Driven by long-burning feelings of guilt, I finally surrendered to the inevitable and volunteered to do the blog. But what to do? What could I possibly put here?

I decided it was time to lay out some reflections from a not-terribly-new-anymore member of VRWG, and consider what the group means to me and how it’s affected my approach to writing. I’m not sure how long I’ve been a member, but I dimly recall two summer parties and (through the alcohol fog) two Christmas binges. Long enough, then, to be trusted with the sacred duties attendant on being the Hot Drinks Monitor™, but not long enough to have penetrated all the group’s mysteries (such as how Bob remembers everybody’s name, or how Bill never gets a round in despite having access to the VRWG riches).

I have always been a writer for as long as I can remember, but before joining…

Picaroon is back, with our last issue of 2018 – but don’t be sad. There will be a bit of a break, but we get back to our normal bi-monthly schedule in January. Also: we are now OPEN for submissions after our summer break, so please check our guidelines and send us your best rogue poems.

28 cows in a field
in which 1 of the cows has contracted
multiple cell dysfunction order.

Like what can happen in a failed experiment.

Like what can happen to anything
caught on the sticky peripheries
of a spider web.

Like what can happen in a disconnected blender
that comes alive while your fingers are still inside
trying to clean away the unwanted pulp
from its rotors.

Or when you run your finger hard
over a cracked mirror
above an old milk bottle;
the hordes of bacteria having gathered
at the summit of the congealed shoulder-blade-shape of what’s left
charging, blood-stained now
up and down the shallows of the host’s spinal fluid,
the network of significant afterthoughts
and hindsights,
confused as a rat in an upturned bucket.

The signs of this cellular dysfunction are:
a little blood appearing at the nostrils
on a warm August evening
while watching paint dry,

Fifty of contemporary poetry’s most exciting voices speak out about mental health in this groundbreaking anthology. Edited by Amy Acre and Jake Wild Hall. Foreword by Melissa Lee-Houghton. Supported by Arts Council England.

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Discounted copies available at our upcoming launch events.

Featuring work from Amy Acre, Raymond Antrobus, Mona Arshi, Dean Atta, Joel Auterson, Rob Auton, Dominic Berry, Mary Jean Chan, Sean Colletti, Iris Colomb, Jasmine Cooray, Dizraeli, Caleb Femi, Maria Ferguson, Kat François, Anne Gill, Salena Godden, Jackie Hagan, Jake Wild Hall, Emily Harrison, Nicki Heinen, Gabriel Jones, Anna Kahn, Malaika Kegode, Luke Kennard, Sean Wai Keung, Cecilia Knapp, Melissa Lee-Houghton, Amy León, Fran Lock, Rachel Long, Roddy Lumsden, Katie Metcalfe, Rachel Nwokoro, Kathryn O’Driscoll, Gboyega Odubanjo, Jolade Olusanya, Abi Palmer, Bobby Parker, Deanna Rodger, C.E. Shue, Lemn Sissay MBE, Ruth Sutoyé, Rebecca Tamás, Joelle Taylor, Claire Trévien, David Turner, R A Villanueva, Byron Vincent, Pascal Vine…

I like to keep an eye out for new poetry magazines.  Not only is it interesting to see what sort of writing the editors favour, I’m also keen to see how the magazines are physically put together; what shape and format they take, the artwork and print quality and style, the type of materials used.  The response times for many of the established journals is quite lengthy and so it is also refreshing to receive a quicker response. At launches I’ve attended recently there has been a great buzz with enthusiastic editors, organisers and poets attending. Funds permitting (they do not) I would subscribe to several of the new small magazines that have come out in the last year or so.  Some of my favourites are the Leeds based Strix magazine,  wonderful East Anglian based Fenland Reed     and the unique hand-sown Coast to Coast to Coast produced by…

This competition raises money for Nourish Food Bank. The winning poem, by public vote, has £50 sent to Nourish in the poet’s name. Voting is by “likes” and ends 12th July 2018.
The Worker

She left home at six without breakfast
took the bus to her first client
washed him, served him bread & butter,
tea and ensured he was safe before she left.

For six hours she knocked at new doors
helping those who depended on her
as she drank water to keep going,
she was the only person to care

until her shift was over. She stopped
at the dark door to collect a box
of donated food, with a short shelf life,
from a stranger in a Food Bank jacket.

I drove home from the meeting

Through a late evening sunset,

Blush pink in a sea of orange

That merged into that special

Clear blue of a hot summer nights’ sky

And thought of you,

Flitting through your garden

Touching this and that bloom

With a gentle caress of your hand.

You were not there tonight,

As we met and shared words

That tumbled and jostled

And vied for attention.

We will never hear again

That coy well enunciated brilliance

That you conjured up,

Well defined and honed

By your imagination.

You were not there, and yet

You will always be there

In step with us

Encouraging and urging us

Towards a higher level.

As you tripped through your garden,

You will tiptoe through our minds

Call us to book, and we

Will try just that little bit harder

To emulate that magic that was

Truly yours.