Young Writers’ Space

We welcome stories, poems, jottings, drawings, graphics, cartoons, extracts from your novel. Anything at all!

We are particularly looking for work from 16’s and under for this page though will consider you up to 18. If you are under 18 please send them to eleanor@poetryspace.co.uk

Mums and Dads, Aunties, Uncles,  brothers,  sisters, teachers, youth workers please get in touch if you have creative children or young people in your lives. WE CAN FEATURE THEIR WORK HERE. HOWEVER IT MUST BE THEIR WORK. IF THEY CAN’T WRITE YOU CAN TRANSCRIBE.

Contributions from over 18’s are welcome for other sections of the website. If you are over 18 please contribute to the quarterly showcase via susan@poetryspace.co.uk  and take a look at the other website pages. Also use the contact link on the menu for enquiries.

If you are 16 – 18  you can also enter the annual international competition.

In the future we plan  to have a book with all the best contributions from under 18’s.  Please encourage friends and fellow students to submit to our cause to encourage young creative people.  We are very interested in extracts from your novels and long term literary projects.

If you have a flickr account you can now also submit to our group page!


 

She

She has gardens in her throat and when she breathes in Autumn the

words swirl, billowing around her like shifting smoke.

©Josie Bauman

©Josie Bauman

With each rise and fall of her eyelids, she grows. She is wild and water

and freedom and the sun through the clouds on a Winter’s day. The ice

doesn’t make her fall she just glides more elegantly.

The wind calls her name and the birds sing her song and the flowers

bloom her beauty. Trapped behind enameled gates.

Just like Persephone you will want to walk her garden to taste her fruit,

but if you do no mortal has ever returned because she is more than

woman:

She has split the world open and painted herself in its colours. She has

stripped back the centuries and held the first atom between her fingers

and asked, “Why?”

Even the greatest philosophers have waited at the edge of her garden to

catch a single leaf and call it beauty. Then catalogue it in dusty tomes

in uniform piles but she will never be contained.

She is like an oasis in a desert and you are a dying man in need of a drink.

 

© Megan Cowzer, Age 14

 

This is Growing Up

The flowers only bloom,
On a full moon.

©Rodrigo Ignacio

©Rodrigo Ignacio

The petals only grow,
Because they all know they will be gone someday;
Just washed away,
Even though bees sting,
They create the sweetest thing.
Birds aren’t born knowing how to fly,
They need a push because they are shy.
Like baby birds need help to stray,
Kids need their parents to help them along the way.
Even though we cry,
Tears will eventually dry.
We got stronger, taller as we grew,
Then realized what we were made to do.
Towards our passion we reach,
Something that no one can teach.
Water can be calm or rough,
People can be weak or tough.
We practice to learn non-stop,
To become a artist, a firefighter or a cop.
You have to make a decision,
With lots and lots of precision.
The light shines brighter,
You become a stronger fighter.
The grass is greener,
Because we become keener.
Shadows disappear in the sun,
When we find that special someone,
Now your the one they need,
It is your turn to lead.
When you get older, memories fade,
You see colours of a different shade
This is life, this is growing up,
Savour the moment, fill your cup!
© Mason Toussaint, Age 11

Escape

I run,

past the Tudor houses

©Maeva Marie

©Maeva Marie

past the wooden bench

dried leaves rich in green

past the lake

past the willow tree

faster,

alongside the cyclists lane

up the hill

I look back, stretch my eyes to see the horizon

a million miles away

little am I traveling; I am not running at all,

I can’t escape my thoughts of you

they’re running in me.

© Rahela Khatun, Age 17

 

 

Ball Of Flames

One pair, two pair, a dozen. A few more.

©Fabien Vilrus

©Fabien Vilrus

Weight of eyes grow heavier.

Why does she walk in a flock of flames?

Lifeless face, lonely eyes, dry skin, untouched wounds

she was chewed not wooed

evidence of a volcanic eruptions perished

not even the fumes left, no sympathy.

Scorching heat torturing, temperature rising

blood pressure decreasing

burning and brewing

leaving not even skeletons to turn into ashes.

Matches in batches, coals in rolls

both in her hands; feeling at home.

Ignited.

No eyes on you now soft little child.

Her eyes and ears walked to the depths of oceans

and mountains to see or hear a familiar voice.

None at her savior.

Panic, nerves, pressure.

