking wounded, 29 shattered minds.
Eyes stare forever at Flanders Fields,
ears echo boom and rattle of fire,
comrades’ death cries.
33 tiny white crosses
and one deserter, shot like a hare.
Serve with a dash of homecoming parade.
Crowds roar, paper flags flutter above their heads
as the boys limp along, minds numb.
Sally Russell
Photo Credits:
All Imperial War Museum Images: © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records.
Long line of troops marching off to rest camp after disembarking for the first time in France. Image: IWM (Q 33306)
THE BATTLE OF THE SOMME, JULY-NOVEMBER 1916 IWM (Q 1580) British soldiers eating hot rations in the Ancre Valley during the Battle of the Somme, October 1916.
THE GERMAN ARMY ON THE WESTERN FRONT, 1914-1918 IWM (Q 23700) A despatch dog brings food to two German soldiers in an advanced trench, somewhere on the Western Front. The dog is wearing a special harness on its back which can hold mess tins. In the background, a third soldier can be seen pointing his rifle over the top of the trench.
THE GERMAN WITHDRAWAL TO THE HINDENBURG LINE, MARCH-APRIL 1917 IWM (Q 5100) John Warwick Brooke, the official photographer, followed them in the sap, into which a shell fell short killing seven men.
GENERAL SCENES ON THE WESTERN FRONT DURING THE FIRST WORLD WAR: THE THIRD BATTLE OF YPRES, PASSCHENDAELE, 1917 IWM (CO 2252) Canadian stretcher bearers carrying a wounded soldier through the mud of the Ypres Salient, 1917.
THE BATTLE OF PASSCHENDAELE, JULY-NOVEMBER 1917 IWM (Q 5916) A doctor tends to a shoulder wound at a Regimental Aid Post set up in a captured German ammunition dump at Oosttaverne, near Ypres, August 1917.
THE MEDICAL SERVICES ON THE HOME FRONT, 1914-1918 IWM (Q 53275) Wounded servicemen arrive in ambulances at Charing Cross Hospital on Agar Street London, September 1914. Onlookers crowd the pavements to view the servicemen.
FIRST WORLD WAR IWM (Q 20633) An aerial view of a portion of the Grand Fleet at anchor in the Firth of Forth, taken from the British Airship R. 9.
Apocalyptic explosion: Pixabay by ds-grafikdesign
Below: A raiding party of the 1/8th (Irish) King’s Liverpool Regiment, 55th Division, at Wailly, France. Photograph taken the morning after a night raid during the 17/18th April 1916. Image: IWM (Q 510)
Featured Image: IWM (Q 54564) THE BRITISH HOME FRONT, 1914-1918 (Q 54564) A long queue of children and women awaiting their turn to receive hot food at a public kitchen at 104 Westminster Bridge Road, London. The kitchen was opened by Queen Mary.
Sue Spiers lives in Hampshire and works with Winchester Poetry Festival. Sue’s poems have appeared in Acumen, Dawn Treader, Dreich, Fenland Poetry Journal, The North, Obsessed with Pipework and Sarasvati. She is the profile poet in South issue 70. Sue’s on-line poems are at Broken Spine, Dust, The High Window and Ink, Sweat & Tears. Her 2023 collection is De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da. Sue is a Wave 17 iamb poet. Her pamphlet: A Wallet of Creature Poems was published by Hedgehog Press in June 2024. In December Hedgehog Press, announced ‘Dandarabilla’ from the collection was one of his nominations for a Pushcart Prize. Sue Tweets @spiropoetry, Bluesky: @spiropoetry.bsky.social
Image: IWM (MH 33800)
1974
IWM (MH 33994)
The first I knew was mum reading out
Irene’s letter, then we looked for news.
Turkey invades Cyprus as a headline;
a bald statement absent of detail.
Arthur had to stay behind, no seat,
priority to ship out civilians, a skeleton
force kept to hold strategic positions
while Cypriots fought for their land.
Families had one day’s notice to leave,
transported like so much NAAFI cargo,
kids clinging to Hurricane webbing,
Brise Norton landing, stowed in a hangar.
