Welcome to the second Write On! Showcase of April. I’m overwhelmed at the response to my first week as guest editor during National Poetry Month. The theme of ‘Misunderstandings’ obviously resonates with many of you.

For this Showcase, I’m going to talk about language, culture and the power of words. A fertile ground for misunderstandings in both the real and digital world. Many of us may be familiar with words that drop out of our memory in conversation, leaving us stretching for a suitable replacement or the word itself. Brain fog, forgetfulness, stress, social anxiety – any one of a number of reasons why we may end up losing words down temporary rabbit holes in our minds.

The first piece this week is a fantastic poem by Carolyn Oulton.

At My Mother’s House

Time keeps moving around.
Words won’t stay
where you left them,
though you’re watchful. Did I
have an end of term with –
what about – the carer?
Yes. It’s all right now.

Your hand a divining rod
with edges of bone,
scoops invisible things
from the air.
All of us are darling,
sometimes I leave out
the names of the dead.

Weather. I find myself stroking
the nearest bit of you. All that
washing on… the line.
I talk about work. This time
you don’t stop me.
You ask a question. I’m Carolyn.
I live… I’m Carolyn.

(c) Carolyn Oulton, 2025

Oh my… Time keeps moving around. / Words won’t stay / where you left them. What a fantastic opening, written in Free Verse that mirrors the erratic fluidity and elusiveness of failing memory. The language captures the raw emotion, the loss and grief, the desire for reconnection. A beautiful, heart-rending and well-crafted poem.

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This next piece, written by me, is a short flash fiction called Do The Right Thing?

Do The Right Thing?

To see someone you loved lose every part of their self, was like a very slow torture. Watching her father rewind through his life until he didn’t know her any more, was like a terrible television joke. Near the end he talked in Polish, sometimes German. He had never talked about his family, just that he was a refugee from Europe. He only ever spoke English, with a faint hint of an accent.

She found the deeds when clearing his papers. Supposedly purchased in 1962. A farm near Lyme Regis in Dorset. His name on them: Jonah Williamson. A lot of farmland, which was rented out to various farming corporations. The farmhouse itself a ‘sometime’ holiday let, handled through a local agent in Bridport. They said: “He was a lovely man who came and stayed two or three times a year.”

This was a surprise to Jenny, because her father never mentioned it. She was an only child but they were never close. He always made the right noises. Put her through the very best boarding schools, funded her further education. Now, it was her Doctorate that gave her the knowledge to do the right thing.

She turned the ring of keys in her hand, stopping at the five-lever Chubb. She opened the car door, stepped onto the drive and walked back toward the innocent-looking barn. As she walked, she did a mental recap of everything she had found: Cranach the Elder, Cranach the Younger, Kowalski, Simmler, Danloux, Molenaar, Durer, Rubens, Rembrandt and Raphael…

(c) Peter Roe, 2025

Connect with Peter on Instagram and BlueSky: @mediachap

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Language is ephemeral. It’s constantly changing, influenced by society, geography, circumstance and those who record it. The phrase: Poets and writers are the conscience of society, is often referenced and credited to many different voices.

I believe we have an opportunity as creatives to influence others. Words are powerful: they can dissuade, enrich, distract, empower, change, influence for good or ill. Every day, we see the ramifications of words used as political weapons. Diplomacy. Propaganda. Rhetoric. Conciliation. Accord. Truth.

Words are being weaponised, being used to radicalise, persuade and obfuscate by corporations and politicians. Or am I being too sensitive? As a civilised and democratic society, what do we ‘allow?’

This piece by Danny Baxter, Confusing Urban Slang, may throw some light or cast some shade on the word!

Confusing Urban Slang

Every so often there will be this individual that will join your social group who will bring their own lingo. I remember in the early 90s when the first of the urban slang entered into my vicinity. It was a particular individual who was the catalyst for this. I’m going to name him: Shaun Escoffery (the soul singer). Shaun was invited to attend our church youth club and proceeded to add some urban flavour. From then on, things that were impressive in an emotionally indulgent way became identified as “Rough” which was like when we used to call things that were excessively cool “Bad”, especially when referring to music. People who ripped you off or were otherwise unfair to you were referred to as “Chiefs” and clothes were known as “Garms” being short for ‘garments.’ There were many more. I found the language to be quite humorous and some of the terms very infectious.

Moreover, there would be emphasis added to such terms by speaking them in a Jamaican accent, and this wasn’t restricted to people who were Jamaican. As urban music progressed, reggae and ragga started to become popular with the UK youth in addition to the rise of jungle. These phrases and the culture that accompanied them were assimilated into the youth culture and it became the norm to add a Caribbean inflection to one’s speech to urbanise it; i.e. blend in with one’s urban community. Like a modern-day version of jive language, even.

This has been through several evolutions and there have been many instances of confusing terms that have been adopted, often bringing a new definition to a word which had previously referred to the opposite of that new definition. As an example, “Wicked” is an expression of appreciation of a good thing happening.

But the term I would nominate for the title of the most confusing is: “Allow that/Allow it” which was used simultaneously as an affirmative or a negation, depending on context. It started off being used most commonly as the former and later, ended up being more commonly used in the latter sense.

“Jezza’s running late, is it all right if he meets you down there at ten?”

• “Yeah, Allow. ”
• “So you wanna bop to the club after cinema tho?”
• “Nah, Allow. ”

The phrase no doubt having its root definition in allowing things to pass by or play out, either with one’s participation or without. But when we heard a person we knew from another group use “Allow That” in a way that seemed like a NO when we only knew it as a YES, me and a number of my friends were really bemused; promptly requiring an explanation as to why the term also now means the opposite of what it meant within the same culture cycle.

(c) Danny Baxter, 2025

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The Dictionary Of Urban Slang is an invaluable resource for many writers trying to make sense of cultural influence on the words in the English Language. What about our modern society, what about those words that have two meanings? Homographs, where a word is spelt the same but can have two meanings…

This powerful poem by Silviya Vijeyaruban plays with Homographs to deliver a tense and urgent interpretation of directional ambiguity and contextual duality.

Her Right

Left, The party early.
Right, on time.
Left, towards the traffic,
Right, towards the light.
Left, keys between the fingers
Right, hand balled in a fist
Left, dead
Right, to have feared.
So, what is left
But Her Right.

(c) Silviya Vijeyaruban, 2025

Connect with Silviya on Instagram: @Silviya.Vijey

A powerful meditation on agency that explores choice and misunderstanding. A deft and masterful poem, with short, urgent lines that raises tension ending in a powerful assertion: So what is left / But her right.

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What happens when you are somewhere other than England? Perhaps you are travelling in another country where the language is not English what ‘Misunderstandings’ could possibly arise?

This next piece written by Dr Clare Morris, of The Jawbone Collective, is a lovely example.

A Night Of Sirens And Searchlights

A night of sirens and searchlights,
sleep shattered like china
dropped on terracotta tiles,
porcelain pieces peppering the cardinal,
my shoulders patchwork pink and peeling
where sunburn digs dogbite deep,
so walking to the campsite shop
in early morning umbrage
is blessing enough,
dawn playing peek-a-boo
with maritime pines,
pinus pinaster as the guidebook tells.

At holiday’s end
our thoughts reach for home
when another camper stops us,
talks in clipped Teutonic tones
of a woman who’d died last night,
a slight inclination to the next tent
with its neat table, chairs and radio
so that I think I catch his drift
and grasp his hand to express my sorrow
for how else can sympathy be sincerely shown?
Thus I’m so sorry. Did you know her well?
But he, confused, has never met her
so we walk on in silence
until out of earshot I whisper concern
for his shock, his bewilderment
and how those sirens lately heard
must have been for that poor dead soul
here last night right here
and your quizzical look as I prattle
until with shaking head you patiently correct my vision
What are you talking about?

The woman who died here last night
It was in Paris …Lady Di …Princess Diana
But he inclined his head to the… Radio…Oh …

As we travel home all the service stations are
stuffed full of images of the 13th pillar in the underpass,
but my mind is troubled by other underpasses too:
the bridge by the Rosaleda,
a short cut to the ground,
crowds hurrying to the match,
the air abustle with burgers and bonhomie –
a blanket covers the entrance by the cracked pillar
as dark eyes, red rimmed, dull with struggle, look out –
a latter-day Joseph in his makeshift privacy
that my careless gaze had intruded upon –
but I have no gift to give, just a mumbled lo siento,
the hasty coin of the easily flustered
as the world looks the other way.

I wonder whether everyone
has an underpass waiting –
some sudden, shocking,
some slow and suffocating
with the silent shudder of neglect,
each one of us calling,
a cacophony of the careworn,
searching for safety,
searching for home,

voices echoing in the dark …

(c) Clare Morris, 2025

Connect with Clare on Facebook: www.facebook.com/jawbonecollective and Instagram: @clare.morris

I’ve known Clare for a number of years and The Jawbone Collective published her collection Devon Maid Walking in 2023. Until she sent me this piece, I had no idea how close we had been geographically at that time.

I, too, had been listening to French radio that day, where there was talk of “Dodi” and “Princess Diana.” My schoolboy French was no match for the rapid-paced delivery of the announcers. I had broken down on the motorway on the outskirts of Paris. I needed to stay in a hotel overnight and, although my car was fixed fairly quickly, I was not allowed to pick it up until the police had inspected it for damage. There had been talk of “another car” in the tunnel, so I have always assumed the check was to eliminate my ‘alternator failure’ from the narrative.

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The Jawbone Collective are publishing a new print-based magazine, twice yearly, starting in June/July 2025. Submissions are open throughout April and The Jawbone Journal is being edited by Clare Morris. https://www.jawbonecollective.org.uk/jawbone_journal_home

The theme for submissions is “The Word” and the first issue’s submissions are limited to South-West writers. Issue Two in September will be open to everyone.

I invite you to share your stories or poems about misunderstandings.

The Jawbone Collective is a group of 18 creatives spread across the SouthWest of England. We are also a small press publisher, workshop and live event 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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