NEW POEMS
Portsmouth Poetry is dedicated to the power of the word in all its forms. We love to publish new work, confining this to poems and poets we truly admire
New Poems by Rowen Brittany
Rowen is a remarkable poet from South Wales
She is one of six poets who featured in print for the first time in our 2022 anthology Ecstasy & Grief a collection of work by 15 poets from the UK, USA and Canada
We first encountered Rowen at the Laugharne Weekend in 2021. The Laugharne Weekend is a three-day festival of literature, music and comedy in the Carmarthenshire town where Dylan Thomas is buried
Ecstasy & Grief published by Away With Words Press 2022
We published her poetry a few months later and included her in our first publication an anthology 'Ecstasy & Grief'
Rowen Brittany signing copies of Ecstasy & Grief
The UK's best arts secret, The Laugharne Weekend takes place annually toward the end of March. Details on Facebook
Rowen opening for Brian Bilston, PortsFest 2023
We are delighted to publish some recent new work by this talented poet
POEMS
1
i think your breathings
got better in your sleep
since ive known you
maybe its skin to skin contact
like our membranes knew each other
before we did
and you aren’t gasping irregularly
like ghostly yearns
for something you haven’t had
and stayed in purgatory for
2
ten signs hes into you
nine ways to feel secure in your insecure man
eight ways to play hard to get
seven oral sex tips to suck his soul
six ways to dim your shine
five songs to forget about him
four ways to stop limerence
three spells to cast, period blood spaghetti recipe
and rituals you've become delusional enough to do
two tarot readings you will ignore because its not in your favour
one day to remember the warning signs
that
if this was stable
you'd have zero searches desperately scouring
reddit
for a sorrowful situation similar
to your own
3 “home again home again”
the creak your right foot makes
on the fourth step from the top
of your childhood home
the cupboard that doesn’t close
properly
your mam staying off work when you
was ill to watch jerry springer
and skips
and spaghetti hoops
and capsol, Lucozade cold flannels
duvets on sofas and
then
all of a sudden
you’re 30 years old and
you avoid the creak on the fourth
step from the top
(even tho you aren’t sneaking in
anymore)
and you sit in countryside silence
surrounded by
the four walls of your childhood
room
and its nice forra bit
til you remember
they remember
what you tried to forget
4
all the schoolboys with backpacks running home for 8pm tea time see growing heights growing fears of the discourse around them and their peers too young for the context but already too stoic to stop and listen to nuance just instagramming nike show boxes and who wants to snapchat and back talk n share idols in cell blocks and crypto stocks and the manisphere got em ere its shame they'll go listen to mammy to be home for tea but'll still listen to tate and agree
5
ive always thought about what the last few seconds would bring, as me and all your grandchildren take turns sitting beside your bed in your room, with gold mining ornaments, whiskey glasses and that hospital smell. i put my head on your chest an could feel that thin membrane, i sipped your liquid oramorph to selfishly ease my pain. between frail heartbeats and whispy rough breaths, i put my hand through your hair, still so soft like snow with your contrasting olive skin. i remember foot rubs and sitting between your knees, face boiling from the fireplace not wanting to leave. but now its time. i life my head from your chest and regretfully go. knowing the next time i open that door
you'll be gone.
“Rowen Brittany doesn’t pull many punches – offering up a modern, candid take on everything from society and abuse to the arts and gentrification…some fresh perspective from this up-and-coming Welsh poet.”
Kate Alsbury
June 2024
Review of Ecstasy & Grief
Jalmurra USA
https://jalmurra.wordpress.com
"Rowen's a terrific poet... there's so much life and energy to her poetry"
Brian Bilston
[The poet laureate of social media]
www.brianbilston.com
REVIEW
I have selected 8 recent poems which evidence Rowen's talent, the unique identity of her work, and the breadth of topics it commands - from love and its insecurities, misogyny, to family and loss. [There is much more - check out her Intagram posts at wedi_blin0] Portsmouth Poetry is not a literary magazine. I don’t feel I have to publish stuff and that gives me the freedom to only publish poems or review the work of people I really rate and admire. And I'm not alone - Rowen's admirers include Luke Wright, Brian Bilston, Oliver James Lomax and Carys Eleri. It’s an incredible position to be in because we only post work we think is on the ‘fucking brilliant’ end of the spectrum! So, bear that in mind.
