Mike Garry: The Arndale was an important place for me growing up in Manchester. It was the closest thing to an American mall we had. It was glamour for the kids of Manchester, from Moss Side to Fallowfield, and Moston to Miles Platting. You’d socialise there with your mates, pass the time with a pasty and checkout the latest knits.
I also worked at Stolen from Ivor
selling burgundy jeans, but it wasn’t like going to work, it was
like hanging with your mates. And these days, the centre is better
than it ever was.
Mike’s other well-known verses include ode to north Manchester, God is a Manc, and St Anthony, which is dedicated to the former Factory Records boss and TV presenter Tony Wilson. Mike has now turned his attention to another famous Mancunian with his piece commissioned ahead of The Arndale’s anniversary.
David Allinson, Centre Director at
Manchester Arndale: Manchester Arndale has been one of the UK’s
most popular and exciting shopping destinations over the years –
welcoming 40 million people through its doors every year.
The opening of the northern
extension in 2008 led to the arrival of the country’s largest Next
store and attracted international brands such as Apple, Monki,
Victoria’s Secret and Pink to Manchester for the first time.
The centre remains as popular as
ever today, highlighted by Japanese fashion brand Uniqlo’s decision
to open its flagship store for the north at Manchester Arndale last
month. Our position as one of the UK’s leading fashion hubs has
also been boosted by AllSaints’ decision to sign up for a further
10 years at the centre, and the arrival of Quiz, alongside the
centre’s more established fashion retailers such as Superdry, JD
Sports and many more.
Manchester Arndale continues to attract new shops, restaurants, and leisure brands, and we expect to announce more exciting signings in the coming months.
Special thanks to Suzanne Armfield, PR & Social Media Manager @ Manchester Arndale
The
ancient story of The Green Man has always fascinated me. Whenever I
visit a new church or woodland, I always look for his face. When I
recently found him in Manchester, on the cover of a poetry book in
the middle of a stall at a publisher’s fair, I knew I wouldn’t be
leaving him behind.
The Green Man Awakes: Legends Past, Present and Future is a wonderful collection of verse published by Stairwell Books. Edited by Rose Drew, the collection covers the myth, symbols and stories associated with the ancient pagan forest deity.
There
are some beautiful poems in this anthology. I enjoyed how each poet
expressed their own vision and interpretation on the myth. Some
investigate old Norse rituals or ancient belief; some offer a more
recent interpretation. The Green Man by Andy Humphrey is one of my
favourites in the collection. A present-day setting for the ancient
god.
Each evening, his labours at an end, the green man catches the number ten bus and makes his silent way through the glistening, lamplit streets.
I
like how this poem sets the Green Man living in the now, and I love
how the poet describes looking at him.
…I sneak a glance when he’s not looking, try to make out stray twigs poking from under the cap, the stubble-fuzz of lichen on his jowls, the weatherbeaten crags of brows.
Some poems relate to a darker, deeper presence. Green Man by Pauline Kirk, describes the still powerful god trapped, not only in stone, but also in our collective memory.
You barely glance upwards but your ancestors knew me, changed me to new faith, and into stone…
Kirk
encourages the reader to keep searching for the lost in order to
rediscover forgotten knowledge.
…Look up! towards arch and ceiling boss. Find me, and I will show you what lingers still, deep in the groves of your mind.
Another of my favourites in this collection is The Green Man by Dave Gough. In it the god speaks directly to us. And he’s waiting. His world was cleared for stone buildings. ‘Let them come,’ he says, because he knows the power he holds over people, and that one day he will return.
I moved the hand that carved my face… ..The great forest will return with the seasons and the stars the sun and moon and rain.
Poems
about superstition and forgotten history also weave through this
collection. Midsummers Eve, 1840 by Tanya Nightingale is a magical
poem, with beautiful descriptions of friendship and youth.
It
describes two young girls walking through a graveyard to perform a
ritual to help them find husbands.
Suddenly they are both circling, spinning, Throwing fern and hempseed And saying words They don’t believe in and have always heard.