The whole world coated in petrol

none to turn to, none to speak to

she swallowed the matches along with the coal

a harmonious world; forever she burns

merciless Earth.

Words, thoughts rolled into bullets

resting in the depths of her fractured mind.

Scared soul seeking solace

a whole army against her

none appreciation did she receive

harsh snipers struck at the back

for being a ball of

flame.

© Rahela Khatun, Age 17

 

©Alastair Coe

©Alastair Coe, Age 16

We
we fit together

like
puzzle pieces
or peanut butter in Reese’s
like stew or glue
we love each other…

© Marlowe Whittenberg, Age 7

 

A Remedied World

You question how the world, a single sole entity, can become “better”
I say, the question is how we can make it wetter
Lack of flow, bringing of drought
World ceasing to revolve, lasting with its faults

©Idil Meric

©Idil Meric, Age 18

Once warm puffy clouds dissipating, evaporating, seeming to be gone
Rain storms with it, once thundering and quarrelsome
A rainbow’s variegation shattering into pure colorless glass
Limitless sky; disappearing; rendering itself quite rash…

Then add diseases amplifying the embrace of death, of lasting light’s kiss
Pain, scars, rashes, depression, drugs, suicide, a lack of pure bliss
Without which the world would be on an all time high
Passing along, singing its song; now of dreariness, gloaming, and demise

Littering past, human fallacy scattered to the heavens
Where white clad angels can remedy, shape, mend, and recondition
Soulless beings past reprobation, extricated by holy saints
Odd, mediocre, disquieting creatures acquire places of deserved rank
Bias eliminated, nonexistent, and consequentially extinct

Lies, such as knives, stabbing through people’s minds, who are just wishing to be heard
A voice to all, a representation, a desire for truth and authenticity through the individual word

Helping hand within aiding hand, embracing; clutching; relying
Four chambered hearts connected by more than just arteries and veins
Looks and beauty disregarded, individuals regarded by genuineness and what the inside contains

A revival of creation, fabrication, construction, and development; a demolition decrease
A contemporary Renaissance; exemplifying morals, relevant issues, and (of course) world peace

How such a power could be improved, however, is beyond me
As a human being, I believe there to be only one “bona fide” method to appease
The world must band together and weather the many incoming storms
As an entity, no individual can stand alone

Lasting, falling, producing, and shaping
Our world is a wondrous realm of rights, liberty, and personal conscientiousness in the making

While this sphere shall advance within time, one statement remains true
In regard to our planet, all must pitch in and pledge time in order to make it harmonious, healthy, and breathtakingly beautiful

So to our glorious, all encompassing world, or mundo, ashkharh, mondo, orbis, sekai, shìjiè, segye, wereld, welt, kósmo and monde

                   ~I have faith in you~

© Danielle Mikaelian, Age 16

 

Using My Spine As A Toothpick

©Justine Grandpierre

©Justine Grandpierre, Age 17

using my spine as a toothpick
us in shambles, when I realize his true identity
he sits in the dark, daunting, the slope of his nose furrowed by a thread of dental floss mooring him to the ground
we sit asunder, and I swear to what he left, no more.

yesteryears, using my spine as a bow
fiddling together, writing love notes
laughter bouncing off bathroom walls,
Sunday’s dreams shimmying down the drain
we will have a cottage in the countryside, maybe move to Ireland
and sleep with the green, move in with the moss
stuffing cheese in each other’s mouths until we die, found lying in love and lactose

using my spine as a coat hanger
he hangs me out to dry
I sit sopping against our couch with a face full of sodium and oil
my couch, but his legs still strive to calculate its surface area
and i am waiting to surface, from the bathtub, the laminate
all the glossy limbos

using her spine as a clothing iron
I smooth out the wrinkles, send her off to school with her sack lunch and pigtails
I watch her walk ahead of me
she has her father’s legs
he’ll be running for the rest of his life,
and She’ll surely catch up, stomping down his spine with valor
and snap him like a toothpick

© Hanna Andrews, Age 15

 

MEDUSA

looking at her turns you to stone.

©Michael Schauer

©Michael Schauer

she is the ruby clutched between your teeth,

the ghost creeping through your belly with a fist full of

you will love her as long as you live

and this is why you will not give her up.

he will love her as well as she left you.

when he looks at her, he will turn into gold- not stone, not

gold like you used to be in her eyes.

