Welcome to Issue 29.

The Jarrow March, which took place in October 1936, remains of great importance to the people of North East England. For those unfamiliar with the event, the march was a protest held by the unemployed of the town. Poverty, overcrowding, poor housing, and escalating mortality rates combined with 70% unemployment drove around 200 men from the shipbuilding town to march almost 300 miles to Westminster to appeal for help. Their MP, Ellen Wilkinson, was with them as they came to petition parliament.

As many readers are already aware, StepAway Magazine is based in the North East of England, and given that our focus is on walking, in seems remarkably fitting to publish a poem commemorating one of the most significant walks in the history of our region. The opening poem of our twenty-ninth issue does just that. “Jarrow Crusade: The Woman Left” by Bloodaxe published poet Tom Kelly is a corridor to our not so distant past. His work captures the stoicism, determination and passion of ancestors. As a northerner, I am deeply proud to publish this poem.

Meanwhile, Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon’s “Homeless in Winter” approaches homelessness in the North East in the twenty-first century. It is fascinating how, read back to back, Ceinwen and Tom’s poems speak to one another of a shared struggle that spans generations.

Our twenty-ninth issue then whisks us away to Ireland, China, Australia and elsewhere, courtesy of a line-up of alarmingly talented writers: Francis Bede, David Francis, Matthew James Friday, Gregory Luce, Ilona Martonfi, Gearoid O’Brien and Mo Ogier.

I hope that you enjoy reading this, our twenty-ninth issue – thank you to our contributors and readers for your support.

Yours faithfully,

Darren Richard Carlaw

editor@stepawaymagazine.com

Tears hold their own in the corner of her eyes,
wishing they could be used in the pawn shop.

Looking at the marchers, holding back speaking,
everyone lost in euphoria:
she wants to survive.

Tom Kelly

Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

Gregory Luce

Pedestrians look away; this alien is malign,
Those who enquire of his health, smile in satisfaction,
Those who fear this alien’s gait, nourish their reactions
and throw their rubbish at his feet.
Anticipating the displeasure of the crunch
the alien evades the mines,
Once upon a time the nearby bins wanted them.
Displaying contempt, lovers peck at each other’s eyes,
And there are the unconcerned, who get on with it,
Shop surfing….dining in and out.

No sooner do home memories flood in than
they leave for built apartments, leaving for good.
Everything like chaos, alienation, loss of hope
and pain is relative; some things shouldn’t be lost.
The alien is covetous, his recollections form as
movements in the symphony of traffic.
On an underpass wall he knew, was once written
‘The young write poetry, the old are the poets’
and over it, fantasy art and minimalist
worm-worked tags, are their reply.

The alien walks the footpaths of Clyde Street.
He walks along hewed treads of the street’s upbringing,
His upbringing; that was fun!
A few 3 bed fibro hatcheries left, the shops were little too!

Onward the alien strides, through glens of indifference.
The gutters seem familiar, storm drains look the same.
Truly, bingo ruled the Crest Ballroom’s cavernous hall.
Was that a person seen across the street, who might’ve
been a friend?

And further along the pathways of attempted acceptance,
He’s no closer, his faith beating soundly in his chest,
and at a pedo-crossing, the alien observes his stomach.
Wait a minute! It must turn on its back
Retrace his steps, recoup his threads,
and search for that shop. He passes street names,
driveways, power poles, and letter boxes,
Orientating himself like a lost schoolboy,
The alien has got that peckish recall.
He nourishes himself with a chicken kebab,
Washing it down with mineral water,
At the takeaway, his old fish ‘n chips shop.

The layers of disorientation peel away to reveal
an alien child-heart overwhelmed by despair,
And it rearranges the way his nerves react,
Emotionally remembering the last true hurt he felt,
A confrontation with xenophobic louts,
Launching insults from their parted buttock mouths,
On the dark side of the Granville railway station.
The station clock’s arms are shedding their hours,
They point for him to leave, the empty footpaths part,
The traffic lights simultaneously show green,
Slow moving vehicles unite and morph into caterpillars,
Shop front awnings wave him goodbye,
He pleads for his myths which mustn’t leave him.

