Pinocchio was born into poverty in desperately bleak times, he was the eldest of ten children, half human, half scavenger, always battling illness and hunger, barely living, just surviving, on a long narrow street which didn’t allow natural sunlight. Pinocchio was forever dreaming about being made of pine wood, so he wouldn't have to be hungry and thirsty all the time. His angry ugly rumbling tummy gurgled and guzzled and gobbled him up, all up. He longed for a blue magical fairy to save him. Instead, he was sent far, far away, to ease the burden on his parents, to live in a village with his mother’s family. All he ever wanted was to see his mother again, to feel at home again, to be healthy, happy and not have to suffer so many ordeals, over and over again. Pinocchio’s journey was full of terrible trauma, so much tragedy, so much sadness, even the fabulous adventures made him sick. The world was so beautiful but also so dreadfully ugly, it made him wish all the more to be a wooden pine puppet living in a better world. In his dreams he saw the magical Blue Fairy, who gently whispered: Prove yourself brave, truthful and unselfish, and someday you will be a true real puppet. A boy who won't be good might will never be made of wood. Pinocchio tried and strived to be brave, truthful and unselfish, he tried not to wish for the moon, the oceans and the stars. He gave so much to everyone, helped and helped till he couldn’t give any more. Exhausted he slumped down, despondent and scared. He felt sick down to his stomach at this terrible world, only in his magical dreams of fairies did he see a way through, Oh, Fairy, Fairy! Why am I still not made of pine wood? I’ve been brave, truthful and unselfish. And Blue Fairy smiled so warmly and whispered, You already are. And Pinocchio wept and wept with traumatised joy, sadly unaware that whilst he was away, his family suffered tragedy as six of his siblings died. Pinocchio was the lucky one to escape, to be free, but he never saw his mother again, never spent one perfect day together, never was home. With thanks to the life and works of the original writer Carlo Collodi, who’s original serial was Le avventure di Pinocchio: storia di un burattino (“The Adventures of Pinocchio: The Story of a Puppet”). About the author:
Peter Devonald is a UK based poet/screenwriter who has lived with disability most of his life. He is winner Waltham Forest Poetry 2022, Heart Of Heatons Poetry Awards 2023 & 2021, joint winner FofHCS 2023 and second in Shelley Memorial Poetry 2024. Finalist in Tickled Pink ekphrastic contest 2024, highly commended Hippocrates Prize and Passionfruit Review 2024, shortlisted for OxCanalFest Poetry 2024, Saveas & Allingham 2023. Poet in residence Haus-a-rest, Forward Prize nominated, two Best Of The Net nominations and widely published including Broken Spine Anthology, London Grip, Door Is A Jar, Bluebird Word, Vipers Tongue, Voidspace and Loft Books. 50+ film awards, former senior judge/ mentor Peter Ustinov Awards (iemmys) and Children’s Bafta nominated. www.scriptfirst.com Instagram: @peterdevonald Facebook: @pdevonald Twitter/X: petedevonald
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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. About the author:
Hannah Linden has struggled with depression and anxiety most of her life. She’s a survivor of multiple traumas, including the suicide of her father when she was a child. Her poetry explores many kinds of impact from mental health challenges and she is particularly interested in the way trauma, and the experience of marginalisation, is explored in folklore and fairy tale, in both negative and positive ways. She has a Northern working-class background but, for many years, has lived in ramshackle social housing in Devon. She is widely published and, most recently, won the Cafe Writers Poetry Competition 2021, and was Highly Commended in the Wales Poetry Award 2021. Her debut pamphlet, The Beautiful Open Sky, (V. Press) was shortlisted for the Saboteur Award for Best Poetry Pamphlet 2023. X: @hannahl1n I Know Of A Boy i know a boy. raised & bred in a land defined as "abject infertility" by his dead father's friends & frenemies. yeah. i know of a boy whose hind skin always kisses the earthen-chilled floor every night. inside his father's, now his, paradise– the hut. tilted. half covered with dried palm fronds. the other half lost to the ferocious & unconcerned wind. he barely sleeps in the long & crawling nights. yet wakes to the first cock-a-doodle-doo of his old mama's cock & set out for the farm. shrithing all alone like a lost black bird navigating the cloudy sky. when nature calls & illness strikes him with a big cudgel. who is he to lie back without mustering the minuscule strength in his wretched body & set out for the farm again? lest he be screwed by ulcer-causing hunger till he draws his last breath. like it did his father. Au revoir As A Metaphor For Forever sitting all alone. on this old squeaking bench. outside my father's house. with my back leaning with comfort on this chilly wall. & eyes fixing the moonlit sky. romancing the warm company of the beautiful stars. the thoughts of the last time we met meander through my mind. we sat on this same old bench. not minding the blistering cold. or the chirping of hundreds of crickets. or the hooting owls in a stone throw from us. you submitted your head on my shoulder & i had my hands curled around you like a blanket. my booming MP3 player playing ed sheeran's Perfect. you gazed at me from the corner of your eyes. your alluring eyeballs radiated into mine. & said "i will always be here for you…" & climaxed it with "au revoir" & a kiss planted on my forehead. hands of time ticking at light's speed. it's been years within a twinkle of eyes. yet still no words. i scourge & scourge every nook & cranny. alas "au revoir" is a metaphor for "forever". so much for "i will always be here for you". wish i could run into the speed force & go back to that night to stop you from finish articulating the statement. or cease the ticking hands of time. it's same sky i look at now. yet the stars are out of place without you around. About the author:
Olayioye Keji Akintunde, studies Pharm.D at the University of Ibadan, Ibadan, Nigeria. His writing explores the self,contradiction and contemporary realities. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on Inertia Teens, Spillwords, Nnọkọ Stories and elsewhere. Besides Pharmacy & Poetry, he's intrigued by good & soul-reaching music. He's nicknamed Catechol. He tweets @Catechol01, & is @Catechol1 on IG. |
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