Gatwick Airport, by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

Peeled eyes, scan cold, getaway, winter skies
Families pulled back home by love or hope or duty
Tired travellers search out airmiles’ rich rewards
Harsh terminal conditions for earth and her children

Families pulled back home by love or hope or duty
Right to roam versus communal responsibility
Harsh terminal conditions for earth and her children
Deathbed calls cross oceans, vital ice melts

Right to roam versus communal responsibility
You me him her us they we, now and still to come
Deathbed calls cross oceans, vital ice melts
Drones ground planes, curses vie with blessings

You me him her us they we, now and still to come
Tired travellers search out airmiles’ rich rewards
Drones ground planes, curses vie with blessings
Peeled eyes, scan the getaway winter skies          

Advertisements

Silence Over, by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

It is hard to find spaces to speak my words
in your meetings, courts and parliaments.
Yet I am neither more nor less than you
..
I open my mouth, you brand my female voice
demanding, brash, inconsequential
Yet I am neither more nor less than you
..
Your loud voices deign to speak for me
and still you state I take up too much time
Yet I am neither more nor less than you
..
You present my wisdom as your own
without respect or attribution
Yet I am neither more nor less than you
..
I incubate courage with my sisters
we stride into rooms hatch our presence into life
You see, we are neither weak, small nor silent

The Horrified Poet, by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

she hollows out

her creative verve once floated words
voiced waves to lap on others’ shores
messages bottled
with love’s desire to reach and know

now her vigour     leaks     away
passes through membranes
by osmosis
into the fouled fetid alt-right sea

she/fears/she/will/be/swallowed
alive              and silenced

to death

in shock
a jolt
a sudden surge of fury

her emptiness is not complete
currents build beyond herself
and sweep her clear
of weakness

she will join
with sisters and brothers

clean swathes of forest air and ocean waters
where all might breathe and swim

s/he   they   will break away      from apathy

like new-born Amazons defeat the spawn
of Bolsonaro, Trump and all their Klu Klux kin

Warming, by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

They say a storm is building,
thunder and lightning, a downpour,
the whole works. Bring it on, please.
 ..
Everyone waits, people pace
around the floor and sweat. Eyes sting,
search for clouds that don’t appear.
Weeks of heat bring out quirks
in staid and steady folk. Hidden
tendencies revealed, misanthropic
words mis-spoke. Lovers quarrel,
rent asunder by stickiness and lack of air.
..
Damp sheets tangle, cling, wrapped
round writhing bodies. Daytime workers
unable to sleep. Frantic. Each night,
bare bottoms bitten by flying insects
whining in through flung wide-open windows.
 ..
A storm is building, so they said,
five years ago. Today, the ground’s too hard
to care, to live, or bury our miscarried dead.

Post-Truth by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

found poem from https://blog.oxforddictionaries.com/2016/11/16/word-of-the-year-2016-shortlist/

Adulting the hours away,
getting the show on the road,
trying to recreate hygge
in my own home. I avert my eyes
from the talking heads on TV;
coulrophobia was always my weakness.
Now I’m justified, clowns juggle
alt-right balls, for the cruel
amusement of the deluded masses.

I thought I was doing well, scaling
the glass cliff, not looking down.
Latinx-looking and female,
the Brexiteers are gunning for me.
I’d expected vertigo but not
bullets. Maybe a chatbot, programed
insurgent, could realign our forces and
being woke shake out our damned
trances, to fight for a new day, post haste.

When all about you by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

 after Rudyard Kipling

 

are blaming you

trust yourself

make allowance.

 

And, if you speak,

talk wise words,

make dreams

of your own truths

learnt from the things

you gave your life to build.

 

You can pitch and toss

in stormy waters and

breathe when you are so weary

and there is nothing in you

except your hurt and longing

for a better world.

 

You can fill the earth

with eggs of hope

incubated in secret places,

watch them hatch under strong wings

in nests built by your sisters and brothers.

 

And you’ll die knowing good goes on.

Manchester and Aleppo by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

These days, all I ever do is stare,

knowing can collapse in on itself,

but it can also save lives

as time passes.

 

My mind in my body, a whole,

an integer.

It neither stands wholly apart

nor disappears,

before death at least.