Boxing
Day by John Gilham examines how we perceive and remember ancient
earthworks. Although we can never truly understand the true meaning
of such monuments, Gilham concludes that we should accept
…that the gift of God is the land and the people and the voices whispering through the last leaves.
If
you enjoy reading about myth and legends, and have a passion for
poetry, then this collection is definitely for you.
The Green Man Awakes. Legends, Past, Present and Future is published by Stairwell Books.
You have several published poetry collections including, This is not a Spectacle, The Trees Whispered (Origami Poetry Press) and Digging Holes To Another Continent (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). Would you share with us a couple of your poems and walk us through the ideas behind them?
Yes of course! This is not a Spectacle (second edition) was published in February of this year and is very much the story of why I started sharing my writing- the book opens with a car crash, an event which took place the day before I left for university in 2017, and which lost me my grandma:
The Van
fear tastes like rust. blood and metal.
waiting for you, university bags.
smells like animal saliva, like curdled sweat.
After the phone call I started running, blindly seeking hospital bed, weeping on the nurse I had just met.
underwater pressure bubble impenetrable
apologetic words caressed my head broke like a wave swept me out to sea: Head trauma. No specialist unit.
fear is inflating
Tried to forget the sound fluid rising and choking lungs, Tried to forget tears and last words: Pain. Pain. I have tried to be strong.
The
book explores where private grief meets public spectacle, but also
stands as a tribute to everything about my character which I can
tribute to my grandma, such as my strength and my feminist values.
With Digging Holes To Another Continent, (published by Clare Songbirds New York) I was exploring a Christmas spent in New Zealand, a completely new experience for me but at the time when the whole family needed to heal – it was a very Shakespearean celebration because we had travelled for the wedding of my uncle ( the first love of his life so a massive deal to all of us), but after the death of Grandma Maureen, who had suffered with Alzheimer’s and dementia for 12 years -although I don’t touch on that experience in the collection overtly, it very much underpins the collection, a feeling of grief but also relief. I was able to explore the landscape and the wild nature of New Zealand was healing in itself:
Nature Reversal
A few years from now maybe months maybe weeks, a huge wind will claim back the carefully sculpted scoops of road and the branches that wilt lazily like dog’s tongues will fall into the sea one by one on a suicide mission and take up new roots in the sea bed (a feast for fish) and nature will claw back the cities piece by piece demolition to terracotta rubble and the only sound left will be frantic insect feet on crisping leaves.
Congratulations on your forthcoming poetry collection, published by Knives, Forks and Spoons. What themes have you explored in this new collection? When will it be available?
Thank you! This is the collection I am most proud of to date. It explores the with state of becoming an adult but feeling ill-equipped to deal with the loneliness that comes with that, and also my experience of the aftermath of sexual assault, while being very far away from friends and family. It very much looks at the value of a woman’s body in today’s society. It is due to be released in August 2020.
You are editor of the wonderful Fly On The Wall Press. Can you give us a glimpse into your working day? What are the best and worst parts of being an editor?
I think all publishers will tell you that they both love their job and that they find it exhausting! I love that I create a season, finding gaps in the market I believe need to be addressed. I believe that words have the power to change opinion and that’s what I am aiming to do especially with my anthologies, but also with my chapbooks, representing voices which I believe are not currently at the forefront of society. The worst part as of course when writers cannot separate themselves from their own writing-rejection is never personal, it’s simply about what you have written and the style of it.
As
well as offering author services, you also give talks and run
workshops in schools. How do you structure your workshops? What
subjects have you engaged in with the pupils?
I’m enjoying giving talks in schools currently, but as a publisher it is fairly new to me- I used to be a drama practitioner, however, so I am used to giving workshops creatively! I like to challenge young people by setting the standard of my workshop high, and I am often surprised by the result. I like to give examples of poets whom I admire, but I also like to give an example of where I myself have done the exercise as with students, I wouldn’t like them to do anything which I would not be able to do myself. Primarily, I am engaging the pupils in creative writing about global warming, themed around the Planet in Peril anthology, although I really enjoy answering questions on getting into publishing as an industry.
