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Helen Kay

Updated: Mon, 17 Sep 2018 09:45 am

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Helen is a quirky poet from a onesie free household. Her debut pamphlet, the Poultry Lover's Guide to Poetry (Indigo Dreams) reflects her chicken obsession.More recently she has been organising an exhibition of the work of dyslexic writers and artists . She has a faebook page for this event called Dyslexia and Poetry and there is an Artswarm special on You Tube featuring poems dysleixia She curates the Nantwich Poetry Page - which advertises arts events in the Crewe Nantwich Helen also likes to write about people .....


A response to NHS cuts Consultation. You have just ten minutes, starting now, for me to listen tactfully to symptoms then grasp your real reasons for coming to ponder twenty pathways for a lump to touch ‘places’, to use latin-named tools and explain them, to compose prescriptions selecting from a hundred brands of drug to step back from the fact that your growth may be terminal and you have young kids to be your soothing medicine, to listen to care deeply that you suffer no hurt (which really is why I swore the oath) to take punch bag talk not of my making, then to type it all up before the next ten and the next ten tens until we hit the target of more casualties, more cuts, more sutures and we carry on talking faster, typing faster. No tears, tap, come again, tap, next please. Poem from Poultry lover's Guide to Poetry (indigo Dream) 10. Enrichment devices do not have to be naturalistic My favourite online game is ‘Flay’. A deadly stab will save the Manster’s day. I’m Cluckman, dodging past huge flowers I have scissor claws and super powers. The aim’s to save the zombies stuck inside From storms of ants that annually hide Beneath the bath and grind the moulding grout, And mine the concrete, munching a way out. A black stream on white enamel: a curse For pimpled bodies itching to immerse. Here, on the patio, dust hills indicate The exit where the stealthy gamer waits To aim and peck, aim peck, aim peck and aim In the hottest, hippest breakfast-questing game. The ants play a version called ‘Flee’. The zombies, Cut off from food chains, soak in their frailty. Nelson Mandela In a warm ward, gently, you slip away But what an empty space, when you are gone. The press, in love with easy stories, paves The way with clichés, ‘comfortable’, ‘stable’, ‘Critical’, awaiting the tsunami of our tears. You outlived Thatcher and her legacy, And, safely distanced by a sea of years, From words like ‘communist’ and ‘terrorist’, Millions bow their heads and weep for you. The barbed wire of apartheid has been cut. There are some who will lick your name, Pretending they were never linked To groups that wanted you to swing, But you have taught us not to cling to grudges. You shaped our youth, a bunch of misfits In a town square, begging signatures, Posters for AA gigs on boarded houses, Hosting SWAPO speakers at the flat Amongst the Merrydown and Rizzla papers, Debating Commies, Trots and battered miners. While the blood of Soweto stained the world, We read about Rivonia, and laws That thinly masked white fear, and how you learned To cradle sanity in concrete cells. To splinter boulders from the quarry walls, Debating the ancestral roots of tigers. The world outside was somehow dripped to you: Your mother’s death, the raid on Lillesleaf farm, And Winnie’s punishments. Your greater Suffering shrank our suffering down, Though still significant and clearly linked. Exposed to labour, torture, hunger, You taught inmates to strike for better food , For every clenched fist holds the bigger fight. The world sang loud the moment you walked free. Small step, big step, gripping Winnie’s hand, A simple act amidst complexities Which you well understood, sought to pick through, To wash the language of resistance clean, While dreams of family life were swept away. Now illness is your final prison warder, But what you planted grows much wider. We clench a fist and let Mandela free.

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