top of page

Open Call: Poetry

Winning submissions to our Open Call on the theme of 'Loneliness'



Shia Conlon


after your death the crows came
they descended on our place
with white jackets and stethoscopes
they unravelled you from the wall
i kept thinking
here she wept and here she sang


after your death i had to sit down
i sat for so long the government changed
they rewrote the constitution and now there was a cure
i kept thinking
here she wept and here she lived


after your death i began telling everyone you were murdered

Barren Branch

David Ratcliffe


A barren branch kisses the pane,
adding hollow percussion
to the dirge I direct at the
loss of everything, casting shadows
on the walls of my filthy retreat.


The whistling wind erodes time
carrying me eagerly toward dawn,
the dank musty smell of neglect
replacing the fragile fragrance
of another time, another place.


Random creaks, constant ticks,
a rustle of brittle leaves merge,
removing the soft velvet voice
that once called my name
with fondness, now spent.


I lay here in shit, open my eyes,
try to picture a face in the murk,
lean to kiss what appears a sweet
neck, and inhale the reek of
stale sweat on my pillowcase.


Tap tapping continues as I cower
beneath grime into oblivion where
accusation beats my brow and
I sink into the mire, with just a book
of fairy tales at my side.


Just A Speck

Kris Sahlholdt


I spoke to a speck of dust the other day

Just casually at first

about weather-stuff and what we had for dinner

The speck looked just like a speck on the neck of a family member

Cursed to bits, that speck,

but still my favourite attribute of that person

Greyish and irregular

A blob really

I think they got it removed.

We kept talking the speck and I

Of big and small, far and wide

All of it

I went to bed, my belly full of friendship’s content.

Today the speck was gone.

I spoke to another speck of dust

It didn’t speak back.

The Wait

Laura Robinson


I sought shelter in the brittle dust
hands raw
to protect me from the cold
I dug deep
scraping the belly of the earth
seeking warmth
I buried myself like a seed
and waited for the sun



Katrina McMullan


Now it was just him and I.
The congratulations and baby blue wrapping paper had all been swept away.
It was just him and I.

Tiredness, restlessness, loneliness.
The hum of daytime television – the soundtrack to our days.
The snap of the letter box awakening me briefly ...
It was just him and I.

I was afraid of him.
I was afraid for him.
Worried that I would fail him.
Worried that he would be like me,
Now that it was just him and I.

Sensitive to the well-meaning smiles.
No one to listen. No one for company.
Paralysed in the fog that came over me like a wave.
Drowning, it was just him and I.


Upon Waking

Francis Quinn


Enslaved by the daily routine of nothing much,
Life lived under this pall.
There is no solace in its adherence,
I’ve perfected the cup of tea, that’s all.

Find no point, just blunt indifference,
Spirit buried in months, endured, endless.
Projects listed, but unfulfilled notions,
Stare down upon the wretched friendless.

The instrument sits in silent rebuke,
The ideal time, yet it slips by.
The pen un-lifted to mark the passage,
The mind numbed by endless days, oh my!

Talking cyphers, confident fools, untrusted.
Display uncaring ignorance, objects of hate.
The narrow minded in widescreen,
In pathetic self-pity, consider my fate.

Long day, longer night, alone,
The clock stopped, with too much time.
Physical decline with clouded mind,
With each breath, the universe without rhyme.


When I Knew You

Jay Douglas


And I laughed when she said it

Now looking back it makes me sad ’cos none of it was ever funny

But it was all that I could muster up to shove in front of trust been tossed asunder

Incognito, under covers

Moth coughs, fluff clots, dust and clutter

Sense had long since done a runner

But it was fun

It was summer

It was young and we were dumber

It was lazy

It was Sunday on a Monday and a Wednesday

Never end days

But they all do

Way back when days

When I knew you


Loneliness is a Queue

Frank Phelan


Amongst a trail of slumped shoulders
I stand for the first time in years.
Stigma stifles the tiny building,
sagging with neglect;
the intimacies of private struggles
boom from hatch to tiny hatch.


We are many,
huddled in this room closing in.
Leaflets blue-tacked
flash warnings and accusations;
invite the voice behind the glass
to join the torment in your head.


Next! catches the weight in your chest.
A weary carcass shuffles
to a vacant hatch,
an acre of loneliness
in every step.


Sky and Peace (for Peace Nkanta)

Ojo Taiye


the world is a ball of lint
hidden in your bellybutton
i would very much like to stand
at the end of your finger
like a pier and fish
for canoes and yellow dreams


i forgot to tell you
in me a shipwreck sleeps
how do you carry birds
and rivers at the same time
i am a ghost grappling all
the abandoned shoes
that my loneliness could carry

lead me to my lost shadow
in the dark
the skies are falling
all over my mouth
the trees are quivering again
let me be found beneath an upside
down spoon with olives on my lips



Alison McCullough


Not a mouth or nose to be seen.

I follow the arrows with my shopping basket held in a gloved hand.

Making sure I avoid contact with the rest of the human race.

Outside, mask removed I breathe in a lungful of air.

I fish in my pocket for my keys ready to enter my prison.

Filling the kettle, I place one mug, one plate, one bun.

Before I would have been setting the table for four.

They never failed to turn up rain, hail or sleet.

Good company, lots of banter and all three my soul mates.

Now we have to listen to our prison guard, the Prime Minister.

As I empty my groceries from my bag for life.

The words take on a new meaning.

How much life do I have left to live?

I slap my hand and shake this thought away.

My bun and mug of tea, usually delicious,
tastes of nothing and I leave both unfinished.

I never thought I could feel lonely, but I do.

At Night

Jessica Williams


I weave a blanket of salt stars

In the palms of my hands

Press crystal edges tight

to keep the oxygen in

Back bent arched

Spine poking through starved

Straightened like a whip

Drowning in the starlight I

Sip from my palms.

I know you are there beyond

But I’ve grown gills,

Medicine for aches long-healed

Fresh bruises bloom under

Memories I wash in, and

Seep beneath my skin.

Permeable I move between

Solid and starlight

No longer drinking but full I slosh

Between, between

Turgid and boundless and

Sea-sick from myself.

bottom of page