 

Grief drags us down

and dire conditions maintain,

so many systems are useless.

 

Back to basics now: kindness,

those things or moments

they last well. Thoughts added on,

the pieces true, yielding love,

a reminder of another real life.

Rainbows Unbounded by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

(after Langston Hughes, I, too, am America)

You are pale, you are dark,

You are coloured in-between.

You are man, you are woman

You are proudly gender fluid.

You are gay, you are hetero,

You are bi, you are asexual.

You, too, are America.

 

You praise gods, you are agnostic,

You are new age, you are orthodox.

You are Asian or Mongolian,

You are African or Caucasian.

You are Latina or Latino,

You are Japanese, from Reno.

You, too, are America.

 

You are city folk or farmers,

You rated Bush or Obama.

You voted red or voted blue,

You like the old or like the new.

You love the South or love the North,

You wondered what DT was worth.

You, too, are America.

 

You are old, you are young,

You are healthy, you are ailing.

You read, you watch TV,

You are wise, you are flaky.

You are weak, you are strong,

You are right, you are wrong.

You, too, are America.

 

You are none of these,

You are yourself.

You are all of these,

That is your wealth.

Are you America?

Forward Footsteps by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

woman in front of me stumbled

child by my side fell

old man from behind stopped to help us

icy rain soaked us to the bone

we stood and slithered on

mud squelched into our shoes

fog stung our eyes and lungs

day became night creatures

stealthy red-mawed

left woodlands to hunt

our column of dozens nay scores

in flight from the last days of collapsed hopes

evil flayed into visceral swamps

a human river silted and creeping

easy flesh for predators

flash green orbs white teeth

saliva drooled dawdled towards dinner

 

ruby girl daughtered from strong mothers

saw the tower first

knew at once chance offered solace

she swerved and waved

exhausted spent we followed

through needle-eye door to sanctuary

 

once inside portal closed stairs rose to rooms

up and up – up and up

safe against dark denizens

hard labour haven hay lined

cossetted a new born bairn

love coaxed back to tribes of Judah, Islam and

those of no religion too

happy to hail humanity and start again

final chance risk all for peace not war

Histories by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

And the tale is told around winter fires
of the Desolate Time when the day of the antichrist dawned.
The demon tramped towards his throne
greedy for ice cold ingots and adoration from the masses.
And there was no Christ to convert him to gentleness
and God was dead – if He had ever lived.
 ..
Toxic trumps turned clean air fetid
and noxious fumes hung trapped in vile inversion layers.
This topsy-turvy world saw violence thrive
and human virtue scorned and suffocated.
Cocks pressed against non-consenting thighs and
hungry mouths gaped unfed in war zones.
 ..
In quiet corners women men children
bewildered scared asked, ‘How did these things come to pass?’
each heart each mind had only wanted to survive.
The Demon King heard whispers of dissent and
ego-wounded he raged, cruel-minded
he banished free-thought free-will and every art.
 ..
In the hush of mid-winter warmed by firelight
storytellers say the King was mad man-god or man-made god
empowered by desperation from lives ruined emptied
by self-satisfied well-heeled blesséd ones.
Against the tide small flames gathered
in human hearts and hands grasped other hands.
 ..
Secret signs of love and care were shared
away from storm-trumping eyes. Behind closed doors songs were sung,
poems recited and clean notes plucked from ukulele strings.
Common cauldrons heavy with hot sustaining food
were carried to tables where neighbours gathered together
disregarding their many differences.
 ..
When his Highness arrested at last
aided some say by hemlock few tears were shed save of relief.
Wisdom over-wintered in the darkness
led the hearts of those who had survived.
Lest we forget lest we forget
 we are our sisters’ brothers’ keepers.

My Migration by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

So many goodbyes.

 

The last kiss on my grandmother’s brow.

Her sad eyes blessed, then cast me out.

 

In a private garden at the desert’s edge,

his sanctuary. I held him close in

tomorrow’s empty, aching arms.

The pressure of his skin on mine,

my oasis, memorised ’til death.

The fountain cried our tears

when we could not.

 

My mother’s grave,

fixed forever in my heart.

The place I’d come to talk and play

since my seventh year.