 

© Taylor Browne, Age 16

 

 

Young

Beneath the spring evening sky of crimson watercolour red

My bike clicks down to the sidewalk’s end

‘Til I reach the top of the pavement hill’s head.

 

©Clare Herondale

©Clare Herondale

There I stop and peak down, down

Where little voices shrill behind their sand castle towns.

My tiger bike bounce, dips and drowns,

Under the timeless sea of imagination.

 

I leave my sleeping bike under its green blanket and yellow pillow dandelions

And wander to the sand box’s edge

I am now a survivor in the desert lands

And scurry to the metal oasis.

 

Then, I climb to the playground’s top

Where my crown is the racing clouds.

The metal slides, tire ladder, and swing sets did bow

To my throne on the big yellow slide.

 

I stand and grip the plastic bar

And crawl into my yellow caved slide

Dip

Down

Drown under the timeless sea of imagination.

© Bonnie Liu, Age 15

 

 

 

The Dandelion

The dandelion mother swept

On the breeze of the wish.

Her white hair gleamed

©Jocelyn CL

©Jocelyn CL

With laughter and bliss.

She was a snowflake in the summer sky.

 

But her daughter leapt

From the dusty brown road

Bloomed of golden sun

A weed but unknown.

She feared the ground – her home.

The dandelion mother dreamed of other lands

Green as her own and kissed by the sun

Her flight was forever high.

 

But the daughter hid from other plants

Her yellow bright hair may catch the eye

Of large shadow hands

Who may pull her from her brown womb.

She feared of things unknown.

© Bonnie Liu, Age 15

 

 

©Zack Greenstein

©Zack Greenstein

Dirty Monsters
Baby nenu snanam chesthunna (Baby I am bathing)
Baby nuvvu inka snanam cheyale (Baby you didn’t bathe yet)
Papa will show you how to do snanam (repeat three times)
If we don’t do snanam
Baby and Maanya will be monsters

© Maanya Gadeela, Age 3

 

 

 

 

 

Unknown Sufferers

It comes down to
These very moments
When you
shiver and squirm
And your demons learn to
Love your angels.

©Kasun Desitha

©Kasun Desitha

It boils down to this
As your daily terrors
become the subject of
Reject poems,
That haunt you but somehow
Help you sleep.

Soon you’ll feel
Your feet sprout roots
Growing deep to
hug the fossils
Of age old skeletons
Inside yew coffins.

You know that
Every cloud has a
silver lining
With cyanide inside
Waiting to suffocate you
In your darkest times.

But, your mind
will grow strong
While you drag your
Feet,  leaving a breadcrumb
trail to find your way
back to the past you always knew.

Recovery won’t be swift
Unknown sufferer
But believe me, one day
You will tear the colours off
rainbows and blow them
Onto the darkness of your life.

© Harry Coleman, Age 16

 

Some Say

©Clàudia Calduch

©Clàudia Calduch

 

Some say love is a cold winter lake

All it gives is tears and heartbreak

But others say it is fire,burning and bright

Love puts the day in our heart’s night

 

© Deena Goodrunning, Age 14

 

 

Spring

When people are having showers

 ©Gregoire Lhemery

©Gregoire Lhemery

And the blossoms bloom on the flowers
And the breeze is warm

When the birds squawk

It can sometimes rain

And splash on the window, the rain

These are some of the things

That make me think of Spring

 © Monica Clemens, Age 7

 

 

Frost

Frost.
Forgotten.
Overlooked.
No one has enough time for frost.

©Thaís Letícia Olivo

©Thaís Letícia Olivo

No time to pause and admire
Each fragile crystal feather-light crowning every inch of the world around us.
You can find a universe in one inch of frost.
We are often blind to the glistening cloak
Accompanied by misty breath and a low winter sun.
It remains undetected.
That seems to be the way of the modern world.
The beautiful things are often missed, lost in the blur of life.

Take a minute,

A second,

A breath
To find frost once again.
Discover nature’s eternal beauties.
For when your mortal life has ended,
It will be frost that decorates your grave on a winter morning.

