By Eithne Cullen

Welcome to April’s Thoughtful Tuesday page. We’re finishing off our theme of ‘Misunderstandings’ this month and I thought about some of the confusions we find in our calendars and diaries. This year, unusually, saw Lent and Ramadan coinciding in the calendar: important times of prayer and fasting for two of the world’s major religions. These are never fixed dates, but depend on the solstice and the moon.

This also got us talking at Pen to Print about how some events or holidays can be difficult (I always worry about people with a birthday on Christmas Day or those with February 29 birthdays… I know people in both of these situations!).

Palak came up with this story, a real event she could share with us:

The Almost Holiday

Unforgettable holidays often weave together beauty, warmth and adventure with a touch of chaos; the kind of mishaps that seem disastrous in the moment but later become cherished misadventures, recounted with laughter for years.

One such episode unfolded when my sister and I were set to fly to India for a friend’s wedding. Our parents had left a few weeks earlier, leaving just the two of us to make our own way. After months of dance rehearsals, endless planning and meticulous packing, the long-anticipated trip had finally arrived.

Our flight was scheduled for seven am and we had booked a taxi for four am to take us to the airport. We’d gone out for dinner with friends the night before, soaking in the excitement of the journey ahead. By the time we got home and got ready for bed, it was almost one am. My sister promptly tumbled into bed. I, however, made the fateful decision to stay awake, reasoning that a couple of hours’ sleep would do more harm than good.

To be safe, I set multiple alarms – 3am, 3:15, 3:30, and 3:45 – confident that at least one would rouse me. The silence of the night, coupled with the warmth of my bed, proved too much. My eyes drooped and, before I knew it, I had drifted into an unintended slumber.

Morning came – or, rather, it didn’t. At six am, my phone rang. It was my father.

“Are you at the airport?” he asked casually.

Reality hit like a thunderbolt. My heart stopped. I bolted upright, shrieking, “I’ll call you later!” and hung up. In a blind panic, I raced to the window. Miraculously, the taxi was still waiting.

What followed was a mad, frantic scramble. Clothes, shoes, toiletries – everything was strewn about as we tried to dress at lightning speed. We dashed out the door, barely remembering to properly lock up and threw ourselves into the taxi.

Gasping apologies to the remarkably patient driver, I finally took a breath and pulled out my phone, ready to prove that I had indeed set alarms. In a comedic twist, the screen revealed that every single one had been set for PM instead of AM. My sister and I stared at each other in shock before dissolving into a mix of nervous and uncontrollable laughter.

Somehow, fate was on our side. The roads were clear, traffic was minimal and every single light turned green as if the world itself was willing us forward. In another stroke of luck, we had sent our luggage ahead with our parents, leaving us with just our hand luggage. We sprinted through security, time slipping through our fingers like sand.

Finally, we collapsed into the airport lounge, breathless and dishevelled. A look passed between us: part relief, part disbelief, part amusement. This was, without a doubt, a story that would live on in family legend. Silently thanking the universe, I made my way to the buffet, savouring the breakfast I hadn’t even had time to think about at home.

In the end, it wasn’t just a near-missed flight; it was a perfect reminder that life’s best stories are often born from the simplest misunderstandings.

© Palak Tewary, 2025

Connect with Palak Tewary on palaktewary.com and via X and Instagram: @palaktewary

Thanks for sharing that, Palak. I must admit it reminded me of a few dashes through airports we’ve had in our time! And an AM/PM mix-up of our own.

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This next piece came in after the Writers’ Retreat I mentioned on last month’s page. It came from a writer who is new to Pen to Print, but definitely trying to get her foot on the writing ladder. It’s really about understanding more than misunderstanding and we were touched by its heartfelt message.

Gratitude

Pen is in my hands, thoughts are in my mind, but I’m in a great fix what to write or what not to write in this heartfelt note to express my GRATITUDE to the Pen to Print organisation. I’m a poet who is following her dreams to discover her potential. I’m a blessed mother too, who is enchanted by the beauty my child has brought to my life. Motherhood is graceful, but has its own challenges. Many mothers forget, leave or delay their dreams when they take care of their babies. I’m not an exception to this. I admire the wonders my baby brings to my life, but also want to discover what I can or can’t do, carrying my baby with me. So, I take him to many activities I consider to be essential for his growth.