Now, she didn’t answer back.

 

My father’s tortured outrage

spilt words blood-red.

His pain to lose a son already lost to him;

schooled as he is by creeds

that name his queer boy damned.

 

My college friend, the only one

who knew the truth at first; that is,

other than my love. My friend

who told me,

‘Go’.

Gave good counsel, made me

see sense. To live, I had to leave.

 

My little sister, not so little now,

she raged,

‘How dare you leave me here?’

At a loss, I turned to face the wall.

Her mask of hate, incandescent,

veiled a love I could not bear.

 

On the plane, air borne at last,

I watch my country shrink below:

Toy-town cities, mountains,

rivers and ravines, home of my heart.

Goodbye, goodbye.

 

My tears flow bitter brine for its

callous confines, the breadth and depth

it simply does not have.

So hard to say, to see,

my land, it has no space for me.

Trump Again by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

Trumped by his own trumpery,
this ghastly gargoyle
who fronts ferocious fantasies,
decomposes dramatically
before our very eyes.
 
Beware triumphalism, sweet
relief or even boredom;
Trump came, obscene, but
not alone for all his grandiosity.
Watch the waters
for the hideous wave that breaks
and hurls
a new Satan to the shore
to haunt America’s
poor, her women and her people
of difference.
The new nuclear option
in this benighted, first-world
catastrophe.
..

Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon. Writing has always been important to Ceinwen as a private pursuit. Over the last few years she has started to write with a view to communicating with others. Her work is mainly short fiction and free verse poetry, although she is experimenting with different forms. She has had stories published on the Fiction on the Web and Literally Stories curated short story websites, and in Alliterati, Newcastle University’s literature and art magazine. Her Poems have been published in Poems to Survive In (Fat Damsel), Writers Against Prejudice (editor Marie Lightman) and In between Hangovers. Eventually, she hopes to facilitate creating writing projects with hard to reach groups. She is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University.

They Think They Know Me by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

They think they know me, but they don’t.
They think they see me, but they don’t.

With shred-shroud eyes
my mind turns inward.
Listen: blood? Blood surges life’s
streams scarlet. Blood, the
sole reason I survive.

Is that so? It wasn’t always.
Once, family circled me.
Full cups, sweetmeats,
hands to hold,
giggles bubble-blown with kisses,
hugs night-tight to sleep,
dreams to dance to kisses
on my cheeks and forehead.
Rainbow feelings, sky-arched:
happy, sad, lively, tired,
cross and kind.

I was known then, I was seen.

Once-upon-a-time was left
behind; war storm-trooped
to now as footsteps pounded
hell’s bombastic tune out loud.
Acrid dust fell, choked lungs,
stung eyes to blindness
and displaced my tribe.
Homes
shattered
crushed bones in cellars,
fragile shelters of indifferent strength.

A man came, tugged hard,
‘To the sea shore’, he said. The day
before, my mother
left a hole in the tarmac,
my
sister
shrivelled
away in her arms.

The sea rocked on and on,
high and low.
The swell forced cries of silence
from my belly ache and
dead-empty rage seared in flares
to scorch earth’s core to death.

At last, up-ended by waves,
the boat
tipped me away.
Brine calmed sour fear,
I was end-prepared,
shriven by loss at last.

Save our souls, save our souls
and curse the saviour.

Hairy, tattooed arms plucked me
as the ocean yielded.
No escape, no peace,
And so, no end.
His words, veiled in runic breaths,
guttural sounds, commanded, ‘Live’.
His face sheened with smiles told me,
‘Your luck’s in today, thank God.’
But it was not and I could not.

They think they know me, but they don’t.
They think they see me but they don’t.

..

Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon
Writing has always been important to Ceinwen as a private pursuit. Over the last few years she has started to write with a view to communicating with others. Her work is mainly short fiction and free verse poetry, although she is experimenting with different forms. She has had stories published on the Fiction on the Web and Literally Stories curated short story websites, and in Alliterati, Newcastle University’s literature and art magazine. Her Poems have been published in Poems to Survive In (Fat Damsel), Writers Against Prejudice (editor Marie Lightman) and In between Hangovers. Eventually, she hopes to facilitate creating writing projects with hard to reach groups. She is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University.