Hello again! I’m Charlotte, your Showcase editor for November. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed sharing the fantastic writing from our contributors under this month’s theme of ‘Difference’. The pieces have offered the opportunity to consider how difference can arise and manifest, how difference can lead to new connections and understandings, and how writing about difference can inspire readers to reflect on their own sense of otherness  – or even to reconsider their prejudices.

However, some divides feel impossible to bridge. But isn’t that exactly what makes for compelling writing? Reading about an explosive argument unfolding or experiencing someone else’s abject misery can be riveting; perhaps even cathartic. It invites us to confront the tensions and heartbreak difference can bring.

In this week’s selection, we explore the conflicts and emotional upheavals sparked by difference. From clashes of cultures and perspectives to the heartache of feeling misunderstood, these pieces capture the raw, unfiltered experience of human disconnect.

This first poem, by James Waller, is a beautiful and poignant rumination on the relentless march of time in our ever-evolving world. With a sense of deep nostalgia, the narrator contrasts the joys and challenges of years gone by with the uncertain and often daunting future today’s youth must face. The sorrow expressed for the younger generation serves as a poignant reminder of what has been lost across the decades, compelling us to confront the painful truth that some experiences are gone forever – a divide that simply cannot be bridged.

Yesteryear

I do not envy youth for I have lived a magic age
And if I had the power I’d rewrite not a page
Could there be a better time in which to choose to live?
When all the years that I have known, have had so much to give

Born in nineteen thirty one, I was young and we were poor
I lived through Hitler’s tyranny, survived that evil war
Face raised to the heavens, I saw smoke trails in the skies
And watched the Battle of Britain, take place before my eyes

The time when Britain stood alone, too young to do my bit
How we blessed those brave young me, I was proud to be a Brit
And how my heart bled for them, that day the sixth of June
When we repaid proud Europe for leaving them too soon

Can words describe V.E. Day, chairs and tables in the street
When we were young and waved our flags, our happiness complete
An experience you’ll never know, brings a quiver to my lips
Could that moment live again, twixt cars and rubbish skips

And those romantic fifties when we danced cheek to cheek
The Foxtrot and the Tango we’d practice all the week
Singers crooned sweet love songs with words we understood
We sang them to our loved ones, walking through the wood

Then the Swinging Sixties when pop music came of age
We made love and listened, Stones and Beatles all the rage
Wearing faded jeans of denim with flowers in our hair
Gentle people preaching peace, casting petals every where

I look back and marvel at the things I’ve seen achieved
Thoughts that seemed impossible when I was first conceived
Conquered proud Mount Everest explored the ocean floor
Put a man upon the moon where no man had gone before

Sailed single handed around the globe, ventured to the Poles
Cast aside religion, searched deep into our souls
Discovered atomic fusion and the secrets of our birth
Used all the worlds resources, polluted all the Earth

Can young hope still flourish, when the future holds but fear
Can you cast a blanket on the ground as we did in yesteryear
I weep for you my children, for the pleasures I have known
Lost with me in a bygone age – for you – the years have flown

(c) James Waller, 2024

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This next extract is from Aba Amissah Asibon’s unpublished novel, Greet My People For Me, which was selected as a 2023 New Voices award winner. It  follows the Koomson family as they leave their idyllic life in the US to move to Ghana. The story deals with themes of cultural and social differences, and how these differences can create tension. Here, Olivia finds herself caught between two worlds, with the customs and expectations of her new environment completely at odds with what she knows.

Greet My People For Me

Accra, Ghana

The cook was a burly man with territorial tendencies. And even though he kept the kitchen door shut at all times, it did not stop one from hearing him bark orders at the young maid who served as his assistant. He would present the weekly menu to Olivia like a child handing over an impressive report card to a parent. Her eyes would gloss over the culinary jargon: fish à la grecque, steak au poivre, chiffonade, escabeche.

“Any comments, Madam?” the cook would ask, between them a mutual understanding that this process was a mere formality.

After all, she had found him in this house, his recruitment orchestrated by her mother-in-law, Mamaa. And even though Olivia had insisted upon her arrival in Accra, that a live-in cook was unnecessary – that back in America, she had gotten by just fine balancing household chores with her job at the John Carver Elementary School – Mamaa had simply dismissed her protests, reminding her that she was now the wife of the Honourable Minister of Trade and Industry. Perhaps, the cook had overhead this exchange. It was the only explanation Olivia could ascribe to his seething hostility towards her. More than once, she had caught him rolling his eyes at her when she gave him feedback on his cooking, urging him to stick to more traditional Ghanaian fare. But she was not one to be confrontational, especially not when she was still finding her footing in this new house, in this new country.

The day the cook quit, Olivia had spent the greater part of the morning pacing around the house. Without a job and the responsibility of housework, she found that time dripped languidly like drops from a leaky faucet. Some days it felt as if she was wading through a pool of it, that she would eventually drown. She had been standing in the master bedroom, making a mental note of things that needed replacing – the offensive turquoise curtains Mamaa had picked out, the faded paisley carpeting that had come with the place – when the cook announced lunch was ready.

Impeccable timing, she thought to herself as she sat down at the dining table and lifted the silver cloche. On the plate, a bed of lettuce topped with a sprinkling of green beans and anchovies. The rumbling in her gut greatly reduced her tolerance for the cook’s antics and she found herself marching into the kitchen. The young maid, who was peeling carrots over the sink, dropped the knife at the sight of her. The cook fixed his posture over the pot of soup he was stirring, a pale blue kitchen towel thrown over this shoulder.

“Madam,” he began. “Is there a problem?”

“What would you call today’s lunch, Cook?” Olivia asked.

“Salade Niçoise, Madam. As agreed.”

She had to stop herself from scoffing at his exaggerated French accentuations.

“Surely Cook, this cannot be considered a complete meal.”

“It’s meant to be a light salad, perfect for a hot day like this one!”

Olivia widened her stance, planted her hands on her hips and looked him straight in the eye.

“From now on, Cook, I will tell you what to put on the weekly menu.”

The man dropped the wooden spoon into the pot he was stirring and squinted at her. The maid, who had retreated into a far corner of the kitchen was chewing on her fingernails, already petrified by what was yet to come. Without warning, the cook threw the kitchen towel at Olivia’s feet, untied his heavily stained apron and stormed out of the kitchen screaming “I quit! I quit!”, leaving both her and the maid aghast.

(c) Aba Amissah Asibon, 2024

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This final poem by Carolyn Oulton offers a heartbreaking reflection on the isolation difference can bring. The narrator’s distinct way of experiencing the world creates a sense of uncomfortable (and limiting) separation, prompting the reader to question why the world can’t be more accommodating of our differences. It’s a poignant question to end this Showcase on, and one I’ll certainly be pondering for longer.

I Notice… Strongly, Slightly, Not At All

That I have two pens
to choose from
but only black ink.
You’re not trying to make me
feel comfortable, though
you wonder if you should.

So yes I can read
something, it may not be faces.
The endings of books
(I don’t annotate margins,
I make separate notes)
don’t surprise me.

Later on
the wind
gets busy with canvas,
birds rush down
to whet their beaks
on a fountain
of feather and bone.

Almost I hear water
slipping through the knuckles
of a wooden bench.
Threads rusting on old towels,
Backs bent towards the sun
along a washing line.

(c) Carolyn Oulton, 2024

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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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