And if you’d have waited,
just another six months,
I know where we’d be.
 
On that boat in Ullswater,
eating gingerbread in Grasmere,
if you’d have waited.
 
Wandering through doors of Wordsworth,
building daisy chains in the graveyard,
that’s where we’d be.
 
Treading the paths of Ambleside,
camping in an undersized tent,
if you’d have waited.
 
Then, your house,
to your bed, each other’s arms,
is where we’d be.
 
And we’d be having the sex,
all you couldn’t wait for.
If you’d have waited,
that’s where we’d be.

About the author:
Holly Bars is a Leeds poet, currently studying MA Creative Writing at the University of Leeds. She has been published in The Moth, Stand, The London Magazine, Ink, Sweat & Tears, and more. Her debut collection, "Dirty", centred on surviving child sexual abuse, is published with Yaffle Press. 

Foreword
This poem is nothing like the one above,
Dear Reader,
I write for you, and me.
Together we share.
In light and in darkness. And the rest.
I will be selfish a moment in that Western sense,
Laying all out my woes to see,
Bless you for reading and let us heal pains through words.
 
A palette of pain I shall lay down, its tale is writ.
As I wake today, crumpled like paper,
do not try to iron me out.
My creases are dark, damp, stale,
something is sour too.
Oh, it is me. What a shame I say to myself.
 
Do not try to ease me with your positivity,
That toxic type, but you mean well. I am guilty too.
We all want to rescue.
You. And you. You, and you. And me.
 
Mild, Severe, Intermittent.
What is your score, RAW I answer,
One – to – ten. Oh, I will not say TEN.
Fear of Judgement, no, no, no,
I learnt that. I learnt my lesson fast.
How may I express myself in this agony? A seven will do.
Do you want pain relief. Oh yes, I do.
 
Deformed, malleable, throbbing, sharpened blades,
You loud thing.
Yet I cannot localise you. You little thug n thief of JOY.
I cancelled two concerts because of you and much more.
OH, much, much, much, MORE. That is a poem on its own account.
 
Wait, test results are in. Cerebral, sterile, stark.
Most of all, potent!
Paper, you are though in reality.
The INK is simply too black.
And RED. Today, tomorrow. the next.
 
Each phrase careful, only to be more careful,
each number with its specific meaning and power,
power over every aspect of my day.
None of it fits though - does it nurse? She has compassion at least.
YOU NEED as Specialist in an area they do not exist. Oh Dear. I speak.
I want to scream aloud.
The DOC shows compassion my way, usually, on their good days.
Which of course helps this craze settle to less of a craze.
Ahhh though, here we go again. OHHHH. OHHHH. And OHHHH.
This should be a song. The song of Meg with a sore leg. The song of Meg with her bad head. The song of Meg with a sore toe, The song of Meg with all but woe.
 
Parameters, definitions, distinctions, guidelines, rules. They keep popping up.
This millimetre, this fat sparing, this blockage, this cell, this adhesion. This bile.
This blood, this heme iron, this transfusion, this infusion, this suture, this calcium score, this d-dimer is too high.
 
This, this, that. this sodium, this potassium, this gas, this acid base, this pulmonary nodule, this heartbeat, this ECG, this ECHO, this lack of oxygen, this gene. OH, and that gene too.
 
This b12, this lack of paper and ink, this DARK INK, and feelings, and too many feelings, and oh this history, this mental illness - is it real or not? Should we see? Who is she? What is her background, is she of wealth, is she poor, is she smart or a nark? Who is her family? Who is she berating us to on her phone? Let us see please. Who is this fine mess? It is ok, I am just me, just do not tick me off today because I can be scathing. Just like you. But I am in PAIN, so watch it. And I am at SEVEN.
 
