Poems
Tracey Greenhough: Let Birds Propel Your Soul
Tracey Greenhough
Tracey Greenhough studied fashion and Textiles in her twenties at college after struggling to get the grades to get into University because of her dyslexia.
After obtaining four A-levels in Art subjects, she then decided to leave education. She started work for a small family business as their designer and pattern cutter working in Macclesfield. This experience led her into Corporate Clothing design working for multiple companies all over the country working on projects with British Rail, Butlins, Banks and Building Societies and many more.
She married and became a mum and wanted to dedicate her time to this new busy life so trained in Childcare and Education in evenings. She worked in school teaching part-time with 3-5 yr olds for 10yrs. During this time she became passionate about telling and writing children stories. She wanted to broaden her experience so became a freelancer in schools, also painting and selling her art work, allowing her time to develop a series of children’s books.
So soft are a Waxwings feathers,
in orange brown and black,
a formulation cascading that falls all down his back.
God Speared his feathers in brown cacao,
then dipped his tail in lemon yellow,
scattered droplets of berry red,
God flicked upon this feathered bed,
A splash of Gold anointed,
his head a crested crown,
so flash, so sleek, so proud,
with a chest of fuzzy down,
Such a marvellous sight,
when he swoops to take a flight,
High above the ground to dance,
Entwining, dividing, swirling and gliding,
Let birds connect with your sole,
let the wings propel their sound,
whispers in your mind that whirl,
there in your eyes, so profound
And now for us all a better world,
To have this heavenly graceful bird.
Patrick Druggan: Fillan Pool
Patrick Druggan
Patrick Druggan grew up in Glasgow and went to university there. He is a scientist and has worked on diagnostic tests for cancers and infections on and off for the past 35 years. He is dyslexic. He learned to write poetry when no-one was looking.
There is holiness in water as it falls
undestroyed by love or the ache of time.
Lailoken, as naked as sunshine,
lost half himself at bloody Arferydd
then wandered the Forest of Celyddon
became Myrddin Wyllt in his lone madness
hid from the other world beneath Sidh Chaillean
watched tongues of fire dance on the heads of deer
heard the wind in the song of the soaring lark.
Sat on the crag by the Molendinar Burn
in the ancient parish of Saint Kentigern
that runs under the road where I would wait
for the bus home, standing in constant rain
a dream of her wrapped up in lab notes,
the deathly smell of Lysol on them
I want to spend the night on Cader Idris,
in that cold, become mad man or poet
like before the ships of the Gaels
like before the Sassunoch came,
like before yr Hen Ogledd failed
confined by these Saxon words
to the green mountains of Wales.
She always appears in dreams dressed in white,
as young as on the morning we last met,
no sound, silent as the words on a page
pale as memory, paler than regret.
Finola Scott: words gang up
Finola Scott
A Makar of the Federation of Writers, Finola Scott writes in both Scots and English.
She was mentored on the Clydebuilt scheme by Liz Lochead.
Her work is anthologised and published widely including in New Writing Scotland, Lighthouse and One Hand Clapping.
Finola has won many competitions, recently the Hugh MacDiarmid Tassie.
She also was runner-up in the McLellan competition (Scots).
A slam-winning Granny she performed at the Edinburgh, Wigtown and Gatehouse of Fleet Book Festivals as well as headlining many UK events.
Politics, environment and relationships concern her.
Although she knows poetry won’t change the world, she continues to write.
Discover information about her poems and events on the Facebook Group.
drunken spider-writing hid a lot
but the saying it
out loud
oh the saying
a boyfriend would smile
pat my knee then
correct me smiling
it's linn oo lee um
tiddleyhum
I learned to say lino
school was tricky
parllelogram / / paralellogram
with its pal corrr /oll /or/ ry
redlorryyellowlorryred
I felt my tongue helter-skelter
those lls
for leather
pell mell
time taught me snakey sneaky
avoidances mouth-dances
those terradactyls & thesauruses
til I was saved
well almost
by spell checker
by tippytappy txt msgs
Ian Henery: I’m Sorry I Forgot (for National I Forgot Day)
Ian Henery is a prolific poet, playwright and activist in the midlands.
A former Walsall poet laureate, he also writes commissions, runs workshops and has hosted a radio programme.
His collection Poems of Hope was published in 2023 and he is poet in residence for WCR fm.
He has also been consistent in his support for positive social change;
his heart is with the industrial working class from which he descends.
