Celebrating two great writers' groups... and introducing a third. Now read on.
Terry Griffiths: '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?
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'The table’s long-lost burnish beckons to Ian in his unhomely home,
Where magnets fall straight off the grimy fridge,
And the knife rack is a rickety danger zone.
He has tumbled his clutter to cover the rug,
Gifted from hands of a friend he loved.
Its edges stretch to ensnare his leg.
The curtains curl; they sob, he swears.'
—From 'Georgia' in the Firebird Press anthology Resurgence.
Terry Griffiths: Poet and Prose Writer
Terry Griffiths is a nineteen-year-old poet and occasional short-story writer. He is soon to study for a Speech and Language Therapy degree. Explored in his writing are social obligations, becoming an adult, friendships vs romance, how marriage is unnecessary, being short, cycling, veganism, and diction in everyday situations.
As Terry is half-Welsh Dylan Thomas was an apt influence for his examination portfolio, The Founding of Cerise, assembled when he favoured a more obscure style of writing. Although he is unsure of his own opinion on Keats’ Negative Capability, he finds that poet's verse satisfying and takes pride in being of his height. Ever since he was introduced to it by the editor of the Resurgence, Terry has adored T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’, and there is a poem on this page inspired by the the lines, ‘In a minute there is time/For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse’. He is also fond of Simon Armitage, John Ashbery, John Ash, Wallace Stevens, Elizabeth Bishop, Norman MacCaig, Stéphane Mallarmé, Denis Roche, Jacques Prévert, Pierre Reverdy, Pierre Martory and Thierry Demercastel. Only recently has he started reading the impossible-not-to-know Philip Larkin, Thomas Hardy and Sylvia Plath.
The last has led him to discover the fantastic Anne Stevenson, who died last year, and Terry’s ambition is to become well-known in the poetry community soon enough for him to be conscious of appreciation, and even fame. So far he has been published in various competition anthologies (Welcome to Wonderland, The Armistice Prize, Mother Tongue Other Tongue, I Have a Dream). He was once also shortlisted for the Writers’ Centre Norwich competition, and judged some entries for their Young Ambassador programme. Disappointed he never won that competition, he is now, incredibly, too old to do so.
Terry is delighted to have three of his poems and a story published in Resurgence, viz., a villanelle called ‘Hate the Sin, Love the Sinner: A Lost Motto Retrieved’ that is cut short to convey how a cyclist’s life is cut short; ‘Wishing Ghazal’, about a situation in which someone is suddenly no longer romantically invested in a man because he is transgender (as Terry is himself), and his helping the fictional man’s date to become less ignorant; ‘Georgia’, a poem about a man who has lost all motivation following the death of his best friend and ‘Cherry Mountain Street’, a story featuring a huge conflict between a woman and her new best friend’s partner, for which a drawing and a gate are catalysts.