New Poetry by Holly Attwell

Drip, Drop


The rain rolls down the window and the car drives on,

Splashing through waters of unknown depth.

The lights flicker by, faster still,

Until the light from each is a momentary glance;

Potential to illuminate as they dance.

Face to the window leaves a cold mist on the skin,

But it warms within this calm metal box.

The music buzzes on,

Switching lanes,

And the engine becomes unnoticeable.

Thoughts fall, some caught, some passed, still forming.

Always rolling with the rain,

Each disappearing to be replaced

By another.

Drip, drop, gone.


A Haiku 

The beetroot tree shines,

Dazzling in the busy park,

Somehow unnoticed.




This car is comfortably safe;

I know this place,

But not where it will go.

Remain a little longer, though,

I try to say,

You hear something else anyway.

It flies from me,

Through the window and free.

Parallels that briefly intertwine.

Lights illuminate and shine.

The sun is beginning to hide.

Then I realise I have stepped outside.

I smile.

You have a new car now.


Words Leftover

Words leftover from the things unsaid,

Swirling only in our heads.

The trapdoor once opened, and words tumbled out like

Sticks and stones,

Stones and sticks,

But not the words remaining,

Not the could have beens,

Now, only the maybes.



Burnt Toast

The smell of burnt toast

Clings to my hair,

My dressing gown, everywhere.

I smell it as I walk up the stairs

And it drifts through the air.

You let me burn, unnoticed

It protests.

And now you wonder why you were so careless

And wow,

You notice me now.

You let it crumble

To smouldering could have been.


Meaning Missed

Talking through the glass,

The words turn to ash

And the embers drift away;


Meanings melt upon contact with the frozen

Glass, so you step aside.

Hand up on one side, just to be missed.

Both now gone,

And etched in the ice is

Meaning missed.



Plans Not Present

Here comes the question that you

Really need to answer.

There is no need to defer

Or to tell the truth.


Where do you see yourself?

In 5 or 10 years’ time?

Do not be left on that shelf

For that would be a crime.


You need a plan, you do.

You really must conform.

Anything could occur,

But please fill out this form.


Please, try to remain present

Whilst making your choice

You should know that the events

Of the future are shaped by your choice.


Carpe Diem

Carpe diem, procrastination,

Writers block or inspiration.

Thinking through what to do

Might just take its toll on you.


But not too much.

Look for the next thought,

They branch out and flicker.


But not too much.


The Problem with Frost

The snow falls beautifully, effortlessly, truly;

A picture book scene through and through,

Mixing with water, just to form sludge;

Half-formed snow, sad snow.

Lives changing

As a life lies in-between.

It does not affect the others who hurry to and fro

But they see the woman cry,

Perhaps they wonder why,



The snow falls again.

Such consistent frost.



Curiously Unexpected

Playing golf next to a sheep

Was completely unexpected.

It looked at me as if to say

‘I know this was not expected.’

However, I continued to play,

And the sheep watched on.

The next day I expected the sheep,

But the sheep was gone.




Reading Night – Come Along!

Writer's Journal Poster

Come along to our reading night event, in collaboration with the Salford Slam Poets and the CATS (Cancer Awareness in Teenagers and Students) Society! It will be a night of wonderful poetry, arresting fiction, cheap beer and good friends, all in order to help raise money for the wonderful CATS group!

Untitled by Ward Eli Butt

She stood there, hair falling flat and curling to the ends of her thighs, as her swooping bangs covered the sides of her skull. Her plump cheeks and wide mouth were attractive in a strange way, and her eyes like a cat angled and vexed her prey, her lashes flickered and became somber as a massive eyelid covered in gloss and sparkles. Eyes of a brown haze, glazed with horror and filled with dread. Her black dress, spread around her with fluffy ruffles of white, swaying beneath her shins. Her feet covered and etched with ink. Tattoos flayed away at her legs and worked their way up underneath the dress. Her dark hair was picked up by the breeze that came through as the doors burst open through the lobby. Her bare feet were like loud claps on the marble floors of the hallways. Her fingers raised up revealing blackened finger nails, painted with a ring tightly knotted around her third finger. Her arms wept under the ink, markings of curses and lies swept away at her skin covering all the way to her feeble neck. Her beauty was unmatched, yet unsettling. She moved like vapour, drifting in the winds, swaying silently at the entrance of the school. She slowly stepped forward like the undead in the night;  like a ghost she hovered towards her prey.