 

© Chloe Peel, Age 17

 

 

 

Be yourself

Money changes everyone

©Katja de Bourbon

©Katja de Bourbon

If you’re ‘rich’ you’re a ‘snob’

If you’re ‘poor’, you’re a ‘peasant’

Society can’t be pleased

No matter how hard you try it won’t work

Be yourself

Beauty doesn’t get you very far

If you’re ‘pretty’ then you’re ‘fake’

If you’re not ‘pretty’ then you’re ‘ugly’

Society can’t be pleased

No matter how hard you try it won’t work

Be yourself

Money can’t buy happiness

Beauty won’t get you friends

Just stay the way you are and

You’ll be famous in the end

© Leotie  Clairmont, Age 11

 

 

Asleep

16638619212_aa4b162087_z

©Rebeka Duarte

its dark and i dream

I’m without worries or cares

I am just being

 

© Deena Goodrunning, Age 14

 

 

 

Waterfall

My roar puts others to shame,

 ©Paul Sugano

©Paul Sugano

a deafening cacophony of natural birth.

My surface glitters and pours,

a wind chime come to life,

with a more threatening noise.

My colour shifts in any light,

behold – it is a beautiful sight.

An array of random colours brought to life,

as a rainbow I could be mistaken,

but only as the most powerful one in the world.

My end hides no pot of gold,

just an untimely death –

for those who wish to penetrate my walls.

A knight in shining armor would not survive my wrath,

as I am a castle – only accessible from above.

My sides are slippery,

wet beyond belief.

Rocky ledges,

supporting my weight.

I am a waterfall,

and this is how I fall.

© Georgia Alicja Radka  Age 12

 

 

14364453520_8ccd36a506_z

Shattered like ice

shattered like ice and

  broken like bread my heart has

     cracked because of grief

© Deena Goodrunning, Age 14

 

 

A Life

Give me education;
I demand the right to power,

©Maura Geoghegan

©Maura Geoghegan

you will give me rights,
and sleep-full nights
a soft pillow to lean on
a door out of poverty
give me hearts to inspire
a place to perspire from the traumas
I know for sure I can lure
the attention of future doctors,
teachers and aid workers
For education is not just knowledge
it is a weapon;
to freedom,
to life.

© Rahela Khatun, Age 17

 

 

On the day I was born I was given a scale,On the day I was born I was gifted two weighing pails,
Because on the one hand:
A woman should be pretty, funny and sweet, caring and loving and gentle and neat.
A woman shouldn’t be too loud or too abrasive, women should be smiling and laughing in all the right places.
But, on the other hand:
Who wants a woman too quiet, a woman too sweet? Women have to be entertaining or they’re just plain weak.
Women should be able to take a joke or five, and take all sorts of criticism about how they live their lives.
It’s a balance beam we walk, with no end in sight:
To the left you have insults like doormat and slut, and bitch and bossy to the right.

©Nicole Bouffard

©Nicole Bouffard

If you wobble the slightest bit, there’s accusing fingers in your face: stupid, stupid women who just can’t stay in their place.
You have to be needy but not too much, you have to be desperate (but not too desperate) for someone else’s love,

you have to be waiting but not for too long, if you’re taller than a man it’s not right to have high heels on.

You have to be strong but not too strong, you have to smart but not smarter than him, you have to have curves but you’ve got to be thin.
If a man is assertive, he’s a boss, but I’m a bitch? If I wear what I want, I’ll be blamed if I end up dead in a ditch?
I’ve been squeezed and prodded into this box for so long, I’m still trying to unlearn what I was taught was right and wrong.
I wear makeup for myself to make me ever stronger, I wear high heels because I like them, not because men like my legs longer.

I believe in fate and faith and truth, I believe in honesty and conscience and I believe in you.
When people begin acting like feminism is a dirty word, you know they’re the kind of people who think that boys are better than girls:
Don’t tell me to be ladylike or that boys will be boys, teach your sons that women are not objects or toys.
Show me all your promises and repeat to me each one:
Tell me how you equally love your daughters and your sons,
Tell me of equal pay and equal punishment and the same rights throughout,
Don’t let your promises run through your fingers like water in a drought.
If you want to barter off your daughters, barter off your sons too,
Dress baby boys in pink and baby girls in blue,
Destroy the words dyke and feminazi and slut,
Don’t forget all the blood that’s been spilled in the name of equality, don’t forget the true meaning of the word ‘sorority’.
Remember they did this to us, and your mothers and your fathers, but before you start lynching, think of who you’re chasing after:
They is the woman who didn’t know any better,
They is the man who was taught by her to the letter,
They is homophobia and transphobia and misogyny and racism,
Classism, prejudice and ableism,
They is you,
And perhaps once they was me, too.

© Emily Escott, Age 15