Welcome to the fifth Write On! Showcase of April; the final one for National Poetry Month. Thank you to everyone who has made submissions on the theme of ‘Misunderstandings’. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your work and hosting these pages for the past five weeks. For this final week, we will be looking at capitalism, technology, magic and living in the moment.

My working career has been heavily biased towards technology and computers. Over the last 40 years, the pace of technological change has accelerated and continues to do so exponentially. The technology we use to capture our words is like something that once existed only in the realms of Science Fiction.

In the 1960’s, British science fiction writer Arthur C Clarke created a group of three axioms. The third one says: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

This probably explains why an algorithm can suddenly make our Collective’s Instagram account disappear… Magic! Or are we just misunderstood by the technology that mistakenly believed we were a bot? I expect being cancelled by a machine with no right of appeal is going to be a trend in the future.

This was my first response after finding technology had decided we weren’t real…

The Rise Of The Machines

Civilisation is
a bloody…
house of cards
All empires crumble
eventually…
history says so
This modern world
is being built
on a system
of surveillance capitalism
Super intelligences
owned by corporations
trained on our data
our habits
our writings and creations
Can we trust these corporations
not to strip mine our minds
for our resources?
In this new world
the arbiters of our lives
are machines making decisions
on whether we are human or not
We are being assessed
by algorithms
that have no creative spark
Why is our artistic integrity
this judgment
of our humanity
in the hands
of soulless technology?
We are being judged each day
by cameras
by technology
by machines
by unfeeling algorithms
that dictate outcomes
in black and white
There are no grey areas
There is no right of appeal
Humans can no longer make mistakes
The rise of the machines is already happening

I…      am not a robot!

(c) Peter Roe, 2025

Connect with me via Instagram: @mediachap or on BlueSky: @peteroe-poetree.bsky.social

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At the quantum level, observation has been proved to change the behaviour of whatever is being observed. The mere act of observation can affect a physical object. Perhaps it is not so far fetched that the power of affirmations or prayers can influence reality. The power of the word has been shown to measurably alter the human brain… chemically and physically. How many synaptic connections have been made in your brain by reading poetry or short stories? Do you remember a poem from school or a nursery rhyme? That has created a memory… Words conveyed orally, changing something physical… Science or Magic?

Biological limitations shape human perception of time. Human consciousness operates in a linear way because biology demands it: circadian rhythms, ageing, digestion, memory, are all tied to a temporal framework. That’s what keeps the body alive and oriented. But the mind, especially neurodivergent minds, can sometimes slip those boundaries. When deeply in a flow state, lost in thought, where time ‘disappears,’ we brush against something timeless. Those moments feel more true, more real, precisely because they bypass the tyranny of clocks and calendars. Is this, then, ‘living in the moment’- that optimum state of mind suggested by so many thought leaders?

Nothing is actual until we speak it into being. That is manifestation on a quantum level. Conversations we have or ideas we exchange with other humans have a physical effect on our biological brain. Firing synapses, connecting neurones… changes that will influence our way of thinking at some level for the rest of our natural lives. So maybe what we’re doing is carving moments out of an infinite field of possibility, one word at a time. That’s kind of beautiful.

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Our next piece is a short story by a fantastic writer from Dorset. A former London Taxi driver who was obviously inspired by the moments he saw around him while plying ‘The Knowledge.’

Carousel Of Chaos

Hyde Park Corner. The twirling neon flash, accelerator of human debris. Imagine, for a moment, that it begins to uproot from the earth, levitating mere metres from the ground. A uniform weld of headlight beams, door handles, wing mirrors and tasty crumbs of Portland Stone.

Doctor John Dee stands now inside the Wellington Arch, briefly reanimated and calling upon angels from within the eye of the storm. London the ancient marble city of the sea, existing in some other timeless realm, bombed-out and eternally renewed.

The unidentified flying roundabout now reaches an elevation of ten metres, increasing its velocity as its magnetic pull draws in bottles of wine, dirty bank notes and cigarette lighters.

_Chequered tarmac,_

_Sketches of car crash_

_From the carousel of chaos,_

_Out flings a dented yellow hard hat!_

Dr Dee remains tranquil in the middle, his eyes unblinking and without pupils.