And there is more, this overload, this foul bowel.
This stuck food, this piece of me,
this gastric issue, this reflux, this migraine, this tissue,
this medicine with its side effects, or advantageous effects,
this blood pressure, is up, is down, is around,
this oxygen level, this low temperature. This high one. This in between state.
This sickness, this malady, this illness, this condition, this fake, this real, this ordeal.
This infection, this antibiotic, this fungal killer, this wart medicine, this anti-acid, this cutterage, this biopsy, this burning of skin, this mole, this growth, this enema, this cream, this drawer full of creams. The pharmacy in my bathroom looks strange.
These asthma meds, these Band-Aids, these antiseptics, these antihistamines, these Panadol, these Maxalon, this ibuprofen, these vitamins, these burn creams. These skin barrier lotions, this chemo cream, this laxative, these fibre drinks, these liver tabs, these migraine patches, this heel balm and b12 injection ampoules. These pads, these Movicol sachets, these sedatives – this POUTPOURRI!
This pain medicine, this CBD oil, this opioid like stuff, or that, this nutritional deficiency, this dark place, these necessary tests - on no end roads. On paper trails. You INK take away my holidays. You INK are both saviour and persecutor. You INK are the western world with its joys and sorrows. You bring me thankfulness and you bring me sorrow.
 
So dear INK I am no apologist today for my nasty letters at times, my poems, my questioning my anger, my disappointment, my depression, my sadness, my relief, my grief. It felt good to speak up, and I warn you and I warn you again. Do not mess with this agony bag. Accept and help her. This, that, that, and this. Oh, and this and there is more.
 
So how do we heal, with ink all around - with black INK?
She is not one problem, she is COMPLEX. She is a true Zebra black n white striped. And paper sheets and paper skin, resting on her paper bed. Her wayward cells, and bones, blood, and tissues speak as they do.
 
Mystery Ink. You are a shape shifter - you are.
But do not you dare shift the blame to me, dear INK,
For this paper thin, skin. Is what it is, and it is NOT yours.
 
And dearest symptoms why must you stay and then hide. And then scream loud.
I am sensitive to noise. You want to be heard and I hear you. I hate you and I love you, but I still wish you would find a place of your own. Where you really belong.
 
Prying eyes, blind eyes, action plans, non-actions, withering, chronic disease management plans, hydrotherapy, physiotherapy, specialist appts. Wheelchairs, and mobility aids.
Break-through pain. OHHHHH ohhh OHHHHH ohhh OHHHHH.
Say it, say it, speak. I resent your INK, I do, I do.
Pain suffering, illness, bleakness, inertia, cruel joke, funny guy!
Good-bye sophisticated life. You did get close.
I will not be nice today, I will not be helpful, be accommodating.
Okay. Okay. Okay.
 
Our cells are great little workers and then they are not.
Some of them live in complete darkness and
Do plan to take over the HOST, which is you. Beware ok.
 
I am well fed up with paper and ink.
Thoughts views, sayings, all words, all descriptions,
Opinions.
Let my creased paper body, and my creased paper bed.
Go back to its suffering, it does it well.
Be testament to my human spirit, pure as it can be.
 
Laugh bone and cackle too,
Do it louder for all to see,
Why don’t you?
Stay abusive Nerve, you will anyways do as you wish.
Or keep sleepy, slow, and lethargic.
Nervous rigid muscle, keep on keeping, tighten your reins.
Brain, oh ball and chain,
vice-on-my-head – your thoughts did this.
My vice – listening and caring for you all – too much.


It is easier to cave into it all. And that I have learnt
Brings me to a five instead of a seven, through gritted teeth though.
 
Oh, dam you PAIN. Really the next life will be easier.
That is certain. God has promised me.
 
Oh Medicine, INK, Oh Malicious World,
You are here and you are amoebic,
You crawl, slither, froth, and bite,
At this crossroad whereby vitality, peace and other,
ran for the green safe hills.
To a stronger paper-bark shelter. Indigenous and safe.
 
Navigate me out, it is not too hard, will you?
I am a good person. Despite how I sound on here.
Of wretched love hate dysphoria. Yes, DOC, you have it too.
It is not only ME.
You are but human. And I am at times not.
Medicine. Inc.
INK.
Bless you, you too pain.

