Poetry and Creative Writing for All

Lianne Lee

I am a 22-year-old student heading towards the end of my degree at the University of Hull. I have been a writer for as long as I can remember; it’s a trait I inherited from my mother, a witty poet and a closet potential novelist, if I do say so myself.

My love for literature was what led me to major in American Studies and minor in creative writing. I love to study it as much as I love to write it and you will never find me in short supply of a book to read.

I am not a poet. I mean that in the sense that I do not set out to write poetry when I sit down in front of my laptop. During my time at school I was taught that one had to break a poem into pieces in order to appreciate it, and along the way I lost my appreciation for poetry altogether. It was not until some years later that I realised I was reading the wrong poems. I eventually discovered the pleasure of reading raw and simple poetry, the kind that does not need to be broken down and analysed, but the kind that tells the story of what is and not what should be. Realistic, dark and biting is what I favour when it comes to poetry, and that is what I write.

I rarely write poetry, and on the occasion that I do, it is when my muse demands it of me. ‘20’ was written during my college years, during which I visited France and Belgium with my English Literature class. We were studying World War I and II and visiting relevant sites and museums that would help our studies. It was sobering to realise that we were learning about the wars at an age not much younger than the soldiers that had fought in them. As young men and women we were learning names and dates, while decades before a generation of young men and women were fighting and dying in droves. I wrote ‘20’ a few short weeks later.

It is one of few poems I have written, and it will no doubt remain so. It is also one of my favourites. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

20

I am four letters on a slip of white,
And words forced to learn at age to fight,
I have no name, nor sound, but I am written
On scriptures by soldiers and mothers of Britain,
Who I have never seen,
And those who will no longer be,
What I was then -
A soldier of twenty.

I am voiceless, silent, like all the rest,
Sorley’s mouthless and Brooke’s English best.

They all learn my story,
Learn it off by heart
And reel it off to show how smart
They each can be.
But they don’t care about them or me.

Four letters on a slip of white,
The nameless etched, engrained in their head.
Voiceless, lost and forced to fight.
We are one word.
We are the dead

Submission Guidelines:
Poems of no more than 30 lines in length each will be considered.

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