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Submit Poetry

Submission Guidelines

  • Submissions are open to anyone in Suffolk, England, aged 16 or over
  • Poetry theme(s): (1) The Environment; (2) Positive Mental Health Recovery and Wellbeing; (3) Covid Reflections. Please indicate the theme(s) of your poem in your submission
  • Up to 52 lines in length
  • Do not use words, terms or phrases that are considered offensive, obscene, abusive, inappropriate or mention/infer self-harm
  • Submit by email, to artbranches@icloud.com either inserting your text within the email body or as an attachment
  • Indicate the name, initials, etc., to attribute as the author, or whether you wish to write anonymously
  • Submissions may be accompanied by an optional related image attached to your submission email.  Images must either be your own, have permission granted for you to use or be free-to-use commercially.  If required, a vast range of high quality, free-to-use images can be found at websites such as Unsplash, Pexels and Pixabay. If you do not wish to provide an associated image, the organiser may choose something appropriate or present the text without an image.

Notes & Further Information

The organiser, Art Branches CIC, is a not-for-profit community organisation specialising in inclusive creative projects for improving wellbeing in communities across the East of England.

Your name and email address will be used solely for the purpose of poetry collection and communication by the organiser and will not be shared with any other party.

By submitting your content (poetry and any associated image), you agree to the right of the organiser to publish it online and/or in hard copy form on a non-exclusive, royalty-free basis.  You still own the copyright on your content and are not transferring that to the organiser.

The organiser reserves the right to not publish a submission text and/or image or to remove a previously published submission.

For further information, contact us through the organiser's Contact page on the Art Branches website: https://artbranches.org/contact/

Currently Popular Poems:

Solitude of Pines

With a frail And uncertain future Breathing in rhythmical pines Calms my thoughts. Solitude I seek Within the forest Amorphous blankets of snow Covering crestfallen waves. Spirited wind Melancholy whispers A tear falls Past traumas relived. Ephemeral bird calls Wispy clouds and frost Revitalises lost energies I no longer feel lost.     Matthew  
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Dunwich

Dunwich, once second to London its bells still ring far out to sea when I was young I used to find skulls, ribs and femurs scattered down its cliffs, all now buried in my heart John
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The Skylark

A fletched fanfare to the field Pulses upward Ladders the air No regalia for this herald: A flickering tattered grey-brown speck Yet he cascades his song Like a million pieces of silver Glorying the sky Owning the hunkered down, machine-torn hedges, The tilled and tamed expanse beneath Daring the wind, taunting I’m here, he cries, I’m here Awakening the wild joy in our hearts Bone-bred memories of open heath and grassland. Robert Lindsay
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A Way of Life

It’s become a way of life this summer, the canvas bag slung over my shoulder hoping not to need it hoping the sky will stay blue long enough to get a walk by the sea. It’s become a way of life this summer, wearing my green jeans, wearing a matching sweatshirt to keep the wind out, wearing green wherever possible to match my green cagoule in case I need it. It’s becoming a way of life, it’s true, this life of uncertainty which nags at the back of your mind and keeps you constantly looking up the weather on your phone. It’s a way of life, this anxiety which sends me scurrying for help when it mushrooms out of control in the middle of the night. Julia
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Greyfriars

If ever there were dragons they left their passion here in garnet schist and granite,  crazy migmatite of marbled black and white: hot scramblings of the pluton. What's left of monks is bony, hard to see: a grassy field where horses crop and starlings pop and bubble natter-songs of seed and insect, feeding over buried walls. Cobble-flocks and boulders Cluster; mortared stone reliques tell crustal stories deeper than our poor humanity. Churches pass and minsters fall: the pagan flints remain. Tim
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Becalmed

I can no longer dot the i’s, nor cross the t’s. A pale haze, like Sunday afternoons, pleasant after a glass of wine too many, drifts across my day. I am at peace. I find myself disposed to acquiesce, content to live life at this gentle pace, content, it seems, with how life’s focus, now diminished, takes on the softened blur of evening light. Something sharp is lost. But the time for mourning it is done. The wind that swelled the sails has dropped, the tide recedes, the fierceness of the sun is quenched, leaving the sunshine’s golden glow that speaks the lateness of the hour. A taste of salt upon my lips - no call for worry or regrets - a bitter-sweet recall of what has gone. Julia Duke
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River Stour, Sudbury

Mirror of ripples, floating tangles and bubbly foam. Swans racing The togetherness Of aqua. Sallow splashes Poplars tremble And minds drift. Jungle of reeds On vertical plane Moorhen hideout. Anon.
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Seasons

To each a season: the planets Turn in Kepler's gyre, Swelling the mental weather, Fattening the wealth Of light and dark I weekly Feel in my own solitude. To each a season: a death Of what was hard and cold: A burst of sun to break My hoary sadness And gild the shining tower I build around your smile. But let's not talk of sun But speak instead of life And all the things I feel When living through mortality. The lovely times We feast and meagre times We only feed on memories. I have my seasons. Tim Holt-Wilson
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Twisted Love

Twisted trunk and milky stream, A glacial meltwater on serpent skin. Whirling optimistic messengers, Coherent and flowing, Yet random and broken Waiting to be spoken. Snake bark maple, And milky stream, Twisted love and shattered dreams. Anon .    
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Behind Your Smile

Behind your smile, Is a heart that's filled with pain, Behind every gesture There's a walk down memory lane. For yesterday's troubles, Are torments of the soul, It's so hard to be strong, When life takes its toll. With every step that's taken, There's compassion for another, A listening ear always there, Guiding sons, daughters, mothers. Always so much easier, To hold up for a friend, When to go with your feelings, Seems to lead to no end. The whispers locked inside your head, Remind you, you're alive, With pretending and avoiding, You can easily survive. Giving in's not an option, When there are others to care for, So easy to pretend, When there's no help at the door. Depression, like a broken leg , Needs nurturing and healing. Don't treat it any differently, It's normal to have feelings. Out there is the help you need, To help and cope and manage, The troubles burdening your mind, To unload all the baggage. So while right now it seems each ...
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