For more about him check out his website
Batman can't go out, ladders in his tights,
Gotham lies helpless in the deepest night.
Celebrity gone for superheroes,
Franchise disappeared, they're earning zero.
Wolverine's out to lunch, phone off the hook,
Midlife crisis, manicure he has booked
And they are sorry, the X Men
Wondering if they'll work again –
And I`m sorry, really sorry,
Writing sorry with this old pen.
I never said John Lennon couldn't sing
But the Silver Beatles were not my thing.
I took a dislike to that Mick Jagger,
I always thought he had too much swagger.
Styled myself on Arthur Lowe, Dad`s Army,
Refused to sign the Sex Pistols, just barmy;
Now hear Arthur say "stupid boy",
Arthur Lowe`s right – where is the joy?
And I'm sorry, really sorry
Must confess – no point in being coy.
The mariner who lost his way at sea,
The chef who's forgotten his recipes;
That sad old captain of the Titanic
Who hit an iceberg which was gigantic;
How about Jack who sold the cow for beans?
Cheated of a magic beanstalk, so mean?
Jack's family now out on a limb,
And his brothers are looking Grimm
And I'm sorry, really sorry
My chances of reprieve are slim.
Take a good look at the state of the world:
Where are banners of peace and love unfurled?
Have we forgotten that we are all one?
One people, one planet under one sun?
If we forget this we will be sorry,
Crushed beneath wheels of history`s lorry;
It`s bigger than the Berlin Wall,
Almost Biblical like The Fall
And I`m so sorry I forgot Truth – I'm the sorriest of all.
Emma Lea
Emma Lea
Emma is a dyslexic poet, author and SEN specialist living in Stretford with her partner, daughter and rescue hens.
She has started to record her writings as videos with the text on the screen to make her books more accessible to people who can't access them as traditional paperbacks for whatever reason. These read along audiobooks are available for free to anyone who wants them and has an internet connection.
Emma has an MA in Inclusive Education and SEN. She works with home schooling families who's children cannot access either mainstream or specialist provision in schools and is incredibly proud of the progress 'her chiddlers' make.
The chickens are a real conundrum. Emma doesn't like eggs.
Sometimes I feel like a jungle jellyfish
In a world that's just not made for me
Where I don't fit in and I can't seem to breathe,
In a world where I want to just be.
...
Peter Street: NOT BEING ME
Peter Street
I left school in 1964, barely able to read and write and I ended up grave digging and gardening.
But In 1984, after a spinal accident, I studied O’levels at college.
It was all going wrong, I failed the course twice!
But there was a tutor and poet, John Cassidy, who introduced me to poetry while telling me there weren’t as many rules as when writing prose.
Some poets even miss out all the rules.
That was when my life as a poet began.
Other poets introduced me to the poetry of E.E. Cummings who didn’t use punctuation.
My first book was published in 1993 after other poets incited I write about my shortcomings in education.
Again another beginning, and that has been the same with four more collections.
My honesty got me into the BBC as a writer in residence & teaching poetry and worked for many years in prisons with young offenders, teaching them the joy of writing and self-expression. I have been a recipient of a Royal Literary Fund recipient.
Childhood nights were dreams
of being a sheep
then up and outside of a morning
a quick check to see
if by any chance in the night
there had been a change
of being just like all my friends
and not the odd one out
like afternoon dance lessons
spent hidden
in the toilet
out the way because
I couldn’t dance the sheep steps
that’s why I dreamed
of being a sheep
so I could be like everyone else
Nick Degg: Weetabix
Nick Degg is a Potteries Poet who crafts words with the dexterity of a sausage knotter,
indeed it has been said that some of his poems actually taste of pork.
He is a multi Slam winning poet who has done work for the BBC, Theatres, Football clubs, Libraries, Schools and a whole host of Musicians.
He likes to push the boundaries of spoken word to make it accessible to those who wouldn't normally entertain poetry.
Weetabix
I used to make up stories
Before my Daughter went to sleep,
"Tell me about the bike with a wobbly wheel Dad"
"Tell me about the cat that eats vans Dad"
She'd say
And I'd make up a story,
to which she'd absorb every word
Like Weetabix drinks milk
I used to sit with my Son
Before he went to sleep,
Him with his "Shoot" magazine
And I'd ask him
"What's Southamptons goal difference bud"?
Or "Where do you think Everton is bud"?