They insist that her place is where soot sweeps the flagstones. Her limbs wince and grimace
all the way down the stairs. She can see them preening,
smug as ostriches;
But her fingers are still stiff, and
jewel-less.
As their excitement chirps louder, her swollen toes chime in the garden. And suddenly
there’s a sharp frisson of something in the air. She’s fizzing as if she were inside a coupe
glass, clinking against the promise of the glass-topped dressing table.
In her tight chest, excitement swells pumpkin, until
under the glitz of champagning chandeliers, she cuts a more confident stride.
In satin, she steps, and steps, until she’s a whirl of silvered windows, pearly;
yet threatening as teeth.
At the strike, she’s
seared
panicked
clenched.
She’s slipped
Down
Down
Down
Once again, her squeaking companions brush at the floor. Her ankles throb and ache
as loud as her heart.

Vita is life, our will lives in us,
Bee-ing outside increases our vitality.
Our will to live increases outdoors,
in gardens bright with blooms and dew,
flower to petal a tale is woven,
As we notice the circles and cycles of nature
Death is nearer, so we recoil a bit.
Nature’s beauty is there also to save us.
In the morning hue.
 
She, The Queen, A monarch
She knows her life-force.
As she sits in this sheen, a court convenes,
Her men toil and spin
While SHE flaunts her golden-violet rhythms
busy bee your tireless zest
dawn to dusk is collection time,
for her, translucent silken buds
glisten, wide arms open.
 
She drops her chin, drawing up nectar.
wildflowers flirt swaying in tune.
on a tapestry breeze, criss-crossing winds
sway the bottlebrushes who blush in an,
Australian blaze, humid thick.
 
They gathered their milk for Mother.
next to some wild carrots,
plump Queen sits, eyelids shut,
surveying though, each heartbeat of her hive
approval is met by vital signs alive, aligned.
In a wilderness cool, yet oozing warmth.
glory of life we see.
in both toil and freedom, we dream.
sweet in my mouth and thy Queen’s,
this jelly heals all beginnings.
and ends,
a rose sun sinks another horizon.

(Rain, Auvers, by Vincent van Gogh).
 
​His tears teeter a threat
 to spill, unsteady as the wobble of wounds and joy
within the same throat. Petals
descend in sunshine-
 
 He swallows hard; gazes out to the expansive sky, tilting his head towards the sun.
 
Crows’ feet never get to develop their splatter towards
his temples. Wings muddle
frantic
 
as petrichor mixed with suffering
caws and caws at him: so big
it fills up the whole horizon.
 
Hushed rainfall brings slashes of brief
 relief
 cut into canvases: Calm before the sting. He watches the cadmium rippling
 of wheat stems. They're swaying like shifts between disappointment and elation: vulnerable as humans
 
 like him.
 
He shutters insomnia-stung eyes. Such yellows against his lids are home: They beam, contrasting with incomparably fresh blues and sweet
twittering birdsong.
 
He longs for sleep.
 
 Sunflower-bursts in indigo
night.

Like birdseed, a sequinned
gown,
 
They would glitter them into the crowd each year around Christmas time.
 
 It was your smear- fingered -smile
 Little treat. We curled our tiny bodies into the ruby- lip
 slippered red
 of those opulent seats, sat tight as a bow. We savoured the buttons up…
 
Hush,
now let us
begin.
 
Slam
      
        Searing
 
 Black.
 
That gunshot
 spike
crack was the very worst sound of my life. I wanted to shred
shed 
 
wolf
peel
at my skin. Wings
battling uselessly into the wax of
lights.
 
You're a hunted animal. Fresh.
screams, fever, green
 gaping horror-mouthed memories
 bashing again and again and again and again at the walls.
 
Trapdoor.
Claw.
 
After a while, you know the hot scent
of desperation. It's the ugly, stubborn snarl of curled fag smoke.
 
If you want a light, you always, always, always have to ask them, even though you can hear them: their
crabapple
laughs
crackle,
 
vines
 choke at your ankles
 along the whole sterile length
 of the aisle.
 
Snare, trap, flare.
You're cored.
 
You can no longer bear the sight of them. You shrivel in the corner and lick at
your wounds.
 
Fawn and
Freeze.
 
Retreat, curl up and
Dry.
 
Eventually,
you don't even recognise
 your own white face. You are definitely not today
 
The fairest, fairest…
 
Each nightfall, animated eyes
 blare in this hunter's wood. They watch, watch, watch
Watch. Your hair witches with time.
You hold out your finger not for a ring, but for yet another bite
 
of heat and blood;
  Your body spread out on a slab.
 