Francis Bede

Cigarette butts and broken glass
litter the sidewalks.

Autumn leaves float
on black
adding a sense of decay
to these daylight hours.

Other occupants of the city
have also faded,
perhaps into buildings
which remain from the past,
cathedral, town hall, library.

Or perhaps some have been lifted
into new, tall, glass fronted structures,
many still under construction.

Cranes show people looking down,
no-one seems to be looking up.

The pinnacle of modernity,
a patch of false grass.

The streets are almost empty,
no-one is singing.

Silence except for cars close by.
Conversations are indoors
not between passers by.

In blended multiculturalism
the few pursue their own needs.

Wandering eyes of tourists are absent.

Flat, still air.

There is little colour.
Someone forgot to paint it in
and the day is too dull to know if
sunlight will be reflected from glass,
adding light.

I find no thread in this historical creation,
this city of stations,
but I am just travelling through.

Then, a memorial of flowers, messages.
“Stronger Together”
suggests interconnectedness
I have not seen.

I am heartened and think, maybe,
come evening,
the city will spring into life.

I leave hopeful,
until disused railway carriages,
tame, subdued landscapes,
which need a conductor
to orchestrate growth,
make me yearn for the sea,
to stand on the shore
and watch cosmic breath.

Mo Ogier

when you lose everything, three days ago
boxes in the asphalt driveway
scars, photographs, and family

283rd day in the Gregorian calendar.
On a cold Monday in October
I will go now. Not yet thirteen
juxtaposing the mundane:
streets I walked as a boy
three older sisters
7751 Avenue du Curé-Clermont
pine wood side door
the walled garden unforgiving
of knots and ropes
folk music, father’s fists

drawn to the many diaries.
Somehow we smuggled out
the common secret of violence
distorting that unreality

grey the colour of hope.
I will go now, go.

Ilona Martonfi

Matthew James Friday

There is little left of Stanley Row
Except the smoky memories
Of a thatched cottage
From which Paddy Blake set out
Each morning on his early rounds.

Brideswell Street, named for a holy-well
And not a lock-up,
Once knew so many households
Full to overflowing
But now there is nothing.

From “Rothberry” see the glint on the glass
Of the Bower Convent
And watch the strollers on the old coach road.
A left-turn down to the bog
To a house that reared an archbishop
Where Paddy Curley still sells milk by the can
With a tilly thrown in for the cat.

And back to Sweeney’s pub
Where loose porter was sold
In quart-cans and
Soccer matches discussed
And dissected over a pint

“Three Sweet Afton’s and some
Stout for me Gran” said the lad
“I hope she has the poker heating”
Old Sweeney replied pouring the
Porter into the young man’s can.

This junction held the key to choice,
Onwards to town
Upwards to Love Lane
Where love was sold as a commodity,

And across from there
Mr English had the best address of all
“English, Scotch Parade, Irishtown”
Covering all the options

And from Sweeney’s on towards town
Really was Irishtown. A proud station
Where everyone knew their place
And oh! so many watering holes
That they were spoiled for choice:
If not Sweeney’s Pub then Owen J. Dolan’s,
Monica Coughlan’s or Cloonan’s Bar.

And the stylish Vico Cottages where once
Another bishop lived, close to his penal church,
And all this within easy reach of the
Heavy-handed boys in the Brawny Barracks

But to those in the know – this was the town
Rough as a bush or smooth as a baby’s skin
Those who were not in the know
Were out – those in the know were in.

Gearoid O’Brien

a fly in the web
of memory
spun by the spider
of frustration
I struggle, I sit
tight and I catch
through cataracts
glimpses of sunlight

something to do with
the waterfront:
a few blocks of
cobblestone markets
where old ferns drape
the unused trestle
and graffiti is scrawled
from times past

David Francis