Rowen's poetry is concise and stripped back, there's nothing superfluous or not relevant to the subject of the poem. She structures her poems in a way that can leave the reader reeling from the impact and power of what she has to say and meaningful and valuable, never too introspective and self-absorbed. She is truly a spirited talent in an over-subscribed universe!
Josh Brown
Portsmouth Poetry
6 Llangennech
breath out of the mouths of babies and spilled on the side of the main road we'd been hidden by the bridge under dog walkers noses sometimes theyre right to go outside breath in the pollen and pollution and run your fingers through blades of grass and see the leaves shake in the wind and watch the water glitter. sometimes theyre right its good to remember that there is life all around despite all the death and lobes develop and people change sometimes for the better. sometimes for worse. and to accept distance comes with age is hard to know theres more to life than staring at unopened texts from a friendship you struggled to maintain so you incinerate the nostalgia you crave cos theres guilt in living and shame in carrying on and every step casts a shadow of someone you once were stagnant stationary or not evergreen everflowing or not you're the lucky ones even if you're not
7
im sorry i tried and im sorry, i tried my heart could never be yours cos i got too good at hiding all those tell tale sgns.
i lay silent in your bed when you'd stir and worry cos my thoughts raced so loud i swore you could hear them revving in your sleep and be able to understand them before me
i picked at my lungs, got splinters from the bones and stuffed my soul inside it wasn't predetermined each movement - a surprise to both our detriments to both our prides
i didn't lie for fun nor did i accept it as untruth a brand new day would come soaked in a big brown bottle of booze but the sound of your soul was tap tap tapping all over my mind haunting me and quite rightly so revealing my disguise.
im sorry i tried im sorry, i tried.
8
im tryna let my guard down to feel free and light and let my wings steer me to the stars. but i am so heavy and so exhausted and my bones are old and weighed and they drag my chin down, they pull the corners of my smile and tug on my arms.
the little girl in me peers out now and again, she's silly and confident and full of wonder, i snatch her away after a moment, cos her skins thin and she expects to be critiqued, so with a rude comment or silent treatment i avoid her needs so she can't be hurt, i don't wanna ruin it for her again. stuck between being polite and being a nuisance. between fondly thinking of first puppy love i skipped out on and regretting my missed chances.
im so sorry little one, i fawned for intensity when you needed surface level and in that slight blame im reminded of the shame thwarted on me. im sorry but im not, cos i was you and i have felt everything you have and then some.
Koke
First Days
She’s not quite ready to let go.
She holds on tighter, squeezes.
And now she’s here– And now she’s there;
Caught between the present and the next.
The others play their little games,
They speak of someone named Simon,
And speak of all he has to say.
She raises her head– looks up into familiar eyes.
‘Go on,’ her mother smiles,
‘I’ll see you later.’
She’s not quite ready to let go.
She holds on tighter, squeezes.
And now she’s there– And now she’s here;
Caught between the present and the next.
Things are different this time.
Simon’s gone, and no one’s playing.
They stand in groups, apart from her.
She turns her head– meets familiar eyes.
‘Go on now,’ her mother says,
‘Wouldn’t want to be late.’
She’s not quite ready to let go.
But she’s lived this day before.
Though, instead of kindergarten games
Or high school cliques,
She’s met with something greater.
Some hands her a flyer:
‘Vote Simon for President of the SU’.
She turns her head– looks down into familiar eyes.
‘Go on,’ her mother urges,
‘It’s only kindergarten.’
University of Portsmouth
PRIZE FOR LITERATURE 2025
Portsmouth Poetry was honoured to announce the winners of the University of Portsmouth Prize for Literature 2025 this year given to a poem.
The entries were judged by local poet Tessa Foley and the winner. runner up and two commended entries were given copies of Tessa's poetry and our anthology 'Ecstasy & Grief'
Writing as Koke, the winning poem charmingly recalls the aprehension of a new start in life combining the first day at university with the memory of her first day at nursery school. It is a sensitive and tender poem about life, new starts and love.