 Be good
 
or they won't let you out…
 
Gasp down
 
 til you bloat
  leak
 and weep
     like a frog.
 
It's not real, it's not real. It's not real…
 
Now
 you're encased
into tall ivied
walls. What you know
 is that they long to return the lush butchered prize
of your heart.
 
who even is the villain
Anymore?
 
One night,
someone pads. tears at the plastic with fangs-
and there's that familiar sweet purple glint once more.
It's winking at you:
 royal
like a cloak.

Oh ! Love 
I give my warmth to the scaly hands 
Who crush my oven and spit on it 
Oh ! Love, 
Yet, I look at them with rosy imagination 
And they make stinky by throwing me into a pit 
Oh ! Love, 
I give my thorny carpet to welcome you 
Oh ! love, 
I give a sandy dream to build a castle for you   
Oh ! love, 
Yet, I do not know how much unscrupulous I am 
Oh ! Love, 
I don’t want to be pardoned 
Oh ! Love, 
I want to be burnt to be alive 
Into a pit of ash of rotten bed 
Oh ! Love, 
Give me nectar to be dead 
Give me hemlock to be alive 
So that I can rest there alone 
With the fire of atonement 
​By breaking the fundament 

About the author:
Partha Sarkar, a resident of Ichapur, a small town of a province West Bengal Of India, is a graduate who writes poems inspired by the late Sankar Sarkar and his friends (especially Deb kumar Khan) to protest against the social injustice and crimes against nature. His poems have been in different magazines both in Bangla and in English. Once, he would believe in revolution but now he is confused because of the obscurity of human beings, though he keeps fire in soul despite.

If sex were a flower head, as it is meant to be,
I’d respond to sunlight better than to rain.
 
If only I could convert the positives in life
to food but I’ve always gorged on the past.
 
Maybe you’d have to have been a child whose
father died to understand. You take what you have
 
and weave story cloaks from them. I’d be
a sloe berry, best picked after the first frosts.
 
Have you ever noticed that moorland plants  
carry on growing however often the mists
 
entangle them? I’m woody now, thick-stemmed
and when I sway in the wind I rage up a ruckus
 
before my fruits fall. See those moor ponies
with their unfriendly ways? When I sing
 
into the cold, they nestle against my shoulders
and breathe their warmed air with mine.

I have been asleep, what can I say?
I missed a few years, gliding in
and out of old nightmares, not always
 
night dreams. Sometimes
I’d daydream my way through months
before the screams would
 
force me back into the darkness.
Sleeping was better than being awake
and watching the reactions to
 
my twitching (how horrible to witness
yourself in a nightmare).
I hadn’t noticed it was twenty years
 
since I had had a thought, a real thought
that breathed in the air.
Sleep thoughts seemed so
 
convincing (I do dream in colour, don’t
you?) and the thought woke me
and I realised I was naked
 
(I always sleep naked, don’t you?
Well you don’t have to say, you
weren’t on display whilst sleeping)
 
and a fig leaf won’t do, not
after all these years, a fig leaf
doesn’t even begin to cover it.

‘Downe in the bottome of the deepe Abysse/ Where Demogorgon in dull darknesse pent,/ Farre from the view of Gods and heauens blis,/ The hideous Chaos keepes, their dreadfull dwelling is’ from The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser.

She’s finding the pattern in empty packets of crisps                                                                   
across the living room floor. There’s a river running
through a valley between mountains of pizza boxes,
a waterfall over rocks of scattered shoes. She’s
not going anywhere but here is the world in miniature.
One day (soon) she’ll gather it all up, put it on a boat
and sail this Italy and the Alps all the way to the tip. Then
the room will be the Gobi desert, lizards hiding away
during the day but chasing spiders and scorpions
 throughout the night. She doesn’t feel ready
for that yet, adds an empty sweet wrapper. She knows
you can’t step in the same river twice, and as soon
as the river meets the sea, there’s a reckoning. First
she’ll watch how silver foil glints in the midday sun.