The Blue Nib is an independent imprint that publishes exceptional poetry, features, articles and opinion pieces in our fortnightly magazine. The Blue Nib also publishes anthologised work and individual works of poetry, short stories and literary fiction.
Rie Sheridan Rose multitasks. Her poetry has appeared in Dreams and Nightmares, Illumen, and Penumbra, as well as numerous anthologies. She has authored ten novels, six poetry chapbooks, and lyrics for dozens of songs. More info on www.riewriter.com. She tweets as @RieSheridanRose.
Kevin Griffin is from Caragh Lake, Kerry and has had poems in many magazines including The SHOp, A New Ulster, North West Words, Orbis, Riposte, Star*line (USA), Pennine Ink, Salzburg Review, Labor of Love (Toronto), and others, He is a regular read at poetry reading in Kerry, Cork, Limerick etc, and has taken part in a poetry program on radio Kerry. He was shortlisted for the Fish Prize in 2011 and is working towards his first collection.
Ankush is a mental health professional and Ethics & Organisational Behaviour instructor. He published his first collection of poetry, An Essence of Eternity (Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 2016). He is the recipient of the 2014 USI Gold Medal and 2017 Silver Medal for his essay on Military Ethics. His poetry has appeared in Indian Literature, Muse India, Eclectica, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and Linden Avenue Literary Journal. He blogs at: cogitoerigosum.wordpress.com.
Lara. J. Fuller
I have been writing poetry for a year and taken part in public poetry readings as well as joining a poetry group on a monthly basis. Also I have a poem published in a local magazine called ‘Seaside News’. My favourite poets are Wordsworth, Dylan Thomas and a few other classic as well such as Shelley. To extend my love of poetry I write, manage a poetry Facebook page and have received positive comments as well as a growing number of followers. Here is the link below if you wish to have a browse. I recently had a haiku published on ‘Anna’s Poetry Live’ blog in aid of a Haiku walking Tour for Charity (Please note the name ‘Beasley’ is my maiden name but I wish to be known under my marital name ‘Fuller’). Also I have an Author’s Profile on ‘Tales from Wales’.
The Gift of Words
Words have an impact on our daily lives. The cerebellum controls our physical co-ordination and our verbal co-ordination also making our voices heard in various situations. (https://asklistenlearn.org/parents/conversations-and-communication/). They can either have a positive or negative impact, over-all it can control our work and home environment. As stated in (Job 34:3) ‘For ears tests words, the palate tastes its food’. Sweet’n’Sour comes to mind.
People who have learning disabilities or in general often disregarded in society making the person in question feel unloved, the term ‘hidden’ disabilities can also mean ‘hidden talent’. It brings to me to the question of ‘Can people with disabilities become a successful writer?’
We are all teachable as we are not always born with specific talents, through programmes that help build our learning structure it is surprising what one can achieve in life. Also it begins at an early age ‘Communication is vital-it allows kids to connect, learn how to understand each other, and learn how to express themselves successfully and appropriately’ (https://asklistenlearn.org/parents/conversations-and-communication/).By simply having conversations when you’re taking your child to school or having a bite to eat, according to Dr. Anthony Wolf ‘We need to capitalise on teaching moments’.
A study took place in 2015 carried out by Dr. Catherine Best from the University of Sterling and included people with Autism, tested for their creativity. Out of 31 people they came at the top of the list for unique answers. (https://www.theguardian.com/society/2015/aug/22/autism-creative-thinking-study). It is has also been recorded that people without disabilities in the workplace have found a new appreciation as stated by The Campaign Live ‘Different challenges the norm…and makes sure that we never stand still’. (https://www.campaignlive.co.uk/article/learning-disability-taught-creativity/1443375). Here is
a Tanka I have written to explain my point further;
man sits on the buss
on reflection crystal clear
over bumpy roads
arms wave suspended in flight
a boy looks up and smiles
As a writer myself I am always looking for new inspiration, a new take on things, even if it means reconfiguring a piece of original work. Sometimes that can be through people as well as everyday objects. ‘A reader comes to the book or painting ready to surrender themselves, ready to be humbled and provoked, and that is an act of vulnerability and therefore something to be respected’. (https://lithub.com/writing-a-memoir-to-honor-my-younger-self/). Having an open mind can be a good asset for your writing otherwise we could be missing out on something very creative.