And we'd discuss it,
Then I'd tuck him in
"Can I leave my glasses on
so I can see my dreams better"
He'd say
At breakfast we'd watch the Weetabix
Soaking up the milk
Like stories
and numbers
and places
Nick Degg: Weetabix
Nick Degg is a Potteries Poet who crafts words with the dexterity of a sausage knotter,
indeed it has been said that some of his poems actually taste of pork.
He is a multi Slam winning poet who has done work for the BBC, Theatres, Football clubs, Libraries, Schools and a whole host of Musicians.
He likes to push the boundaries of spoken word to make it accessible to those who wouldn't normally entertain poetry.
I used to make up stories Before my Daughter went to sleep,
"Tell me about the bike with a wobbly wheel Dad"
"Tell me about the cat that eats vans Dad" She'd say
And I'd make up a story, to which she'd absorb every word
Like Weetabix drinks milk I used to sit with my Son
Before he went to sleep,
Him with his "Shoot" magazine
And I'd ask him "What's Southamptons goal difference bud"?
Or "Where do you think Everton is bud"?
And we'd discuss it,
Then I'd tuck him in
"Can I leave my glasses on so I can see my dreams better"
He'd say At breakfast we'd watch the Weetabix
Soaking up the milk
Like stories and numbers and places
Maureen Weldon
Maureen Weldon is Irish and lives in North Wales.
She is a former professional ballet dancer and now a widely published poet.
In 2014 she represented Wales at Ukraine’s Terra Poetica.
She has published eight books of poetry, her latest The Waking Hour" Published by Red Squirrel Press, winning 'Book of the Month’ at The Poetry Kit.
The Dancer
I am tired
my brain hangs loose
locked in my rucksack.
This is the hour for the owl to fly
to hoot to winking moon
through clouds of mist.
This is night,
the quiet time ..
Because I am on my own
while night-clubs choke
with laughter
and the girl in white throws her shoe
at the man who wanted to fill it
with beer, but could not,
no matter how hard he tried.
Then the many houses,
blinking with lovemaking.
And babies and grannies
and granddads.
But I like being on my own
in this quiet time,
because tomorrow
I will wrap my ankles
round the world.
Published by Poetry Scotland
Featured and published by The Poetry Kit & Caught In The Net
Editor: Jim Bennett.
Brendan Hawthorne
Brendan Hawthorne is a poet, playwright, writer and musician, based in the West Midlands.
First published in 2004 by bluechromehe was described as being the ‘best Urban Poet of his time.’ He has since released four poetry collections and two plays via various publishers and has written seven titles of local interest for Bradwell Books.
He has appeared on the One Show and a featured inseton Flog It! an interviewee for Adrian Chiles in a BBC documentary and West Midlands Ambassador for Smooth Radio for a two-year period.
A viral hit in 2017 on BBC Radio WM, Brendan has gained over a million views to date for his poetry. He has been awarded the Bill o’Bowes Cup for best written dialect two years running (2018/19 and 2019/20) and performed from Anthony Gormley's 4th Plinth.
Brendan was made Poet Laureate of Wednesbury in 2014, he is one of the Black Country 100 Masters and has worked on numerous commissions, including NHS, English Heritage and National Trust.
Brendan’s latest poetry collection Seventies Child and Other Fashion Trends is published by Dream Well Writing and is available via the Dream Well Writing website.
For further details please contact via the website: www.brendanhawthorne.org
My experience with dyslexia has led me to believe that it’s just another way of looking at things. Embrace the view!
The Order of Words
I was born with the devil’s hand
Held in Christian righteousness
and educated in the progressive sixties
where right-handed scissors
cut jagged lines
and my writing spelt sdrawkcab
backwards across the feint ruled pages
searching for the secure margins
of left handedness
A caggy
A leftie
That was me
They told my mom I’d be disadvantaged
They told my mom they hit me with rulers
to break the creative spirit
get my measure and
take me out of my right mind
Readied to conform to the British standards
of an intolerant and blinkered society
My creative side was red taped down
by bureaucratic fools
My written communication suffered
My art suffered
I became mirrored in vision
Barricaded
Closed down
Shuttered up
My good bad hand tied behind me
left only to throw salt
to blind the demon’s eye
whilst experts comforted me
with earnest patronising precision
telling me I’d be better off
when I was right
And the frustration grew
And the barriers built
And intelligence could not find
a way through the tangled webs
of institutionalised confusion
Letters formed but sentences
couldn't flow at the rate
of an untamed mind
where imagination knew no bounds
I remained shackled
because they said so
I fluffed exams
because I didn’t comprehend
I mixed sentences like the lifetime one
those educationalists gave me
I drifted to find escape routes
Tried to dig my way out
b’s were d’s and algebra
was purely x-rated
So they taught me French instead
as if my problems weren’t acutely accented enough
Karen Downs-Barton
Karen Downs-Barton is a neurodiverse poet from the Romani community and winner of the Cosmo Davenport-Hines poetry competition 2021.