Irene wrote of camp beds and blankets,
a make-shift latrine and army canteen
of lumpy mash, mushy peas and spam,
queuing to sign-up for family quarters.
Scabby Nicola left behind her tabby cat,
Theresa, dad’s joke, Green lost Tiny Tears
I would have had to abandon books,
no Lego, no solitaire, no dominoes.
Mum sent mail to rank and serial numbers,
not knowing where to find friends
scrambled to temporary accommodation,
bunked in with relatives or staying put.
Salamis families were forced south,
taking over ransacked blue verandahs,
making do with army issue furniture –
strange belongings in a shell of home.
Sue Spiers
Photo Credits:
People in lorry: IWM (MH 33800)
Background: Airline Hangar: IWM (MH 33996)
Girl: Pixabay by Pezibear
Tabby Cat: Pixabay by Sbringser
One O’Clock – Paphos Gate, Nicosia
Air is hot where we sit in the shade of a carob tree.
The water in our water bottle is warm
as is the plastic bottle.
The end of the street is barricaded
with oil drums filled with concrete, rusted barbed wire
stretched over a metal Y no one climbs.
There’s a sign against the sandbags,
one of welcome from the Catholic church*,
the mouth of its doorway neutral in this instance.
Its front door opens into dangerous darkness.
The obstacle of metal and wire climbs over its tiles.
Behind, there’s a square bell tower come watch tower.
The back wall of the church is in a different country.
The church could be a meeting place
for separated families.
Small cavities pock the sandstone façade
like bullet holes, no. I realise they are bullet holes.
Repairs to this side show neat grey paving.
Cars run the serpentine street
diverted away from this dead end, follow
its fresh yellow lines away from this fleeting rest place.
We drink the last of the tepid water,
consult the map of the city’s bastions, where to look next.
The bell strikes a solitary chime as we walk away.
*Holy Cross, Catholic Church
Sue Spiers
Photo Credits:
All Imperial War Museum Images: © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records.
Carob Tree: Pixabay by Dimitrivetsikas1969
Boy and Barbed Wire: Pixabay by Kantsmith
NAAFI Shop Famagusta: IWM (MH 33842)
Paphos Gate by Sue Spiers
Background: Paphos Gate by Sue Spiers
Below: Airline Hangar: IWM (MH 33996)
New Genesis: Gaza
Photo Credits:
Top: Gaza. Children with water: Pixabay by hosnysalah
Background: Pixabay by AdonesFAO
Swamp: Pixabay by zmortero
Gaza: Boy in rubble: Pixabay by hosnysalah
Fire: Pixabay by CharlVera
Below: Gaza. Pixabay by hosnysalah
In the beginning of the end, Death moved
Over the mask of the waters, breathing
In putrefaction that bred mosquitos
And flesh flies. And Death said, Let there be light:
And there was a flash of white phosphorus
Across mountains of rubble, a smokescreen
Of desolation that split grey concrete
Into clouds of asbestos. And Death saw
That it was good, not caring that humans
And their household animals would suffer
A silent and cancerous end. For days,
The bombs rained, until night could not be told
From day, and Death said, Let the foul waters
Bring forth pestilence: so those without aid
Might feel the thrust of the mosquito’s quick
Injection and maggots might sanitise
The carcasses of the dead. Let us watch
As human sewage poisons fish and those
That eat the fish are polluted in turn.
On the final day, having seen that man
Was made in his own image, Death rejoiced
That sky and earth, finally, were finished.
Andrew Howdle
Tony Cavender grew up where industrial East Lancashire borders on rugged Bronte country. A keen walker, he has hiked in the Karakoram, Picos de Europa, Pyrenees, Alpuharras, and the Alps. In this country, his favourite places are in Cornwall and the Lake District
He is a retired teacher (a former Head of English, Modern Languages and Humanities) and has a particular interest in the poetry of the First World War. He has self-published two collections of poetry, and has had poems published by Paper Swans Press and Winchester Poetry Festival.