As the saying goes’ never judge a book by its cover!’ and if we have the capability of achieving our goals, for example becoming a writer then we should not let our barriers define us and give up on certain dreams. ‘Sure our industry is changing, but it’s still pretty simple really. Beautifully so. We just have to keep finding ways to be different’. (https://www.campaignlive.co.uk/article/learning-disability-taught-creativity/1443375). The moral is ‘Never give up!’
The moment was a colossus we built up to,
at first with wheelbarrows of sand
to mix the mortar, simple bamboo scaffolding,
then, as tension mounted, cranes to swing
sun-burnt beams into place.
When you look back at the terrace houses,
Ms Malone setting off for work,
Mr Mangera opening his shop,
it blocks the view: all you see are the builders.
Each bolt torqued floated over the city,
like a bullet out of a gun.
From my window I wondered
if today would be the day. I could not
medicate myself to sleep, I could not shit.
Would we know when the last plate
had been rivetted? Yes,
there would be silence.
“How the World is Changed”
Kaplan leads the revolution, drinks straight from the keg as we congregate in old manor houses writing our manifestoes line by line. We are so poor Kaplan’s jeans can’t hold his balls in place. We take over the library, read Berryman and Tate, then invade the President’s office who compares us to Hitler and John Wilkes Booth. We crank out a magazine, drop acid, fuck on the floor. To leapfrog ten years’ experience, I pick up artists, grad students in bookstores, flings that last a week but no more. I exile myself to France after everyone else has gone and come back again.
When I return, a child’s hand in each of mine, Kaplan has shrugged off the patriarchy, leads the revolution under his mother’s name. They take over the armoury, the barracks, a radio station, banners and words held high. My demonstration of support is on a quieter street, very few in attendance, a couple pamphlets handed out. I am a bystander, having risen from my comfortable bed, my mayhem shushed by the crowd. Any explosion may or may not be heard by those in front. Definitely not by Kaplan and those marching past.
Kaplan is Professor, with round flimsy lenses, dark curly locks replaced with white and wiry, poised like Walter Benjamin for author photo. The manifesto, long established as status quo, showing signs of wearing thin, backwards, outdated, elitist, discriminating. A chair is named in his honor, his papers bequeathed to the library. I attend the odd gathering, share the odd idea, receive the odd glance, like a novelty wobbled off the shelf. A rare copy of the magazine is found in a second-hand shop in Toledo.
She found the shoulders stretched as a footbridge
across a stream, the eyes as ponds where lovers swim,
the depth of the murky water hard to judge.
His fingers were the ticklish tide the clinging seaweed
playing with her feet, his feet the thunderclap
as they pounded the earth in search of his body.
The hair grew as wind-blown Texas grass, the armpits
were shrubs where spiders spun webs, the woven hairs
of his arms legs belly and back clothed the poor,
his body’s heat piped into their homes and bedrooms.
Ears, nose and mouth were scattered caverns
where her sight and touch fumbled in darkness.
His buttocks, the curly lock above his coccyx lived as a boar,
the pancreas and intestines as mysterious creatures
at the bottom of the sea. The liver was a barstool.
His heart slept homeless beneath the motorway, his brain
served as moulded jelly at a five year old’s party, his navel
the opening of an anthill poked by anteater and child.
His legs and arms were the colonnade of a Greek ruin,
his neck the chopping block of a lumberjack, his skin lay
as beach blanket umbrella, trampoline, a cup of cold tea.
Because he had always avoided a fight his bones,
the phalanges and metatarsals, were honed into bullets,
his tongue was rent into a moth-eaten library carpet
and a shag rug in a brothel. But his shape-changing cock
was the hardest to find, button mushroom in a field,
Big Sur sequoia, more often than not an octopus’s tentacle.
Charles G Lauder, Jr is an American poet who has lived in a rural pocket of the UK for the past eighteen years. Dreams, politics, his Texas childhood, relationships, and family life dominate his poetry.
Byron Beynon’s poems and essays have appeared in several publications including London Magazine, Chiron Review, Crannog, Southlight, Cyphers and Poetry Wales. He co-ordinated the Wales section of the anthology Fifty Strong (Heinemann). Collections include Cuffs (Rack Press) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).
HÔTEL DIEU, ARLES
At noon I entered
the old hospital,
a restored building
transformed into a centre for learning.
A hush of garden,
the cool balconies,
people sitting at tables
enjoying the shade and rest,
in the Arlésian heat.
Here I think of you
who could not cry,
brought to this place
by the thunder of ill-health,
the bad diet,
overwork and absinthe.
A human form hiding
under the bedclothes,
the forbidden books, paints and pipe.