Edited by Claire Buckle

Welcome to the first September Showcase. Over the next four weeks I’ll be sharing a mix of poetry and prose, all based around the theme of reflection. That might mean a nostalgic look back, a mindful pause in the present, or simply noticing something in a new way. There’ll be an eclectic mix, and I hope you’ll find something that resonates and maybe even prompts your own reflections.

Coincidentally, I’ve been dipping into Politically: Reflections – Series Three on Radio 4 (available on Sounds); my favourite episode is the one with Diane Abbott, the first Black female MP and ‘Mother of the House.’ She reflects on many aspects of her personal and public life, including an amusing account of a particular ‘date’ with Jeremy Corbyn, possibly the reason their relationship didn’t quite work out! Well worth a listen.

In the following piece, I reflect on the house move my husband, Tony, and I made six years ago.

Reflections From The Estuary

When we left our London borough and bought a run-down bungalow to renovate near Southend-on-Sea, I pictured instant calm: quiet beach walks, inner peace. Instead, I felt oddly adrift, realising that change takes time.

The Thames Estuary is five minutes away: stony beaches, tidal mudflats, an industrial skyline yet, when the tide is in, the water sparkles, swimmers brave the water year-round, and a row of colourful beach huts stretches for miles.

Our cockapoo, Phoebe, adored it — sprinting along the shore, paddling after her ball. After we scattered her ashes there two years ago, I couldn’t bring myself to walk on the beach again. But a new puppy arrives later this month and I’m hopeful the beach will fill me with joy once again.

On the first occasion I walked the 15 minutes to the local shops, I realised, with some surprise, I hadn’t passed a single person. Then, as I turned the corner, a woman cycled by on a bike complete with a front basket. For a moment, I imagined I’d stepped into a 1950s episode of Call The Midwife (although it really was imagined as I’ve never watched the popular show). It was one of many moments I found myself caught up in a sense of dislocation.

Very little traffic goes by in our street, but it’s alive with gulls, their banshee calls replacing the dawn chorus of our old home, leaving my car in need of frequent washes! I miss quick access to the city. In our previous location, London was 20 minutes away; now it’s an hour, and I must factor in the cost of train travel, which was previously free.

Even so, over time, I’ve grown to appreciate the lack of litter and the slower pace and now, at last, the bungalow’s transformation is complete. Would I move back to that London borough? Definitely not. But if someone offered me a flat in the Barbican (brutalism forever!) I wouldn’t turn it down…

For weekends.

Joking aside, when I look at the world around me at the wars, the displacement, the ongoing suffering so many live with, I realise how incredibly fortunate I am. Writing this causes a twinge of guilt, as though I shouldn’t be feeling anything but gratitude for the life I have. And mostly I do, but feelings are rarely that simple. I think it’s possible to be both thankful and unsettled, while still recognising the luck of being safe, housed and able to reflect at all. Writing about it doesn’t diminish that awareness; if anything, it deepens it.

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I’ll start with a poem. It connects to the seaside, through both its setting and its imagery. It takes place at Dreamland Amusement Park in Margate, where the ‘Hall Of Mirrors’ becomes a metaphor for the way memory distorts.

In The Hall Of Mirrors

(After a photograph taken at Dreamland Amusement Park, Margate, 1963)

The glass is looking at us,
bent double at our uniform oddness,
at my mother’s pendulous chin,
the vast lozenge of my sister’s head,
my own hair spiraling ceilingwards,
our arms, rippling up like the fronds of
sea creatures, our dimpled, pudgy knees.

It looks at my father, behind the camera,
meets the gaze of its lens in a conspiracy of lies.
Images glide across the warped surface
and the camera absorbs them, reflecting
this moment of our drowning in pure joy.

A moment that defies the unseen context,
a rare outing in the guise of happy families,
only when viewed from the same place,
in that same artificial light, and whilst
being looked at by that same glass.

Memories that insist the sun was always
indulgent, the sea a mirror, my mother
smiling at my father – a mercurial illusionist,
who’d suddenly appear in puffs of pipe smoke –
and for whom she’d always bend over backwards,
only to be left picking up the shattered pieces
when he vanished, yet again.

(c) Mary Anne Smith Sellen, 2025

Connect with Mary Anne on Facebook: Mary Anne Smith Sellen – Writer, Instagram: @maryannesmithsellen and BlueSky: @masmithsellen.bsky.social

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Staying with the sea, the following poem by A J Wilson embodies the theme of Reflection by transforming a familiar maritime broadcast into a quiet meditation on connection, memory and meaning. The Shipping Forecast holds a special place in many people’s hearts, not least ‘National Treasure’ Dame Judi Dench’s, who chose a recording of it on Desert Island Discs in 1998 (it’s still available on BBC Sounds). This beautiful poem encourages us to reflect on how even routine words can carry emotional weight and offer comfort in an unpredictable world.