Paul Nash’s Trees
The Menin Road by Paul Nash © © IWM Art.IWM ART 2242 (WMR-82021)
Wittenham by Paul Nash
IWM (Q 82530)
Wire by Paul Nash
IWM (Art.IWM ART 2705)
By the side of the Menin Road
The trees are linked
In silent mycorrhizal agony.
Stripped of bark and leaf,
Oak and ash and poplar
Are indistinguishable skeletons
Scarecrowing a bird-less sky.
Around them the ground humps and gapes;
Yellow water suppurates in muddy holes.
High on Wittenham Clumps
The trees are cheerful,
Wearing their spring-green finery
Like the feathers in the hats
Of elegant, race-going ladies.
Below them the ground is rich brown earth
Blood and bone have fertilised
Over and over, over the centuries
Of human occupation.
Tony Cavender
Photo Credits:
Images from The Imperial War Museum © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records.
The Menin Road by Paul Nash Credit: © © IWM Art.IWM ART 2242 (WMR-82021)
Wittenham 1935 by Paul Nash. Watercolour on paper. Pallant House Gallery, Chichester
Paul Nash Poster: Copyright: © IWM. Original Source: http://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205326777
Wire: Image: © IWM (Art.IWM ART 2705)
Glenn Hubbard lives in Newcastle. He began writing in 2013 and has had work published in a variety of journals including Stand, Strix, and London Grip. Although it may not always be obvious, he owes a great deal to the poetry of R.F. Langley.
Glenn Hubbard – PHOTO OF A HOWITZER FIRING IN UKRAINE
PHOTO OF A HOWITZER FIRING IN UKRAINE
Houfnice.
Used by the Hussites
in pre-Reformation days.
Fired into Catholic cavalry
to make mounted horses shy
knights in armour fly.
Not nice.
Houf
is a crowd. But for this
pronouncement just five.
Three crouch, eyes cast down
ears covered as if fearing
the report, like a judgement.
Another kneels in attendance,
awaiting the fatal determination.
Uff!
The last looks on
awed by the bright yellow rorschach blot
blooming in the grey sky.
He may be praying, die Hoffnung:
that many will die; a thousand,
in Haufen, heaps of them.
Though they too are cherished
by mothers with prayer ropes,
their hands tied.
Hussites: Czech proto-Protestant Christians
Houfnice (Czech): A cannon used by the Hussites during the war (1419-1434) against Catholic forces.
Houf (Czech): A crowd
(die) Hoffnung (German): (the) hope
Haufen (German): piles, heaps
Glenn Hubbard
Picture Credits:
All Imperial War Museum Images: © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records.
Joseph Long lives and works on the Medway as a father and Engineer, writing poetry between shifts. He has a passion for works which reflect working class life & culture and his main influences are John Cooper Clarke, Christopher Reid, Anna Akhmatova, Seamus Heaney, Ian Hamilton & Douglas Dunn.
Joseph has been published by Stand, Blackbox Manifold, The Amethyst Review, Littoral and he was also highly commended in the Erbacce Prize for Poetry in 2024..
Joseph Long – A Small Village in Suffolk
A Small Village in Suffolk
Photo Credits:
Boy on Bike via Pixabay
Nuclear explosion: Image: IWM (TR 65682B)
Lane: Whitechappel79 via Pixabay
Child and Dog: Kanashi via Pixabay
Child Fence: Greyerbaby via Pixabay
Bird Fence: Surely via Pixabay
Barbed Wire Man: FuN_Lucky via Pixabay
At the end of the lane is the end of the line,
a front line – and to rational actors, a line
in the sand. It was once, just a lane – pitted, rutted.
Before host nation cared, before the tack tarmac
laden trucks backed up one morning, without warning.
Before sheep walks became elephant proof, before
bridle turned taxiway. In those days of small things,
we would cycle down to feel spring speedwell against
sole, nape. To scent sheep-cropped fescue, scatter curlew,
pick scrape for eggs. Our incursions were good tidy
before chain links. After links and lateral scars
were carved in our Breckland sward, did mining bee care?
Did hare, turn a hair? Would curlew sorties confirm /
deny what was there? There may be no amara!
So, we all sought to play in this rum, conjured base.
Before gauges swayed and our Suffolk sands turned to glass.
Before rolling, oiled cumulus caught us and its
torrid breeze roiled our broadleaf trees. Before we heard
soundless call or dull pedal notes. Before cuckoo
clocks got giddy, beneath our feet in rumoured vaults.
We boys were curious for more than blast pens or
tube alloys – and the digger wasp would help us. Help
delve down to those vaults below chalk, clay, flint and silt.
Where we’d scamper down surety warrens – play war games,
take names amongst Harvard Candles born of the dawn.
Once, our insignificance might have saved us. Since,
we’ve learnt the humility of grazing ruminant –
ready for ritual slaughter. Generations
of crick neck, sloped back – gazing into the middle
distance (or below), in our small village in Suffolk.
Note: Although never officially confirmed, US nuclear weapons were based at RAF Lakenheath, Suffolk from the 1950s until the 1990s. They are due to return.
Joseph Long
A Letter to Gilbert White by Robyn Bolam
Kate Young’s poetry has appeared in journals and online. It was also included in Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published with Hedgehog Press. Find her on X @Kateyoung12poet or her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk
Kate Young – Nothing Has Changed
Nothing Has Changed
After Imagine, by John Lennon
Photo Credits:
Tree Sun: TheDigitalArtist via Pixabay
Blue Flowers: FoYu via Pixabay
Children Sand: ThanhTN via Pixabay
Child Poverty: billycm via Pixabay
Hands Doves: NoName_13 via Pixabay
Imagine: gOutier via Pixabay
Ghosts will vaporise and tell you otherwise –
they are wrong.
They’ll feed you visions of advancement,
ask you to taste their driverless cars,
roll a 5g network over your tongue,
savour a lyric penned by AI.
The lie is ferric – spit it out.
How is that imagination John?
You dreamed of borderless, religious-less,
hunger-less nations sharing all the world –
reality is a bullet in the back of Manhattan
a crimson gash ribbled on stone
and crushed in the rubble of Gaza,
a convoy of crater-skulls lining the road
in the ashen remains of Ukraine,
a dull-eyed child absorbed in PVC
on shores that throw back the shingle,
a trudge of commas making no sense.
I let you sing me to sleep,
the oh-so-simple riff of piano keys
lifting, shifting to resolution.
Keep dreaming John, keep dreaming.
Kate Young
A published novelist between 1984 and 1996 in North America, the UK, Australasia, Netherlands and Sweden (pen-name Elizabeth Gibson), Lizzie Ballagher now writes poetry rather than fiction. Her work has been featured in a variety of magazines and webzines: Nine Muses, Nitrogen House, the Ekphrastic Review, South-East Walker Magazine, Far East, and Poetry Space.
She lives in southern England, writing a blog at
https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/.
Lizzie Ballagher – Cat Man of Kafr Nabl
Cat Man of Kafr Nabl
Photo Credits:
(above) – GenArt via Pixabay
cat on steps – christels via Pixabay
pair – umaraziz24 via Pixabay
Leonhard_Niederwimmer via Pixabay
Syria bombed – Karabo_Spain via Pixabay
(below) – dimitrisvetsikas1969
Cats crouch in corners,
or follow, weaving
round your legs in terror when
you duck across the street….
Bombs, rockets pound your walls,
shatter dreams to cinders, turn all
to dust: bloodless, without hope.
When shells burst,
Kafr Nabl shakes:
streets are streaked with tabbies,
the once creamy-coated,
with ginger toms & tiger stripes,
cadaverous silver cats famished,
tarnished in the smut of war.
At night cats’ eyes blink green
as shock-waves of artillery
& mewling, yowling cries
drench sudden air.
Careless death descends
in fiery embers,
incandescent shrapnel. War slams
life’s voices shut. Cats have not
asked for conflict, or for pity.