She is a Creative Writing Doctoral candidate and poetry tutor at King's College, London.
Her thesis explores the formation of identity through experimental and multilingual poetics set against outdated historical textual tropes.
Her poetry highlights the experiences of a Roma children growing up in the state childcare system, minority communities, outsider languages and has been translated into Russian, Spanish and Farsi.
Her work is widely anthologised and can be viewed in Wagtail: The Romani Women's Anthology; Rattle; Ink, Sweat and Tears; Tears in the Fence; Night Picnic Journal; The High Window; Alyss; The Otolith; The Fem Review; The Goose; The Curly Mind; Persian Sugar in English Tea; amongst others.
Learn More
Dyslexia Runs in Families
Light slants into the scullery kitchen
where I am looking at pictures in comics.
Tripe is bubbling in a battered saucepan
while in a Pyrex jar an onion cools in white liquor.
Bapo has rocked back on his one good chair,
balanced between floating and falling.
His newspaper is a curtain concealing his face:
he might be sleeping or pretending, like I am.
I look at the smudging lines of print,
his earthy fingers supporting the pages.
Upside-down people are frontpage news;
lives his hold has made a turmoil
Bapo: Grandfather, colloquial Romani
Gareth Williams
I approach poetry as a beginner and enjoy the thrill and fun of playing with words to create poems which really speak to people.
The poetry I write covers all aspects of life, through my eyes;
a (nearly) 40 year old man, with two boys and a wife, growing up in and owning a business in Crewe, Cheshire until we moved to Conwy in 2020.
Find out more: https://www.lifepoemsaboutyou.co.uk/
Mark Pajak
Mark Pajak has written for The BBC and The Guardian, among others.
He has been three times commended in the National Poetry Competition, awarded first place in The Bridport Prize and has also received a Northern Writers’ Award and an Eric Gregory Award.
His first collection is forthcoming in 2022.
Cat on the Tracks
He wore the night in his fur, sat on a rung
between the rails, tail wisping like smoke
as a distant train split the air along its seam.
Its coming headlight laid down track
and placed an opal into each black seed
of the cat’s eyes, every blink slow as an eclipse.
Soon the white light pinned him, the only drop
of night left as vibration turned the rails to mercury.
But there was no give in the cat, no flex anywhere
but his tail. And for a moment their roles reversed,
as though it were the train facing the inevitable cat,
the end of the line. The world lit up like a page
and the train a sentence before the full-stop.
Rob H
The Kid going Now Here
A fourteen year old sat in geography
Pass the books around, read a section each
Go round the room, for us all to hear
I’m sitting here, not listening, I'm trying to work it out
So I can be practising the one I'll stumble through.
Help me best mate, what’s this jumble here
Don’t worry I'll whisper words to help you out
To reduce your embarrassment, and turning red.
My dreaded turn comes, I splutter out garbled sounds
My next door neighbour's mice voices save a few
And my section's done, or so I think.
Well carry on boy, the big man orders,
And you move here, my friendly helper disappears.
He made me read four whole pages
Tutting at my bumbling mistakes, it seemed forever
Berating easy words I got wrong, I voiced, "now-here"
He laughed out loud, "now-here? It's pronounced no-where"
Which is where you'll get in life, reading like you're five.
Bastard, I hated him for that, but I had the last laugh
I got a B in Geography, and although it took some time
I even passed my English third time round.
Andy N
Andy N
is the author of 6 full length poetry collections, the most recent being 'Haiku of life'
and co-runs Chorlton's always welcoming Spoken Word Open Mic 'Speak Easy'.
He does ambient music under the name of Ocean in a Bottle and has a regular column on the Sunday Tribune.
He runs/co-runs Podcast series such as Spoken Label, Reading in Bed, Comics Unity, Koll, Andy and Amanda and Wrestle Up.
Single Ticket to Dyspraxia
You broke down during your answer
after a lifetime of not realising what it was
stating ‘if there’s something to fall over
or something to break
or something to burn myself on
or cut myself on I will do it’
I was 28
barely into my first year
at University
and was wondering
how was I going to cope
when things got more difficult.
