Celebrating two great writers' groups... and introducing a third. Now read on.
Sirens of Armistice Sunday
No idea, no desire. Such deaths shot out funeral attire; such deaths scooped away the soul; no tear fails to reach the hole dug by the numerous figures. Flipping the truth of futile war was the job of those posters punching faces featuring memories of embraces.
Off the face of Earth they fell, trench foot flaring up around them who no longer got to enjoy, having to instead endure the loss of living as soon as survival mode was shot at the lot,
The. Whole. Damn. Lot.
It was expected for their beings to become machines. A person cannot be a machine. Martin,
Making you turn back was not what I did; I allowed the way you acted on your patriotic values of Britain. Bertie,
I wish you were in disguise behind me this Armistice Sunday, taking me away from the mundane, taking me on road trips underage, skiving parts of school’s decade and a while, making me smile.
Two minutes’ silence, trembling sirens of staring as I snigger, attempting to hold back from sniffling as I reminisce both of you, who hover somewhere in some ten million.
Bashed. Me. Down.
No idea, no desire to experience to know.
War, forbid your futility. God, drench the trenches of my warless veins with amnesia, if you exist. Bring back the non-mechanic beings I miss.
Two minutes of silence, or not, I ache. Armistice Sunday, can you become my break from this longing of the far past which dominates my current existence? Transform those trenches of my veins to water slides that zoom in on each moment of individuality and liberty. Free my phrases of flirtatious flair, the desire I wish to share so I can escape the images of blood being drawn, which shot out funeral attire. Is it possible for Martin and Bertie to be peering from Heaven, admiring my hopes for today to rid me of sighs, unless sighs of satisfaction?
Armistice Sunday, blow my breath away for as long
As detox sirens.
Terry GriffithsSelected Poems
The above writers have either been previous members of the Minutemen or Vibe groups, or are current honorary members of the Firebird Writers' Group. Note that all work in all draft versions is copyrighted.
Terry Griffiths: Poet and Prose Writer
Hello, reader, and welcome to my writing. My name’s Terry, I’m sixteen, and intend to continue writing, potentially making a living from it. So far, as well as being published in the school newsletter and Vibe Sixth Form Magazine, my short story, ‘Last Moments of Life’, was published last year in the UK edition of Welcome to Wonderland, and I have recently had my poem ‘En Sortant de la Douleur’ (which translates to ‘Coming out of Pain’) shortlisted for this year’s Mother Tongue Other Tongue competition. Last year, I participated in the Young Ambassador programme for the Writers’ Centre Norwich, in which I promoted their writing competition and did the Bronze Arts Award. Completing an A-level in Creative Writing has been excellent, and I am very grateful that the opportunity arose.
Included are some poems and prose fiction works about romantic relationships selected from my AS portfolio, The Founding of Cerise, some poems from my partially autobiographical, partially imagined A2 collection touching on life as a transgender boy, The Guy Inside, along with other poetry and prose of mine touching on various subjects and themes.