Oliver James Lomax
Oliver is a brilliant Manchester-based poet we have been delighted to publish in the past and one of the 15 poets in our debut publication 'Ecstasy & Grief'
The Fox At Cwmdonkin Drive
for Jeff Towns
To think he was Hughes’s Fox would be to confuse this eczema as stigmata. God knows how a stone holds nothing of us in its interior, but some days I need a belief beyond belief, and there you came like fleeting rain, all rust and blood through the rhetoric dawn, not a burning as such but a Rothko blurdom in the low ambered mist, vibrating, ciphered fear, with that pure sacred stare of Gordie Lachance’s Deer. And I recognised that fear, I mean when you are walking around but aren’t really here, and you taught me how to disappear, as your edges became m y edges in the still dark of the morning, lonely as a payphone and carrying this grief like quicksilver, we cocked one eye towards eternity and saw the constellations as an armada of travelling poems, but nothing happened, there was nothing going, as you slowly distilled to this golden inch of the last drink in a blue-collar tavern in Lower Manhattan where we might have toasted all the poets we never even knew existed. My fox will bring his hunger back to Dylan’s garden tomorrow for no witness.
Notes-5 Cwmdonkin Drive is the house in Swansea where Dylan Thomas was born and wrote many of his early poems. It is now restored to its orginal state as it would have been when Thomas lived there and is open to the public [www.dylanthomasbirthplace.com]. Jeff Towns (aka 'the Dylan Thomas guy') is an antiquarian bookseller and expert on the poet and a mentor to the early career of Oliver James Lomax
5 New poems by
Tom Pennacchini
Tom is an actor and self-professed flaneur poet from New York City
Tom is one of the 15 poets in our debut publication 'Ecstasy & Grief' available from Away With Words Press £9.50 +pp
World Traveller
Sitting by the window (they need washing but what the hell) in my room I am armed proper on the peripheral my books radio headset (tune the music in the people out) the sky on the gaze out my thoughts accompanied by the aforementioned lavishments digging on the deep dug in with a breath and a sigh I am ready to go man go
us patterns
starting relative pure bread then becoming honed to it (thanks fam/school/friends!.. a lip smacking steady progression of ruination)
they oft define and at times dissipate disquiet mold shape and perform/play/us
are we our own or our relegated patterns
becoming us and us them patterned upon our patterns floundering from the raw plug-in to an idiot disjoint there’s no zig nor zag just plod-pattern habituating along-clomp-klump-thunk-thunk we cannot truly self reflect our media’s too saturated by socialization
may we aspire to divine ability renewing the source from inside
why the must to rely on the screened stoned hypnotic and not just our own very own accordance duly fleshed
for now a cheeseburger with green soup feels right
patterns destabilized debilitized by patterns
the golden retriever’s patterns beautify our own lacking, lack diminished on lack mandatory fright in perpetual demand
finally hello welcome to our nightmare moving with the motion in flow or detained in sickness live free, breathe or gaggle and gurgle on the stranglehold professor braid dangles one out there to wit: cease procreation until workable and an acceptance of joyous due diligence
the noticer’s have it filling time drains and swallows
Fone head hast thou any thoughts on treetops (boy prof braid sure likes to talk) ahhh leave me swigging twilight fresh flee you’re political inducing wince
shifting light, day’s descension acquisition's acquired consumed and discarded
passed past and over to beginning at begun
Punch-Out the Air
I read some stuff in a book featuring working class themes scribbled by working class folks (how many of them go on to be profs is always bewildering) the tome has got songs poems and short fiction and I like it and find it a refreshing changeup from all the academic type scrawling that’s out there (you galoots know who you are) some of the pomes are real direct and vivid and they describe the scribes sooty hometowns and grittified families.
It occurs to me that they are asserting a pride here. A pride of place and people and it occurs to me I never had it any of that.
Here in the twenty first the word and the we go it alone, your navel your own for wallowing - no subscription necessary and who the fuck needs that kind of friend. But hell here it is.
Beware the time clock. It hits back and remains undefeated.
