Featured Poet - Matthew Gilbert
EYES CLOSED
(In memory of all those brave souls who never opened their eyes again.)
Sea lapping,
Seagulls shouting,
Mind Wandering,
Drifting into another beautiful day, I don’t want to open my eyes.
Heart pounding,
Throat closing,
Palms sweating,
Trying to block out the noise, I still don’t want to open my eyes.
Engines roaring,
Planes buzzing,
Shells detonating,
Stop the ride I want to get off; I’m not going to open my eyes.
Utah burning,
Omaha burning,
Juno burning,
I wish this was over-lord, please don’t make me open my eyes.
Peter stopping,
Ramp lowering,
Carnage ensuing,
Welcome to hell, I must not open my eyes.
Left opening,
Right opening,
Pain intensifying,
I want to go home; I’m going to have to close my eyes.
Legs buckling,
Breath shortening,
Life ebbing,
Drifting into another beautiful day, I can’t open my eyes.
ABOUT THE POEM: 'Eyes Closed' reflects the psychological dissonance between peace and horror — the mind’s desperate attempt to remain in tranquillity while the body endures war. Inspired by accounts of the D-Day landings, the poem imagines the inner voice of a soldier caught between memory, duty, and mortality. The cyclical structure — beginning and ending with drifting — mirrors the soldier’s escape from life’s brutality into the only peace left to him.
“SMILE, IT MIGHT NEVER HAPPEN!”
“Smile it might never happen ...”
Bang — the words hit me like an uppercut, stinging my ears as they helter-skeltered round my head embedding shrapnel in every part of my brain.
My legs buckle and I stumble as the tenebrous emotions engulf me, eyes burning, gasping for breath, as the tannoy announces, final boarding for the 08:30 to nowhere, I try to find my way out of the station I know so well,
So many people, so much noise, bumping, jostling, spinning…… “Where am I!”
Head pounding, ears ringing, lights dimming ... “Please someone I need help!”
Heart racing, skin dripping, muscles aching ... “Don’t let me fall!”
Need to find the exit, need to get out of here before I’m consumed from outside-in and from the inside-out.
Legs heavy with the inexorable pressure bearing down on me, I reach for help, but there is none.
Sat crying in a familiarly strange place — the noise has gone. No, everything has gone. But I’m still here.
I can’t hear anything, but everything is so loud!
I can’t see anything, but everything is so bright!
The world goes on, but I’ve ceased to exist.
Everyone is watching me, but no one can see me.
I call out for help, but no one can hear me.
Punch drunk I look for my corner, but this spinning world has no corners, just a vortex and I fall in.
“Smile it might never happen!” ... but for me it did!
ABOUT THE PIECE: "This is about my personal experience of the effect of PTSD, the incapacitating nature of the disorder and how it changed my life."
ENDLESSLY ENDLESS - SONNET
Endless yellow,
Endless brown,
Endless green.
Endless fields,
Endless furrows,
Endless flats.
Endless ditches,
Endless dykes,
Endless droves.
Endless skies,
Endless space,
Endless time.
Everything is endlessly endless,
In the Fens.
THE VIVACIOUS VIXEN
Harangued by the huntsman’s haunting hunting horn, the hapless hounds harass,
Far from the furrowed Fenland fields the fickle fox she flew,
Lifting lyrics of the loving larks to a lofted labyrinth with a stunning view.
Canines canny and cantankerous came cavorting with conviction,
Fawning fox felt frightened and frez, fearful for her fur,
Softly slipping sly south to simply save what might occur.
Nipping, gnarling, knotted nostrils notice niffs of those nearby,
But before barks are bellowed, brush bobbing, the bold beast bursts forth,
Racing rapidly — red and regal — the rebel reinvigorated runs north.
Hooves hammering, hearts heaving, hounds howling — she’ll take heed.
Dropping deep into the damp, dark ditch, daring not to breathe,
Leaving the huntsman’s horn fading on the fens.
Victorious, the vivacious vixen vacates her hidden hollow,
Slipping silently into sun-dappled safety and another tomorrow.
I’M HOME
As I look along the endless drove,
Surrounded by fields of black,
Infinite sky rising to the heavens,
Reeds bowing to their mother’s voice.
I see Eostre emerging from the eerie roke,
Expelling frosty tendrils of winter past,
Ushering in the shoots of spring,
And reclaiming her rightful throne.
A ghost soundlessly skims dewy banks,
Still crisp with the touch of Jack.
It’s spectral cry showing winter is still not dead,
And beckons in the blow.
As I look along the endless drove,
I am home.
ABOUT THE POEM: “I’m Home” was short listed for the Fenland Poet Laurette Awards 2025 and shows the importance of my fenland home in grounding me, when I feel like everything is out of control.
LAPWINGS ON OUR FIELDS AT PLAY
Sitting on a stumpy tree,
Looking out at the brown field sea,
I spy a peewit in the sky—
An angel’s dance from days gone by.
Mesmerised, I watch him play,
Yearning to grasp his bright display.
Swooping, sawing—ethereal sprite—
He dives, then vanishes from sight.
My heart now seized with fear for fate,
But crown in place, he does not wait.
Back to the sky, this little fan
Returns to charm a humble man.
For this celestial being in the mask
Has set for us a sacred task.
His home is nearly gone, undone
By all the damage we have spun.
No more may we see angels dance—
So, change your ways, don’t miss the chance.
Lapwings on our fields at play—
We need them there to always stay.
ABOUT MATTHEW
Born and raised in the Fenland town of Ramsey, Matthew has always felt most at home in the black furrowed fields and quiet beauty of the fens. Their solitude and texture inspire both his writing and sculptural work. After a serious illness caused by sepsis, he struggle with my mental health and
turned to ceramics as therapy. Working with clay grounded him, helped him heal, and reawakened his love for art and nature. Words have always intrigued Matthew, though poetry became his true way of seeing — its rhythm brought order to his thoughts and images to life. Through clay and language, he explores the landscape that shaped him. Matthew hopes his work invites others to find their own reflections in these flat, open lands and to create their own pictures from his words.
