celebrating and creating our own LGBTQ+ history in honour of Sheila McWattie

Archive for February, 2017

day twenty one


by Majikle


Things have changed since

Van Limburgstirumplein last saw us

Cycling around her

I sit to sip overpriced coffee

Hoping I can still see

Your cheeks puff

Up front on a giant homemade bike

Me with my

Over stuffed rucksack

Dangling from the back

Two foreign girls

Escaping our governments

Looking for life lasting love

And finding it

In each other’s

Secret world faces

Ellyott, my lover is

Several inches shorter than even me

But three times as strong

Astute jockey always pushing through

What else can a dyke woman do?

Over tram tracks

Careful never to get stuck

The number ten

To Javaplein

Which too has been

Reclaimed from the squatters

Renovated and rebranded

Reblended into Amsterdam green

These days’ dykes are not so strange

Everybody is somewhere

On the queer spectrum range

Integration is the new normal

As everyone assimilates our fists

And to be fair our old enemy capitalism

Never needed homophobia as an excuse

To kick anyone where it hurts most

We, like the Moroccans have been priced out

Way beyond the railway tracks

Unless we have money

When we are welcome

To spend in the sunset lit square

Nice bikes sitting upright tidy in their racks

Adorn the advertising pumping station

As if it has always been

Like this there

Not filled with junkies their gums burned bare

The Kemperstraat stands far too quiet

Without her graffiti minded sluts

Near the Avondwinkel in

Need of more than

A lick of paint

The number of bridges getting smaller

As the city council carts

All homeless looking damaged bikes away

The cries of freedom from restraint

Have all grown faint

But the pigeons circle

The square indifferently

Just the same


day twenty


The prayer cushion felt rough through Kathleen’s stockings. A fine bead of sweat broke and trickled down the back of Sam’s neck. They were kneeling near the back of the draughty church as the priest led the flock in a language dead to the world.

Kathleen’s God-fearing Irish family would not entertain the idea of her marrying a Protestant. Get shot of him! It’ll be a practicing Catholic or nothing. Joke really, given that she’d been hanging out in Gracey’s Tearoom with Rose Gilfillan every Sunday from about the age of fourteen, ever since Father Murphy had probed for all the ins and outs of the sinful thoughts Rose had confessed to having about Bernard McKinney, behind the black curtain.

Sam embraced the Catholic faith to be with the woman he loved and was to be confirmed this morning.

– Are you sure you want to go through with this? Kathleen whispered.

He attempted a reassuring smile which she saw through to the lost look in his eyes.

– Because you don’t have to, you know. She linked her arm through his.

What choice have I got Kathleen? Your family.

– We could walk out of here right now and first thing tomorrow down the registry office and arrange a day.

– You’re serious, my god, you crazy woman. He squeezed her hand and his whole handsome face smiled. Kathleen had not seen Sam smile like this in weeks, which made her laugh which made him laugh. Waves of love washed over them.

– Sssshhhhh. They looked across at the woman in the fox fur stoll in the pew opposite. She tutted, turning her head and the fox’s back to the priest.


Sam stroked Kathleen’s cheek and she wiped a tear from his eye.

Sunshine beamed through the stained glass and their path was bathed in purple, red and green as they walked up the aisle together.

They giggled their way across the graveyard and Kathleen automatically crossed herself.


Fiona Thomson, Margate.

day nineteen


By Majikle


The white rose

you gave me

the day I left you

in our gypsy wagon

is rusting at the petal tips.

Cells of mortal memories

Are always called to this.

You wanted our developing

To end when I pushed

You away

And now you want me

To return

Because I’ve got your back

But plucked it was

By your fair hand and

I’m not sure I understand

How our soft start

Accelerated already to this?


day eighteen



Train ride fly by of graveside significations,

Grief contains you Son, Brother and Grandad,

Spelled out in faded blooms,

Alone now, they wilt in holes of tired oasis and copper, while you journey on.



JJ 16.1.17


day seventeen

When walking over Muddy fields

by Majikle


Start slow,

Keep your eyes on the baby steps low

Do not look too far ahead

instead, plod on

Know you will get there

Find stones and tree roots to press

your careful feet into

Follow the dogs for high ground, not pigs

they look for hollows to wallow in

Scan the sides for elevations

however small

And don’t take the bramble’s jokes

personally at all

When climbing up a muddy bank

follow the footprints you know

Steady as you

ninja go.




For more work:



day sixteen




I don’t know you.

So I reach.

I touch.

You sigh.



You kiss.

I sigh.

I melt.

I shout my release.

Sometimes you cry.


On discovery of a deeper love.

We are content.

For a lifetime of this.


I look.

You smile.

With your messy hair and wet cheeks.

I know you now.



Meg Merrillees, LLanbrynmair


day fifteen



Look look the pussy willow’s out!

And we wallow in memories,

Hanging them on the delicate whiskers

Silhouetted against the sky.


Blue of course as it always was:

Cycling round the common blue,

Snatching bucket and spade blue,

Jumping on the swings blue.


Our film starts off with them

With the sun straining through bars

Then wafting on the willow

That we took to teacher.


And left low and bare on the nature table

Wood and wall paint brown

Kicked desk and floor brown

Loathed suit and uniform brown.


Blue now is locked behind the park rails

Brown invades our lives.

For us now the swings must be still

And you and I dare not climb trees.


Look look the pussy willow’s out!

And we wallow in memories

Hanging them on the delicate whiskers

Silhouetted against the sky


our film continues

as we carve through

into adulthood

forging new maps


Powerful sunsets ending passionate days

Discovering our strengths days

Creating our own paths days

Being our own boss every day


Undertaking new journeys

The swings now vibrate

As we jump and rock on them

We not only scale trees, we shake them

and crack ceilings


The pussy willow is OUT and proud!





Sue Sanders, Broadstairs