...
Mel Woodend
Mel Wardle Woodend is Staffordshire Poet Laureate 2019-2022.
Mel holds an MA Creative Writing, is one half of WORD Stafford, enjoys facilitating poetry workshops, and participating in spoken word.
She is founder of dyslexia friendly publishing company Dream Well Writing Ltd, reflecting her passion for making reading and books accessible to all.
Street Corner Kid
He’s a street corner kid leaving school with nothing to show for the blazer the uniform,
Nothing to show apart from a report that says he ‘wouldn’t conform.’
He congregates on street corners with mates in labels they can’t really afford;
Unwashed, unkempt, and unemployed.
Standing together, they dress the same: An understated statement
Firming friendships as solid as cement.
Looking for fun found in their new freedom
Away from the mindless misery and mortification.
...
Nanny K
Nanny K
I am dyslexic I prefer to read and write in rhyme, it helps me all the time.
As I am working with the rhythmic part of my brain.
Rhythm has enabled me to create poetry & songs for the first time in my life.
It has allowed me to express myself in a way I never believe I could before.
I am Dyslexic and I still get total stuck on words that predictive text hasn’t got a clue about!
Because you don’t even have the first letter right.
I only learnt to spell basic words when I was teaching my own children to read.
I’m 49 and still struggle every day!
Reading & Writing took me a long time to learn but I got there in the end with the help of rhythm and rhyme.
I am Dyslexic
🥰I am dyslexic my name is Nanny💕K🤗
⭐️From seesingsay 👀🎶🤗⭐️
🤗I read & write in rhyme🎶
🤗It helps me all the time🕰
🤗I sing lots of songs🎶
🤗All day long⏳
🤗As I’m working with a 👥
...
Sam Rapp
Sam Rapp (The Dyslexic Poet)
Sam Rapp has won awards for her writing. She is a poet, playwright, speaker, editor and part time lawyer.
She is Chair of Dyslexia House Association, Co-Chair of the Disability staff network, Ambassador for Medway Disability Action and Co-Chair Creative Medway.
She runs Fun with Words Productions, conducting creative writing workshops, as a creative writing teacher.
She is published in various books, magazines, radio TV, and took her one woman show (The Amazing Dyslexic Poetry Show) to the Edinburgh Fringe festival 2019.
She is a regular on BBC radio Kent, and has had one of her plays about WWI performed in the UK and on TV in Gibraltar.
We are the Amazing Dyslexics
We are the Amazing Dyslexics
We are funny, we are witty we have no apology or pity
We focus at a slower speed
We are not greedy
It takes us time to read
We are the Amazing Dyslexics
We can achieve greatness,
Walking on the moon, and kissing the sun
We are unique when we speak, write spell,
Whatever we decide to do,
We can make wine with Bacchus and look into the eyes of Zeus,
As the thunder, makes the sky shake loose,
Words or numbers can seem wobbly to some,
But look at Einstein, Whoopi Goldberg,
Agatha Christie, Will I am
Joss stone
De-Vinci
Written into history
Yeah, We are the Amazing Dyslexics
How do you know, said the boy in the back of the row
I’m the Dyslexic Poet, I guess I know so,
Just go out and be amazing, be yourself
That’s all you have to know
Us dyslexics
Are just simply Amazing.
© Sam Rapp
Sam’s book, "Rant, Dyslexic me", is a collection of some of her poems about being dyslexic.
Her second collection is coming out this year.
Greg
Gregory Kearns is a writer based in Liverpool.
He has been published in Bath Magg, Introduction X: The Poetry Business Book of New Poets amongst numerous other publications.
Other than poetry, Gregory has written text for music with No Dice Collective and written text for physical theatre as part of the Tmesis Graduate Company.
He currently works as an Events and Community Fundraiser at The Brain Charity, who help people affected by neurological conditions including dyslexia.
Greg’s rich and moving poem Ghhoti inspired this papier mache sculpture by artist Carole Jones.
Ghoti
I’m asked to read out names on awards night
at school. I’m reassured that I’ll be helped
to pronounce all the names that I can’t read.
The teacher points to my piece of paper
scaled from my nervous folding. This one’s
easy, say it as its spelt – So I do
and I’m wrong – over and over. So
I practice – even double check the hard names.
It’s said like café and that helps until
my memory aid swims away,
and there, the slight smile of disappointment
on students’ faces as I get them wrong.
To think that I can spell fish: ghoti and pheti
the way I always read unite as untie.