Prognosis of a Clown
My eyes are
Dimming
My days are dimming
My I is dimming
What is the point in fret?
So much fear in life and so little
life in life
Why all this
shudder and drang?
Hell who are we
(we are hell)
Suckle the factual
We must all
Like the summer
End
A Radiant Interlude
His appearance would in former times have been described as dandy vested with a finely clothed tweed cap despite the heated day and I was struck by the light that emanated from him as he slowly moseyed along clearly wanting to engage and wishing one and all to have a "beautiful day" I decided to make today one of good worth and so I stopped and bade him likewise
he was clearly pleased (I could tell by the beam beaming off him) and he repeated it back to me and I did and he did - it went back and forth
Our parting was a reluctant one but leaving I felt a sincere appreciation for the way of his way and proceeded to step lightly thusly - while being aware and mindful of my breathing - feeling likewise for some of the remainder of the days time and wondering why we all don't aspire to take the time to realize the simple sentiment this evolved soul embodied
In tribute to the gent and before the inevitable dispersal of the vibe I decided that tonight I would light a candle, seize the flicker - let it shine, feel good for the duration and take him up on his tender exhortation
Yeah
copyright Tom Pennacchini [AWW/PP can seek permission from the author]
Peter Thabit Jones
Swansea based Peter Thabit Jones is an award winning poet, dramatist and writer-in-residence in Big Sur California. He is editor of the bi-annual Seventh Quarry Poetry magazine. In addition to many collections of poetry, he has written opera librettos and two plays based on the life and work of Dylan Thomas
IVOR GURNEY IN BARNWOOD HOUSE ASYLUM, GLOUCESTER
Cruel madness fabricated The puzzle of your days, And strange voices climbed The high walls of your nights.
The ghosts of your friends Looked on in despair, As you stared through the prison Of your mind’s illusions.
Your brother betrayed you, Left you in a place of broken People. The screams from their souls Like an erratic melody.
Did the sky of your room Hold thin clouds of memories Of walks through Gloucestershire, The woods and the hills far beyond?
Your past poetry and past music Could not appease the wounds Of your straying thoughts, Heal your heart in the tangled hours.
A confused doppelganger Had descended, and claimed The person who once was you. Fear and shame gripped the moments.
All seemed to autumn In your head. Common sense Rusted in the rain of daytime Nightmares. Reality decayed
In the sentences you said, In the letters you scribbled. You longed for suicide, Longed for a release
From the imagined them, The invasion of those Constantly insulting you, Bullying the silences.
You had been in the trenches Of the First World War, a soldier Alongside your fellow comrades. Now in the confined torment
Of the bleak asylum, You faced the stark truth Like a reflection in a mirror, That the enemy was now you,
That the terrible battle Would be to salvage your life, To regain the leftovers Of your retreating sanity.
Note: Ivor Gurney (1890-1937) was an English poet and composer, particularly of songs. He was born and raised in Gloucester. He suffered from manic depression through much of his life and spent his last 15 years in psychiatric hospitals
WRITTEN ON A VISIT TO TINTERN ABBEY (ON THE WELSH BANK OF THE RIVER WYE)
I stand in these ancient ruins,
As I recall reading your famed
Poem when I was a young man,
As the surrounding treed hills
Smoke away leftovers of mist,
As the River Wye moves slowly
In the metre of its freedom
And drizzling rain greys the drab
August day. A poet, I wonder
What you would think now
Of the ongoing decline
Of mankind’s spirituality, it’s need
For materialism, crude and quick,
For instant money, and our blatant
Abuse of Mother Nature. I stroll
Around the towering Abbey,
A skeleton of devotion and worship,
The retreat of monks in their servitude
To their God. Other visitors talk
In respectful whispers. I’m not
Religious, but I could offer
Up a prayer for my fellow humans
That we learn, before it is too late,
To embrace and to enjoy
The sacred moments of life,
The rich depths of silence,
The lush of greenness soothing
The eyes, the vast and beautiful
Tapestry of creation, the free credit
Of a stranger’s sudden smile: and
To treasure and protect this world
For the coming generations.
Note: William Wordsworth wrote his famous poem Lines Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13, 1798 whilst visiting the area.