Ode To The Shipping Forecast

At hush of midnight, softly spoken
over waves unseen and miles unbroken,
Sailing By drifts in, a gentle orchestration,
a prelude to the nation’s marine narration,
the Shipping Forecast…, it begins,
a seafarers code, so the oceans can’t win
Rockall, Malin, Dogger lightly sigh,
Hebrides whispers into the darkening sky,
German Bight and Fisher chant in rhyme
a heartfelt prayer over wind and brine,
names cast spells like Viking, FitzRoy, Shannon
evoking seismic seas, Poseidon’s companion,
each phrase a brushstroke across deep waters,
each word a testament to sleepless authors,
in landlocked rooms, in beds snug and tight,
we drift with you across the night,
so I praise your calm and rhythmic measure,
cloaked in mystery, each phrase a treasure;
we sleep soundly, never know the storm,
for your voice sustains us, in its poetic form.

© A J Wilson, 2025

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Now for a different type of poetry – haiku. For those unfamiliar with the style, the form originated in Japan and is traditionally composed of three lines with a 5-7-5 syllable structure. Usually, the poems focus on nature and a specific season or moment in time, although many modern haiku experiment with different syllable counts, allowing greater freedom. In Gloria Maloney’s, there’s a fusion between the modern and traditional, so heightening the emotional impact.

Reflections On The Seasons

Water keys flutter
Wildfowl nesting reflections
River lullabies

Nectar chalice cups
Droning eager honey bees
Sunshine parasols

Chlorophyll departs
Their beautiful golden hearts
Reflect on the pond

Snow dust in the trees
Peaceful sleepy heads bowed down
Snow on my pillow

© Gloria Maloney, 2025

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Sometimes the quietest moments say the most. These haiku capture the kind of peaceful scenes that make you stop and reflect on nature, sound and even your own thoughts.

In contrast to the poetry, I’m showcasing a wonderful piece of flash fiction by Lucy Kaufman, which is all about telling a complete story in a very short space. Here, Lucy explains how the story emerged:

The piece sprang to life in a writing workshop on writing about the sea. As someone who lives by the sea now, I find it provides inspiration every day. Every day it’s different: in colour, form and energy. It can relax, energise, renew, provide drama, remind us of our smallness in the universe or remind us of our worth, our significance. Both sea and shoreline change throughout the day and with the tides, moon-phases and seasons. The sea is a barrier to other places but also a passageway. My word for this year is ‘Voyager’ and I feel this piece encompasses much of what that word means to me. It’s about seeking and discovery; a pioneering, courageous spirit who goes forth and makes things happen, while also embraces being a passenger. In this city by the sea, where art, writing and music are sewn into the very fabric of the culture, it’s perhaps unsurprising this is the piece emerging from the workshop. I have no one-size-fits-all beliefs about the best way to go about the writing process. My own process, like the sea, changes all the time. Each person must find what works for them.

Two-By-Two

They marched up the gang-plank two-by-two. Two poets, two philosophers, two artists, two sculptors. Twins in all respects but one: the ideas blooming inside their heads, as intricate and fragile as lace.

They took to their bunks, explored the decks, measured the distances from here to there, evaluated the worth in this and that. Planned their route, debated their purpose, looked to this star, followed the needle’s rotation on the compass. Took turns to curse then praise the rolling waves.

One in each pair got down to business: took out their pens, their brush, their hammer and chisel. While the other in each pair sat or dozed, ate, drank, swapped stories, played cards, stared overboard into the treacherous depths, gazed up at the diamond-encrusted expanse of the cosmos, thought lofty thoughts and low ones.

Some pages filled with words, while others stayed blank. One canvas became heavy with colour and composition, the other stayed light. One slab of marble was chipped away at until a god in full regalia appeared; the other remained smooth and untouched. One philosophy was licked into shape — broad, deep, robust, true — while the other stayed latent as a seed, longing to be scattered on a wind.

When they sailed into port and disembarked — two poets, two philosophers, two artists, two sculptors – one half of each pair shared their work with the world. While the other half merely shrugged and said, “First the experience, then the gestation period.”

© Lucy Kaufman, 2025

Connect with Lucy on Instagram: @kaufmanlucy and Bluesky: @lucykaufman.bsky.social

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This final poem is about bridges and the connections or dreams they stand for that slowly fall apart over time. Now they’re gone, lying under the river. The water is like a mirror, making us think about what’s been lost and how memories can change as time goes on.

Bridges We’ve Dreamed

They didn’t tumble all at once.
They didn’t meet a thrilling demise –
They died a hundred little-deaths
And we watched with clouded eyes.

They didn’t unravel in swathes of flame,
Kiss the water with screams of steam –
They were nibbled and chipped by
Wind and rain,
Lost souls and wayward dreams.

They weren’t torn down with promethean hands,
Burnt at the altar of tomorrow and
Aftermorrow.
Their rigging was fraught with windy joy
And rust that spoke of sorrow.

Stories were written long after the fall
And all but one are false.
Now they lay in the river’s bed
And dance a stygian waltz.

(c) Jean Akintoye, 2025

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Putting together this week’s Showcase has made me reflect on the sea and the seasons, on lost connections and mirrors for change. For some, the sea is a daily source of inspiration. The seasons, rather than the sea, may encourage us to notice and respond to the world around us, and to capture fleeting moments. I’ve also found myself thinking about those for whom the sea is not symbolic or poetic, but a matter of survival — such as the migrants crossing the Channel in search of safety and freedom. For them, the sea is both a barrier and a passage and, I’m sure, they more than many of us, have cause to reflect on its impact.

I hope you enjoyed the writing and will join me next week for more inspirational and reflective pieces.

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