A builder walks past and says, “What’s this all about then?” A woman with jet black hair and a pentagram necklace recognises it from somewhere; a dream, perhaps. A lawyer, talking into his phone, doesn’t even notice. A Japanese tourist snaps a picture and shares it with friends and family on unidentifiedflyingroundabouts dot com. A Turkish man selling ice cream from a stall creates a new type of ice cream cone, inspired by the flying traffic junction. A child who previously wanted an ice cream but is now more interested in the levitating roulette wheel of traffic debris, instantly and perfectly understands what it means, but decides not to tell anyone. An elderly French woman from South Kensington looks upon it unimpressed and lights a cigarette. A taxicab performs an illegal u-turn and then scuttles up Halkin Street instead. A tall man in a pinstripe suit wants to know how much it costs. A delivery driver slaps a hand on the dashboard in frustration, winds down a window and says to a lady named Sophia who is stood silently nearby underneath an apple tree,

“This is the third time this week that this has happened!”

(c) Edward A.M. Emmerson, 2025

I love the surreal imagery in this piece. Right in the middle of the ‘Magic Roundabout’ we have a reanimated Dr John Dee, court astronomer and advisor to Queen Elizabeth the First; later an alchemist, philosopher and book collector before going off in pursuit of magical knowledge. I like the fact that everyone misunderstands what is going on except for one small boy eating an ice cream who decides to leave everyone else in the dark!

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Language is a tool of creation. Not in some abstract or mystical way, although sometimes it feels mystical, but because it’s how consciousness interfaces with the world. Language is the bridge. Words have power.

In this short story, Skip Valentine by James Marshall, misunderstandings play a central role, weaving together themes of technology, the power of words and the magic of human attraction.

Skip Valentine

He stooped and turned sideways to fit his shoulders through the doorway. He smiled and his teeth sparkled as if bleached and illuminated from a light within his mouth. The hostess, Marjorie, introduced him to the rest of us dishevelled lecturers in our tattered cardigans, with our postures as bent as a corkscrew and our teeth…Well, those of us lucky enough to have all our teeth smiled with closed lips.

His name was one of those annoying American names that sounded like a dog biscuit: Chuck, or Skip or something.

“What was that?” Bill Johnson shouted. One of his ears was blown off in the Falklands conflict when serving as an artillery officer.

“Valentine,” Marjorie said. “Skip Valentine. He’s the visiting lecturer from Berkeley this year.” She turned to me. “That’s in California, you know.”

I winced. I was Dean of the Humanities department, so of course I knew where Berkeley was. At least, on a map. I’d never been there myself. My doctoral thesis was on Palaeolithic migration patterns across the Bering Straits but I’d done all my research from the comfort of my local Starbucks.

Bill shouted, “Hello,” to Valentine but he didn’t hear. A swathe of female lecturers had found a spring in their rusty knees and flabby hips and jostled around Valentine likes piglets at their mother’s teats.

“What’s his field?” I asked Marjorie because she’d arranged the visitation.

“Particle physics,” she said without taking her eyes off him. “He’s developing a new theory of ion propulsion.”

Marjorie lectured in French literature, so she probably thought it was something to do with getting the crease out of her clothes while driving.

I brushed the cake crumbs off my jumper and edged towards the door. I needed a nap after all this excitement.

“Hey, Jim!” someone said in a smooth voice that sounded like red wine poured over melted chocolate.

I turned and saw a large brown hand extended towards me, its fingernails were whiter than the owner’s teeth. “I’m Skip. I loved your theory of meteorological-driven migration.”

I hated being called Jim, not even my wife called me that. “Oh, thanks,” I said. I stood as straight as my spine would let me, ignoring the creaks and cricks from my long- suffering muscles.

“How about we touch base and you can show me the ropes around here?” Skip smiled and a wave of radiant light oozed over me, easing the pain of listening to mixed metaphors.

“Yes, that sounds nice.” I coughed and lowered my voice. “I mean, sure thing, Skip.”