Please Hear What I’m Not Saying is a fundraising, mental health themed anthology which was runner up in the Saboteur Awards 2018. Tell us more.
Yes! Very much how I started getting the publishing bug and continuing on. The book features 116 writers globally writing on a wide range of mental health experiences-it was really important that I featured as many poems as I fell in love with because there really is no universal experience, and readers will connect with different poems. The book’s profits go to UK mental health charity, Mind, and so far we have raised just under £600. The anthology is available from Fly On The Wall Poetry
Tell us about your experience in taking part in the ‘Sex Tapes’ at the Leeds International Festival.
I
think we can all agree that there is little to no money in the arts
and that it needs to be funded more, so I was very excited to find a
callout for the festival, which paid! The festival opened with ‘Sex
Tapes’ and I was scheduled to go on first – very much before the
audience and had enough alcohol to process poems on the female
orgasm… but that was what I had been paid to write about, so there
you go! It was a lot of fun, and there was absolutely no shame in
the event- it was very much a positive experience, with the profits
going to a charity in Leeds which helps sexual violence survivors. So
although the evening was light-hearted and comedic, the message was
heartfelt and performers like the lovely Roz Weaver were not afraid
to touch on the darker side of their experiences. Thank you to
Eleanor Snare for organising such an important evening.
What
are you reading at the moment?
I’m reading Songs for the Unsung by Grey Hen Press. I met the editor, Joy, recently, and we agreed that the anthology was a sister book to Fly on the Wall Press’ Persona Non Grata, so I’m enjoying reading her choices and the exploration of social exclusion.
Tell
us a random fact about yourself.
I used to compete for Ballroom and Latin with my university- but before university I barely even danced! I thought I had two left feet and now I love it.
What’s
next for you? What plans have you got?
I have an exciting performance scheduled in July, for which I will be performing poetry on the subject of women in space. I am hoping to put a book together about these amazing women working for NASA. For Fly On The Wall, 2020 will see a ‘shorts’ season – a short story published in A6 bound form, every 2 months, on subscription to your door!
She was ushered by her uncle into the only room that was close to the front door of her grandparents’ spacious but very old house. He mumbled something in utter disapproval at her newly shaven head, which looked as a scraped potato in her grandmother’s pot. Clare felt utterly embarrassed though she had done nothing wrong. She thought that she must have looked too ugly to be isolated in her uncle’s private room. She stared at the open window behind which many butterflies roamed. She examined every inch of the wall, stared at nothing then inspected the pictures of a single man’s world, and although she could not then spell the dignified word, its letters loomed large on the ceiling and walls:
F
grew gigantic and looked like a lamp-stand with no gold.
O
was a circle that had no exit or door.
R
restlessly roamed tripping on obstacles on the floor.
L
heavily lagged looking lame and forlorn.
N
knelt to pray for hair to quickly grow.
F,O,R,L,O
and N must have come into the room the moment her uncle turned the
knob. Time grew wingless and seconds and minutes crept on the floor.
It was a tradition with some parents to have the heads of children
shaven to strengthen their hair-roots, but she who recommended the
hair chopping did not supply Clare with a cap or hood with which to
hide her furless globe. Why was she not
at home? Was a shaven head a stigma in any household?
Clare waited for her grandmother who with a hug would calm the heaving and scattered limbs of forlorn. She would ease Clare’s bewilderment and shame with a single kiss on her forehead, fastening a bouquet of violets to the sleek hair, behind the very tiny ear, regaling her nostrils with the soap-scented hand as she, with a snow-white towel dipped in lukewarm water, blotted every mark on an easily blemished slate, a child’s face.
Dr. Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Peeking Cat Poetry, The Curlew, Plum Tree Tavern, The Ink Pantry, A New Ulster, Down in the Dirt, the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, the Avalon Literary Review, The Opiate, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, WestWard Quarterly, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, The Blotter, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Crossways, The Moon Magazine, the Mojave River Review, Dodging the Rain, River Poets Journal, and Coldnoon.