But you will feed them milk, noodles, lentils—
whatever you can scavenge, prowling,
running on all fours between basements,
now a cat yourself, your shadow streaked
as theirs: your soul furred with suffering.
Your breastbone shifts in pity.
In this barrage-wrecked town,
your arms will cradle them against
the crump & leap of your own heart.
Purring, they will comfort you…
although their needle teeth, their claws
are as much a match for missiles
as your broken fingernails.
Lizzie Ballagher
We would like to dedicate this theme to Kevin Barrett who was a long time member of Winchester Muse and fine poet.
Kevin Barrett was born in Winchester where he was very active on the local poetry scene. He studied with the Open University, obtaining an honours degree in humanities and literature. He won the Orbis International Journal’s Readers Award and his poem “Winter Solstice” was Hampshire County Council’s poem of the day. He was published in several journals and anthologies and his pamphlet I Died in Hell. (They Call it Passchendale) and his first collection were published in 2017. Kevin will be remembered for his powerful war poetry.
Here is a link to Kevin’s wonderful poem, The Trees. Scroll down to read another of Kevin’s poems ‘Wounded in Action’.
Kevin Barrett – Wounded in Action
Wounded in Action
K.J. Barrett
First published in 2024 by the Open University in Openings 41.
If you would like to submit, read on.
Our theme for Spring 2025 is War & Peace.
All Imperial War Museum Images: © Crown copyright reproduced under delegated authority from The Keeper of Public Records.
THE INDIAN LABOUR CORPS ON THE WESTERN FRONT 1916-1918 Indian troops burning charcoal in the Forest of Brotonne, 22 January 1918. Copyright: © IWM. Original Source: http://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205244349
Image Permission: IWM (Q 8495)
Submission Guidelines
Please send up to 4 poems as a single Word document attachment (with your name at the start of the attachment’s name) to submit@wordsforthewild.co.uk. Poems should be a maximum of 40 lines.
Please send up to 2 stories as a single Word document attachment (with your name at the start of the attachment’s name) to submit@wordsforthewild.co.uk. Stories should be a maximum of around 2,000 words.
Use WAR & PEACE as the subject of your email.
Closing date for the theme will be 30th May. Please bear with us if you experience a delay in our response to your submission.
WAR DOGS DURING THE FIRST WORLD WAR, WESTERN FRONT, 1918 A group of dog handlers stand with their dogs at the British Army kennels near Etaples, 20 April 1918. The rows of kennels can be seen behind them. Copyright: © IWM. Original Source: http://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205213159
Image Permission: IWM (Q 29549)
AUSTRALIAN FORCES IN THE MIDDLE EAST A Squadron, 9th Australian Light Horse Regiment encamped in the Jordan Valley near Jericho, 17 August 1918. Fighting as mounted infantry, the men of the Light Horse were mostly bushmen used to handling horses and rifles, and they could tolerate the summer heat of Palestine. Copyright: © IWM. Original Source: http://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205213127
Image Permission : IWM (E(AUS)5559)
We are happy to take previously published work. If you would like to submit, please send up to four poems or up to two short stories in a word document to: submit@wordsforthewild.co.uk with your name in the attachment’s name. We look forward to going wherever you take us.
Other image credits:
Wild Flowers: Louise
Sun and Moon Bru_nO via Pixabay
Pony Trap – Susannah in Russia 1917: Amanda
Horse’s Eye: Pezibear Pixabay
War & Peace
In memory of Kevin Barrett
Our theme for Spring 2025 is War & Peace.
We hardly need an introduction to this theme; War seems to be all around us in one form or another. Peace, less so.
Perhaps a few concepts might be worth considering.
By definition, War is characterised by widespread violence, destruction and mortality. Peace may be defined as an absence or cessation of hostilities.
The natural world is always impacted.
It’s a huge theme with a vast array of associated emotions but consider your focus. It might be more powerful to tone down the rhetoric, focus on minutiae or perhaps not. You might choose to explore either War or Peace or both. Perhaps it is worth repeating, remember how the natural world is impacted.