© 2024 Peter Thabit Jones
Phil Knight
Phil is a widely published poet from Neath Port Talbot and leading member of
Neath Poetry and Spoken Word
Snow Haiku
The falling snow shines
Under the bright white streetlight
And night becomes day.
Snow carpets the road
No grit, so now no traffic
And silence can sing.
You just add some snow
And the world turns Christmas card,
It's picture perfect.
Ice cold winter day
There's fresh paw prints in the snow.
Cat seeks hot tin roof.
WORTHY AND UNWORTHY VICITIMS
"Rulers divide the world into worthy and unworthy victims, those we are allowed to pity, such as Ukrainians enduring the hell of modern warfare, and those whose suffering is minimized, dismissed, or ignored."
– Chris Hedges
There are worthy victims, and then
there are unworthy victims.
In London, Coventry, blitzed and blackened skies,
each bombed house a tragedy, each name, a lament.
Each victim a cry for justice.
Across the sea, in Dresden’s fire-lit nights,
it was a price worth paying.
The dead numbers in a ledger,
unworthy of tears, anger or outrage.
Ukrainians killed beneath missiles’ roar—
their grief pierces, deserving of vigil and aid.
Politicians queue to offer support,
while arms dealers eye their chequebooks.
Yet Palestinians, under different bombs,
the very same righteous leaders
tell us their suffering is somehow less.
Their cries muted by politics,
their pain is their own fault
because they voted the wrong way.
And even children must pay for the actions
of their government.
Is compassion so rare it must be rationed,
like bread during famine? Should compassion
be measured, weighed, and kept under lock and key?
Until a committee of wise men decides who
can be deemed fit to receive our tears.
Yet, spilled blood knows no borders, no sides.
Are we so brittle, our hearts so small,
that empathy’s gift can be given to some,
while for others, we turn away, and fall silent?
There are no worthy, or unworthy victims.
There are only lives lost, and broken.
And the dead have no country but the grave.
WE ARE ELECTRIC
We are all electric
Plugged into the national grid.
Connection is compulsory.
It is forbidden to forbid
separation from the whole
of the network and its wires.
Our wishes are not our own
and we share collective desires
to be more than the sum
of our disparate parts,
to share even the beating
of our solitary hearts.
Sometimes the current is
direct and then it alternates
any change in output
is felt by all associates.
For we are all electric
linked by invisible threads
and does not matter if
it is real, or only in our heads.
WHERE IS OUR OWAIN?
Wales is a land where the legends grow,
Like the tale of Owain Glyn Dŵr, you know.
The hero who defied English might,
Who then vanished from history's sight.
Some say Owain sleeps in a hidden cave,
Awaiting the hour when Wales he'll save.
But what if the truth's beyond our ken,
A story stranger than any known by men?
Could aliens have abducted our prince?
Please don't shake your head or wince.
Little gray beings in a desperate plight
Could have beamed him up one cold night.
To lead them in a rebellion in outer space
Against the Daleks, the foe of every race.
Brave Glyn Dŵr would have shattered their ranks,
Leading Vulcan warriors and robot tanks.
The thought of Owain on a galactic mission
May sound to you pure science fiction.
It's unbelievable, you say, this wild scheme,
Yet history's full of many an unlikely dream.
King Arthur invading Norway’s shore,
Or Welshmen as Israel's tribes of yore.
They even claim the Welsh set sail,
To discover America, in a recorded tale.
In the land where dragons roam and bards sing,
The lines between truth, myths, and lies are thin.
So let us ponder, with our minds set free,
The wildest paths of possible history.
Even now, Owain Glyn Dŵr, in realms unknown,
Perhaps still fights, but never alone.
And in the legends of Cymru's pride,
His spirit will always endure, far and wide.
Note: For those unacquainted with Welsh history, Owain Glyn Dwr was the C14th military commander who led a 15 year revolt against English rule in Cymry (Wales) and the last native-born Welshman to claim the title Prince of Wales, summon the first Welsh parliament, and build an independent Welsh church. Never captured or killed, he mysteriously disappeared in 1415. He features in Shakespeare's Henry VI
© 2024 Phil Knight