It was all about him, but then I decided to book my tickets for a Pen to Print Open Mic last year. I believe that, when a mother is happy and growing on her own, it contributes a lot to the child’s wellbeing too.

When I reached the Open Mic destination, I was welcomed by Lisa Rouiller and Mary Walsh, who praised my poetry and asked me to send my poems in to the magazine. I felt encouraged to join other events such as writing workshops with them. In a year, I attended five of these.

Whenever I took my baby with me, I was not aware if the organisers (Geraldine Stevens, Mary Walsh and Eithne Cullen) would let me join the workshop or not, but still I went. They didn’t only allow me in, they also helped me in every aspect, with Lisa talking to my baby and reading books to him while the workshop was in progress.

I had a lot to do: feeding my baby, nursing him, playing with him or sometimes leaving the workshop at breaks or even early, so he didn’t disturb others, but I felt included simply because they didn’t turn me away.

I had previously contacted another poetry group to ask if I could join them, but they’d told me I wouldn’t be able to attend with a baby. However, the Pen to Print team made me feel as though motherhood is a strength, not a limitation. They praised my abilities and asked me to come again. This has left me feeling that, even being a mother, there’s still a lot I can do. I can fill my cup with happiness to the fullest so that it overflows and reaches my baby on its own.

This note expresses my thanks and appreciation to the entire Pen to Print team, who are creating a legacy with their unconditional support for the mothers like me. They are forging opportunities that will go a long way; living poems that are sung in the hearts of poets such as myself. They are the real poets. Only poets can understand the real poetry of life. The real poetry that helps other feel included, welcomed, supported so that everyone can discover the happiness they deserve.

© Gurpreet Kaur, 2025

I love the sentiment Gurpreet shares: poetry makes others feel included, welcomed, supported. This leads me nicely into celebrating the fact that April is Poetry month; time to get down to reading and writing some poetry of your own, supporting other poets and celebrating this richness in our world.

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So let me share two poems from Julie Dexter. The first is really about misunderstanding. It’s about a broken relationship and its effects. Julie uses powerful imagery to capture the mood.

Traitor               

The sea still pounds and pounds again,
The sea still pounds
and I wasn’t wrong when I said,
there’s something not right
between us.

Your resolve to anger, at first
concealed,
releases in the concertina of time
like a conceited serpent slithering loveless
through your veins.

And, I am awash with dread
at the power of you to dredge mud,
over and over,

Of your dark mood
that seeps between the spaces of the hearts of us,
ruinous as oil slick stains
on white silk dresses.

Yet, rivers still make it to the sea
And the sea still pounds,
the sea still pounds,
ceaseless as the pull of love.

© Julie Dexter, 2025

Julie’s next poem is seasonal, reminding us that spring is finally here.

Spring In The Forest

Spring has announced itself again.
Fresh sap-green buds unfurl to reveal rose-madder hearts.
Diurnal torch-ginger flowers emerge
from earth-red cones as if by magic.

Birds’ shrill song echoes,
percussioned with whimpers and scurries,
and the pad of beasts’ paws prowling.

Beneath the music of the gentle rain
in the sweet-amber-honeyed scent,
the forest is a lung
air breathes through it tirelessly,
pumping life into all creatures,
above and below into the vast arcana of nature.

And the sun, peering dappled through the leaves
traces its arc over the distant mountains.
Then, the sapphire sky, torn like a sail,
folds over the forest jewel
and the spring day closes like shears.

© Julie Dexter, 2025

Connect with Julie on Instagram: @latenightswimmer

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I recently went on an organised walk in my local area. The organiser was showing us how measures are being put in place to try and avoid the kinds of flooding we’ve seen in urban streets in the last few years. At the end of the walk, we wrote poems and I’m sharing mine here.