(c) James Marshall, 2025

Connect: SUBSTACK.COM/@JAMESRMARSHALL

Jim’s internal conflict about his identity and place in academia reflects broader themes of insecurity and disconnect within social settings and underscores the potential for connection amid misunderstandings. This piece is a reminder of the complicated nature of human interaction, where misinterpretations can lead to both barriers and bridges.

Words are physical in their consequences. They shape brains. Literally. Every conversation lays down new neural paths or reinforces existing ones. Every poem or phrase that resonates creates a ripple in someone’s mental architecture. The right words can heal trauma, spark revolutions, or shift a worldview with just a few syllables. That’s not metaphor — it’s neurobiology, quantum physics and lived human experience all coming together in one perfect moment.

This is why poetry and words are so important to me. I believe we are delivering information in a poetic form. Words really do have power and it breaks my heart to see how politicians and supposed world leaders abuse them.

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Since it is the final week of National Poetry Month and with it being Mayday tomorrow, we will finish on Gertcha Cowson’s poem We Are The Dregs: a powerful exploration of the struggles and resilience of the working class. Through vivid imagery the poem addresses themes of social injustice, economic disparity and the misunderstandings that arise from class distinctions.

We Are The Dregs

We are the daily life-hardened
adorned with life-weary scars
That are pushed into the gutters
though we look towards the stars

We are the downpressed masses
carrying the downpressor’s fine sedan
Giving the downpressed their strong legs
to steady them when we make a stand

We are the tillers of the fertile soil
that grows your precious cash crop
The ones who brings in the harvest
while we’re fed our peasantry slop

We are the builders of your gold palaces
breaking the spines of the humble stiff
Where you live in warmth and luxury
while the broken beg the mercy of largesse

We are the soldiers on the front line
dying just for the politicians’ curse
Falling in some distant unmarked grave
while the politician fills their purse

We are the lees you sieve out and discard
once we’ve flavoured your finest wines
We are the dregs you shun and ignore
that’d leave beer a flavourless strain.

© Gertcha Cowson, 2025

Connect: Instagram @gertchathedisabledpoet

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The voice of the poem echoes the sentiments found in the work of William Butler Yeats, particularly in He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven, which speaks to yearning, vulnerability and the complexities of desire and reality.

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

(c) William Butler Yeats

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The pace of development of new technologies inevitably disenfranchises parts of society. The misunderstandings caused by wealth and privilege are probably some of the biggest issues we face as a society. Poets and writers have a unique place in society; we always have. Poetry and words give voice to the masses, the under represented and the disenfranchised.

Poetry is the most distilled form of this process. It cuts through noise, bypasses defences and transmits something raw and essential. That’s why dictators fear poets. That’s why propaganda corrupts poetry’s structure and steals its rhythms. Politicians use language to manipulate reality for power. Poets use it to reveal what is real, and that’s dangerous to people who want to control perception.

Over these past five weeks, we have seen how misunderstandings can happen in a variety of different ways, in different situations. In this modern world, where our actions are judged by machines in binary: black or white and yes or no, it is easy to lose our sense of agency… Human history is built on making mistakes, trying again and doing it better.

You may have noticed many philosophical ramblings during this last month. I’m a big follower of the Jungian world view and I offer you this quote: I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become. Carl Jung

I am going to finish with one of my own poems.

What Are You Being?

Today I choose
to be something more
than a physical being
driven by conditioning
by dopamine
by impulse
by negative thinking

Today I choose
to make choices
that benefit the community
in which I live
the communities
in which I create

Today I choose
to be kind
to be good
to share
to love
to care
to rise above
to perfect
to respect

Today I choose
to be human

(c) Peter Roe, 2025

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I invite you all to be human, make mistakes, grow, then share your own stories or poems about ‘Mindset’ -May’s theme. Thank you to everyone who has contributed and thank you for staying with me and reading the ramblings of a poetic neurodivergent mind.

The Jawbone Collective is a group of eighteen creatives spread across the SouthWest of England. We are also a small press publisher, workshop and live events organiser. www.jawbonecollective.org.uk

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If you’d like to see your writing appear in the Write On! Showcase, please submit your short stories, poetry or novel extracts to: pentoprint.org/get-involved/submit-to-write-on/

Hear extracts from Showcase in our podcast. 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 for Pocasters.

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