Today at breakfast Sister Mary has pulled out from her cupboard A blue box filled with crispy crosses – edible rice bran the colour of amethyst Trix.
She pours the milk over her wholesome “t’s” and watches them float miniature crosses buoyant on a purple sea, the envy of all Carmelites.
Sister bows her head and prays over her tiny morsels, each infinitesimal snap, crackle and pop, giving thanks for some rangy white-haired Diva back in Rome whom they’ve named Product Manager.
Hunter Boone was published in Sappho Magazine under the pen name of J. Hunter O’Shea, has a BA in Creative Writing, studied with Stuart Dybek, Eve Shelnutt, Herb Scott and Jaimy Gordon whilst completing a MA of Fine Arts at Western Michigan University, and plays a Fender Stratocaster.
I sift through a treasure of photos that my Dad’s death has unearthed and pore over one of an acquaintance who had a fleeting presence in my childhood. I have a vivid memory that conjures every single detail, colour, smell and sound from recollections that would evade any other child.
I
sat in the taxi next to the driver, a proper but tiny barrier between
him and two young women, a relative and a dark-haired university
student in her twenties, visiting home. The driver, a typical
womanizer, divided his attention between the tortuous road to the
student’s summerhouse and her very short-cut blouse. She had a
beautiful bosom and the most captivating smile. He bombarded her ears
with compliments and sometimes he crossed the line. I viewed her with
my mesmerized eyes but she never returned a glance. She sedately
ignored the driver’s remarks with a meaningful but inscrutable smile.
I wondered what was making her so happy – I was sure it was not
that silly clown. Though her face was fixed on the road, she was
looking inwardly at something that fascinated her lustrous eyes. She
was so taciturn that I cannot now recall her voice. I had an excuse
to constantly examine her face to see how she responded to sexual
praise of the unremitting type, but her politeness remained all along
intact. When she left the car, I felt a terrible sense of loss. That
nymph had me under her spell. She never doted on me as strangers
usually do on children during a short drive, but she took away with
her a piece that she chiseled off my mind. My sun and my moon orbited
in her constellation – she had allowed them in without a sign.
More than forty years have elapsed and at the counsel of my retentive memory I could have been three, four or five. That was my only meeting with my mother, now I realize long after her demise. She had departed from the world without saying goodbye. I wish she had sealed that short meeting with a hug, a kiss, or a keepsake gift. My only inheritance is a box of haunting smiles and a long history of malignant lies.
Dr. Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in The Curlew, A New Ulster, Straylight Magazine, Down in the Dirt, The Ink Pantry, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, The Avalon Literary Review, The Opiate, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, WestWard Quarterly, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, The Blotter, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Crossways, The Moon Magazine, the Mojave River Review, Always Dodging the Rain, and Coldnoon.
In this last book of the Hidden Sanctuary series, the Tribe face their greatest threat yet. With Prosperity intent on expanding their city of excellence footprint into every corner of Brumont, the mass clearing of the abandoned industrial units begins; part of a regeneration that will leave no place for the Tribe left to hide. More than that, Prosperity’s methods of eviction are swift and brutal, meaning hiding has become a deadly option, one with only time as its protector – and that is fast running out. Just as Jacob was beginning to fit into his role as mentor, it falls to him to ensure the survival of those he’s been entrusted to take care of. The only options left are to leave Brumont City behind altogether, or return to their old lives in the city under Prosperity’s watchful eye. Either way, it will mean going their separate ways, and the abrupt end of their once peaceful existence.
Themes of mental health run through this final book as they have done throughout the series. In Unmasked, we see one of our characters descend into depression while another tries to fight their way out of it. Also depicted are issues resulting from PTSD such as panic disorder and anxiety.
“There’s another option… We go back.”
The city closes in on Jacob and the tribe he has sworn to protect.
With nowhere left to run, will they be forced back to the lives they had once escaped?