Wetlands Walk

Noise from the Feelgood centre
of young people feeling good,
the sun shines whitely bright
on Henry Moore’s tall arch.
Mud, clay soaked claggy grass –
gritty path that crunches underneath.
And we look to see the soak-aways
the water-managed efforts to make good
the dangers of flooding and sewage
overflow, hope to see a dragon fly,
admire unmoving teazles at the edge;
talk turns to fat-bergs and
wild swimmers in the silted Thames.

I bless my Ecover, holy water
of smug domestic conscience.
I worry for the town where every
space yields towers of flats
and the sun shines slatted through
them, on Portland Stone,
from the blue, blue sky.

© Eithne Cullen, 2025

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Finally, I’d like to share a piece from Ellie Blake. Like me, she found her inspiration on a watery walk. For her, it produced a rhyming story book. I wish her every success with the book and with juggling all the things we juggle as writers.

Clamber, Scramble, Skedaddle – Plop!

Five years ago, a duckling on Regent’s Canal changed my life. She was a fluffy-feathered yellow and brown mallard, with gumption and pluck. Each day, she swam with one fewer sibling. Her family was whittled down. No tearful parting is such sweet sorrow. No violins or time to mourn.

In the real wildlife of east London, it’s a version of The Hunger Games. Menace looms, rising like the sun, snatching away innocence and sweet souls.

Eventually it was her and Mum, just the two of them. They pasted on brave faces, but their waddles had a touch of melancholy.

Then came the big moment: ‘The Duckling Versus The Ledge.’

The duckling attempted to hoist herself onto a ledge, but toppled back into the water. Gravity said, ‘Nice try.’

Clamber, scramble, skedaddle – plop! Back into the water she tumbled again. The score was Ledge 2, Duckling 0.

The air churned with tension, swirling and twisting, its grip tightening. Even the pigeons held their breath.

Finally she was victorious, reuniting with her mother. Together, they settled in relief, drying themselves off in the milky sunshine. The ledge sulked beneath their bottoms. Dragonflies buzzed, while seagulls squabbled. The daisies day-dreamed beneath the dappled sunshine.

Watching the duckling each day sparked that fleeting elusive wisp we call imagination. Her struggles became the foundation for my picture book, Dilly Dally Sally. Photographs were re-ordered, re‑framed and a new narrative attributed to each vignette.

The tale of a lost duckling, of perseverance, love and triumph begins with:

Three eggs hatched on a quiet summer day.
In the beginning, the ducklings would stay,
close to their mother, never to stray
but ducklings love exploring
and swimming away.

Sally stopped to stare on a lazy afternoon.
A bird was singing a lovely tune.
Her mother was tired and unaware,
that the trio of ducklings had become a pair. 

Dilly Dally Sally is about overcoming obstacles, the fear of the unknown, wrestling to find our way and the excruciating self-doubt before we experience the satisfaction of discovery. These themes resonate with us as writers. Moreover, they are timeless lessons we learn as children, growing up, shaping us into who we are today.

Often, it’s as if we’re in a snow globe turned upside down. Dangers lurk between the news feeds and in online rabbit holes. Hello word counts, the boisterous cursor and the bouquet of books I’ve not finished writing. The excitement of seeing ducklings each year returns. Back at my keyboard, finding momentum, reaching the ledge, the perfect sentence. Ooh, it’s in sight. Clamber, scramble, skedaddle – plop! Back into the water again.

© Ellie Blake, 2025

Find out more about Dilly Dally Sally: mycreativeeveryday.weebly/dilly-dally-sally.html

Connect with Ellie: Instagram, TikTok, YouTube & X

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Happy Easter to you all. Enjoy the joys of spring!

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Issue 24, featuring John Marrs, will be out on 16 April. You will find it in libraries and other outlets. Alternatively, all current and previous editions can be found on our magazines page here. 

You can hear great new ideas, creative work and writing tips on Write On! Audio. Find us on all major podcast platforms, including Apple and Google Podcasts and Spotify. Type Pen to Print into your browser and look for our logo or find us on Spotify.  

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