Guidelines



Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com. No simultaneous submissions. Use "Verse News Submission" as the subject line. Send a brief bio. No payment. Authors retain all rights after 1st-time appearance here. Scroll down the right sidebar for the fine print.
Showing posts with label harassment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label harassment. Show all posts

Saturday, March 08, 2025

DOES IT UPSET YOU?

by Mariam Saidan

After Audre Lorde’s “A Woman Speaks”



 
I have been woman
for a long time
youth was fragile
scary at times
most of the times
nonadjustable to 
the shape I was becoming.
Misunderstood I was.
Out of mind, troubled
when I didn’t quite like 
the safety of home, 
control or harassment. 
I died many deaths  
each time returning
with a new survivor in me.
Fear no longer suited me. 
I’ve grown into a 
thousand-year-old tree.
They cut a branch,
take a leaf,
it grows back.
It always grows back.
Try and take the sun out
of day. 
There are birds living in me,
one always sings,
and a fox curled up on the shed
just a stone’s throw away in 
my garden, looks at me.

Under my living room where 
I keep vases in different shapes 
and colours, painted and 
filled with wildflowers, 
there’s a cellar
and below that,
an ocean,
pounding.
With every tide 
I become water.
Offending waves.
Dramatic drops.
Vast freedom.
Bewildering imagination.
There’s no end to this thirst.

I’m not scared of pain,
it makes things interesting.
My eyes sometimes
look into yours,
but no, not asking to be
touched.
I’m here
to live this life
like no one but
the woman I have
become. 
I’m not ashamed to
drown in this sea.


Mariam Saidan is a Specialist Advocate for Women’s Rights and has worked as a Children’s Rights Advocate, studied Human Rights Law at Nottingham University (LLM) and Creative Writing at Kent University. She is Iranian, based in London, and has lived in Iran, France, and the UK. She wrote her first journal at 8 years old while living through the Iran-Iraq war.

Sunday, January 16, 2022

NEW YEAR RESOLUTION

by Geoffrey Philp




The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) has issued level 4 and level 2 travel advisories for Jamaica which sees them strongly warning against travel into the country due to several factors including Covid-19 and violence which has plagued some areas. —YardHype, January 12, 2022. See also CDC, January 10, 2022


The CDC has updated their travel advisory
to Jamaica due to crime, the spread of Covid,
and a lack of police presence in the county.
 
They’ve suggested avoiding public buses or secluded
places and added to statistics of robberies and break-
ins, a rising positivity rate. Fully vaccinated,
 
boostered, and up-to-date on flu shots I’ll take
my survival odds on the island this winter.
You see, America, I need a long-deserved break
 
from my daily rehearsal of answers to policemen
with the tiresome, “Who are you? Why are you here?”
usually by some rookie hoping to make his bones
 
with an exotic trophy in the trunk of his squad car
where he’ll pose with his first kill of the New Year.


Geoffrey Philp is the author of five books of poetry, two collections of short stories, three children’s books, and two novels, including Garvey’s Ghost. His poems and short stories have been published in The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse, sx salon, World Literature Today, The Johannesburg Review of Books, The Oxford Book of Caribbean Short Stories, Bearden’s Odyssey Poets Respond to the Art of Romare Bearden, Rattle: Poets Respond, and Crab Orchard Review. A recipient of the Luminary Award from the Consulate of Jamaica (2015) and a former chair for the 2019 OCM Bocas Prize for Poetry, Philp’s work is featured on The Poetry Rail at The Betsy—an homage to 12 writers that shaped Miami culture. His next collection of poems, Archipelagos, is forthcoming from Peepal Tree Press.

Saturday, March 27, 2021

FLOWERS FOR SARAH EVERARD

by Jenny Middleton




because we have to buzz—home safe—home safe—
yes—me too—home safe
peppering What’s App with the obvious
because we walk gripping keys
between middle fingers
harrying skin
with shelled expletives
hoping the only use of their jagged
steel edge will be to unlock
the front door
we think—can’t stop
thinking of
your last walk home
caught on keyhole camera
casual, then
over Clapham Common
 
we light candles, Sarah,
watch them blink
in the shadows of ringed shadows
at the base of trees
and lay flowers in a crackle
of cellophane
against the fear
of dark emptied spaces
and words that spit
from a policeman’s mouth
sticking this in you
kidnapping, murdering, mutilating
leaving you in a builder’s sack
only identifiable by your dental records
in Kentish woodland
 
crimes unlovely as the sick
absence of spring leaves
un-grown on laurel trees.


Jenny Middleton is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the chaos of family life. She lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats.