The past year has been the first time when I actually considered quitting writing and the arts industry as a whole. It was tough and not because of lockdown. I’ve been freelance for all of my adult working life, so working from home, feeling isolated, living with a sporadic financial landscape has been the norm.
I
The Beginning
On Good Friday it's blue skies, 20C. With higher temperatures, the UK government has banned congregating outdoors. A walk is allowed. Mine takes me through the park, by the river, onto the golf course. The fairway is empty; an open cathedral with no worshippers. Easter is two days away, but when will we all be resurrected? In May, my parents come visiting from India, enjoy spring here. Not this year. When I walk alone, I walk for all of us.
Blog by Mahveen Syed – Leicester University, Undergraduate English with Creative Writing Student
Inscribe writer Maya Chowdhry will edit the upcoming issue of Magma. Details follow:
Closing date: 31st March, 2021
The submissions window for ‘Anthropocene’ is open from 1st March – 31st March 2021. We welcome poems that have not been previously published, either in print or online.
Up to 4 poems may be sent via Submittable, or by post if you live in the UK. Postal submissions are not acknowledged until a decision is made.
Guardian Weekend magazine and gal-dem are launching a memoir writing competition for UK-resident Black womxn and non-binary writers aged 16-21 on the theme of ‘conversations’. You can find out more information at the Guardian website.
Dates and times: Saturday 23 May, 3-5pm and Saturday 30 May, 3-5pm
Price: Free
Venue: Online (Zoom; details to be confirmed after booking)
Booking: Please email [email protected] to book your place (or book via Eventbrite)
Self-Portrait at Four Years Old
Thanks to the generosity of Mahsuda Snaith, the SI Leeds Literary Prize is offering six low income writers the chance to enter this year's prize for free! Email [email protected] to register your interest. You've now got until 25 April 2020.
Bath of Herbs
While I mewed new-born in my basket
and my mother lay birth-ruptured
you prepared a bath of herbs
gathered from your garden
under beating summer skies
With mortar and pestle you crushed
yellow chamomile into young mint
pressed buds of newly flowered lavender
sprinkled ocean salt
with cramped fingers you
mixed cloves in oil of orange
made back then for now
by Jhilmil Breckenridge
A man sweeps the middle of a courtyard
The monastery is a pregnant woman, swelling with seekers—
That old woman, her fingers moving a worn rosary
The soft hill of her back rising, falling with every breath,
Smiling a toothless smile, sharing sweets with a friend
