Thank you to the 153 authors who participated in our ME, AT 17 Poetry and Prose Series

Silver Birch Press

Thank you to the 153 writers — from 36 states and 16 countries — who participated in our ME, AT 17 Poetry & Prose Series, which ran January 1 – March  5, 2017. Many thanks to the following authors for the captivating trips down memory lane!

Rosie Accola (Illinois)
Sudeep Adhikari (Nepal)
David-Matthew Barnes (Colorado)
Ginger Beck (Arkansas)
David Bennett (Oregon)
Nina Bennett (Deleware)
Shelly Blankman (Maryland)
Cath Bore (England)
Paul Brookes (England)
Cynthia Bryant (California)
Tiffany Buck (Georgia)
Don Kingfisher Campbell (California)
John Carney (Pennsylvania)
Alexandra Carr-Malcolm (England)
Salena Casha (Massachusetts)
Jackie Chou (California)
Anshu Choudhry (India)
Tricia Marcella Cimera (Illinois)
Wanda Morrow Clevenger (Illinois)
Marion Deutsche Cohen (Pennsylvania)
Joan Colby (Illinois)
Clive Collins (Japan)
Michael Coolen (Oregon)
Neil Creighton (Australia)
Isobel Cunningham (Canada)
Mitra Debarshi (India)
Kathy Derengowski (California)
Steven Deutsch (Pennsylvania)
Margo Jodyne Dills (Washington)
Barbara Eknoian (California)
Amanda Elfert (Canada)
j.a. farina (Canada)
Vern Fein…

View original post 415 more words

Stop me and buy one.

Ben Banyard

Have you ever heard of a rich page poet? No, me neither. But somehow we accept that there’s no money in writing poetry, unless one ends up in the higher echelons doing book tours, popping up on TV and radio and winning big money prizes for your ‘body of work’. Poetry is seen as a charming, if slightly eccentric hobby, such as playing the accordion or Morris dancing.

poetry-for-sale Poetry for sale

How often have you been a guest reader? What did you earn? Did it cover your transport costs? Did you sell enough books to make it worth your while? How many people were in the audience? Did they all read at the Open Mic?

I’ve made a minimal amount of money from my work, although to be fair, I’m still a relative newcomer. I’ve driven a couple of hours to a gig, at my own expense (petrol, parking etc)…

View original post 1,052 more words

The Waiting Room


, , , , , ,

Eyeing up the empty seat,

she sat next to me,

a sweet little old lady.

She drew a breath, and talked non-stop.


My daughter-in-law says I’m nasty,

I’m not, I’m just proud.


She tells me about her childhood,

the blitz bomb that blew her fat aunt into the air,

one foot above her fireside chair.


My daughter-in-law says I’m evil.

How dare she, I’m just particular!


She tells me of her Airedale dog,

although, untaught, he did great tricks,

he’d eat with the cats, and begs when he sits.


My daughter-in-law says I’m a       b-i-t-c-h.

I don’t like her much either.


She tells me of the girls and boys,

wartime friends, of climbing trees,

broken wrists, skinned arms, and knees.


My daughter-in-law says I’m cold and cruel.

I’m just stand offish.


Then she’s back in the present,


to the pigeon on the bird table.

Suddenly a Goshawk swooped and dived,

started to eat the pigeon alive,


I put it out of its misery.

Three kettles of boiling water poured –

upon the pigeon ‘til it was no more.


My daughter-in-law calls me names.

I don’t see them now.


Dementia apparent – she tunes in and out.


The Airedale put up a fight when backed into the oven,

it was probably the gas he could smell.

It had to be done – Oh well.


She sat next to me,

the old lady,

The nurse drew a breath and called her name.




The Waiting Room by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm


Photo Credit: Waiting Room. Triangle Road, Hackney, London, 2011. Photograph: Stik

found on Pinterest.

On the Edge by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm (ME, AT 17 Poetry and Prose Series)

Thank you Silver Birch Press.