As the city grows ever more unstable, those living on its outskirts fear their once peaceful existence is almost at an end. In the shadow of this fear the members of the tribe connect on a level they haven’t before, defying the doctrine to share stories of their past. But for Jacob the time is drawing close when he must decide to put their safety above all else, a move that would see them go their separate ways and bring about the end of the tribe for good.
Sada has returned to her old life in the city to stay near her daughter. But its grip on her is as suffocating as it ever was. Yearning to be free from the glass confines of her husband’s penthouse, she seeks out reasons to meet with Jacob and the tribe. Even though doing so puts all their lives at risk.
UNMASKED is the third and final book in the Hidden Sanctuary urban dystopia series. Check out T.L. Dyer’s website.
As we step in to our own role We surrender to our true soul Path and calling for all to see Living as one in harmony!
Fearless beings of love and light Who truly have been in a fight A clash of ego and the deepest pain Now to rise like a phoenix again
It is the test of an enduring root We seek no glory or toot toot We jest in banter as much as we cry Most of our life, it’s been a lie
We told ourselves that all was real Then we discovered it was not the deal Or agreement we made many moons ago It was time we created an eternal flow
Across time and space we drifted most Many a time we felt like a lost ghost To find the inner power and desire Cutting the cords and etheric wire
Which bound us to a chain so strong Now we see what truth was all along Through experiences we had need to make And connections with others we got to break
It’s clear as the sun will shine each day Our inner calling guiding us all the way From here and now, and forever more We venture both sides of a swinging door
To be as One in balance with all that is We will live a life of love and bliss In pastures green and skies so blue, We are here, wondering where are you
Each of us who knows the truth It’s not the time to be aloof Change the thoughts and open your mind You will see us there, look, come and find
Let’s make it fun just like a game Trust us, it’s a new life for you to gain To be as free like a pure white dove That’s the essence of unconditional love
Deane Thomas is a former corporate executive who had the pleasure of living in many different countries and cultures. He currently lives in Croatia with his two teenage daughters. In August 2014 a set of life changing circumstances led to his own awakening and to finally lifting the veils of illusion.
Deane stepped away from corporate responsibility, relocated to another country, and began his own spiritual journey, and life as a solo father. He is continually healing and growing spiritually, and now dedicates his time to helping, healing and teaching others.
His inquisitiveness into historical events and places, as well as witnessing them in the present time, has led him to truly appreciate all that life has to offer. A deep fascination with indigenous cultures and their way of life, how they function and more importantly, live without religions.
Always challenging and questioning societies forced indoctrination and expectations of man, he has become a philosopher and writer, something he has been in previous incarnations.
When we first came to Golden Pines, Embarking on a ritual of friendship, The seafood buffet: Tilapia, raw shrimp, thawed, still cold. I told Frank that we would not be The youngest people here for long. So twelve years later We sustain the ritual As best we can, Walkers parked along the wall. Tilapia, raw shrimp, thawed, still cold. I tell Frank there are people here I’ve never seen before. Turnover, he replies.
2) Sunday
On All Saints Day we listen to A modern requiem: Kyrie, Sanctus, Harp, tympani, Melodies, harmonies serene, ethereal, The composer not himself a man of faith. We hear read the names of the departed: Turnover. The choir recesses to Sine Nomine, For all thy saints… Harp, tympani. I do not weep at Christmas or Easter But weep today: Harp, tympani: Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.
Foliage Tour
October: it is the day of the tour buses, But the Foliage Coordinator Has let us down: Where reds and golds should Spread, a colour wheel across the hills, Instead, you see here a maple Partly turned, partly bare, An oak mostly green, And a beech that mousey past-peak Yellow brown. Says it has to do with Misapplications of warmth and water. No matter. Waves of buses Roll on, each with its cargo Of greying leaf-peepers, Name tags around their necks, Cell phone cameras poised, But glumly suspecting that They have come the wrong week. The Foliage Coordinator acknowledges That some years are better than others, but The Chamber of Commerce is Loath to call Him out.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