Silver Birch Press

alexandra-carr-malcolm-age-17On the Edge
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Your mother’s out dancing
and your father’s romancing
they can’t stand the sight
of the child that blights
the booze fuelled conscience
of a life that once was
a family affair.

You sit on the stairs
the silent sobs hurt
as your mum and your dad
on the phone fight like mad
for you cramp their style
all their hatred and bile
matrimonial war
they don’t want you
no more.

Another friend’s settee
another temporary home
your hair lank and greasy
only fingers for a comb
A lick and a spit
is all you can hope
last night’s kebab
cold water and soap.

Yesterday’s pants
under last week’s old clothes
is the scent that perfumes
your sad teenage nose
now you live from a suitcase
and you’re wearing your game face
stiff upper lip and don’t let the mask slip
through emotions on fire

View original post 157 more words

We Three


, , , , ,

I originally wrote this poem for a project I am working on at the moment. Last week I found out a good friend had passed away, and this poem seemed a fitting tribute to a gentle, kind, and dear friend. Go well good friend – go well.



We walked on the beach,

my friend, the dog, and me;

looked out to the seas,

and plotted our dreams,

my friend, the dog, and me.


We danced on the beach,

my friend, the dog, and me;

we thanked lucky stars,

couldn’t believe where we are,

my friend, the dog, and me.


We strolled on the beach,

my friend, the dog, and me,

we sat in the dunes,

reflecting on tunes,

my friend, the dog, and me.


We stood on the beach,

my friend, and me;

wondering where the time had gone,

and how life had moved on,

my friend, and me.


Looking back at the beach,

just me;

the gulls mourn the song,

of where it all went wrong,

just me — and my memories.


© We Three October 2016

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

One More Sleep

The Yellow Chair Review has just published my poem ‘One More Sleep’ in their 2016 Horror issue. 

I dubbed this poem my boomerang poem, as it has been sent out so many times and has always come back. It goes to show that we just need to find the right home for it to be appreciated. The message is – don’t give up, someone will appreciate your work, it just needs the right publication and audience. 

This poem is very special to me. If you would like to read it, the link is below. 

Graphic content warning – this poem is about dying and is pretty strong – not recommended for those grieving. 

One More Sleep

Limited Edition – Counting Magpies

I still have ten copies of the limited edition left, and oodles of copies of the regular anthology – contact me if you want one!

Worldly Winds

I’ve been delighted by the response to the Counting Magpies Limited Edition. In just three days over a third of the books have been ordered and are ready to go to the post office on Monday morning. There is even one bound for Wisconsin, USA!

The limited edition comes complete with signature, three bonus poems, and each book is numbered. I have also included a handwritten poem, either in the front or the back of the anthology – you can choose the poem, or have a lucky dip surprise!

The limited edition is £10 and £2.50p&p for the UK. If you are outside the UK the postage will vary – I will inform you of the cost to make sure you are happy 🙂

If you would like a copy please let me know.

View original post

Keep making noise

Let's not rule anything out

So last night, this happened.


At what point have I invited attention here? Or is it the case that I’ve got my head down, keys between my fingers in my pocket, ignoring my boyfriend’s text messages lest I become distracted and vulnerable, trying to simply get the fuck home? It doesn’t matter, because as a woman on the street – a public space and by default a male space – I’m fair game.

The narrative between my female friends and I is tedious and exhausting. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that’, we say with almost weekly-regularity. ‘That’s shit’. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘At least you got home safe’. At least you got home safe. Like the entirely feasible and almost unsurprising alternative is not getting home safe, and if you’re aware of my back story you’ll know that actually, not getting home safe is a very real and possible…

View original post 611 more words

WoMan Flu

I’m feeling much better after a restful weekend – I thought I’d share this silly poem 🙂


A poet with a head cold

is not so good to see

fuelled by Olbas and by Vicks

tissues to fell a tree


Cannot think of words to write

has lost their sense of meter

rhymes won’t work and sPeLing’s gone

it could be writ much neater


My brain’s contracted that’s 4 sure

and poems just turn out grotty

So I’ll just snuggle in my bed

and knock back ten hot toddies


© WoMan Flu 21.10.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm