Shamima Begum's baby
Three children dead.
Have some compassion, whatever
she's done or said.
© Jenni Wyn Hyatt
Showing posts with label Jenni Wyn Hyatt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jenni Wyn Hyatt. Show all posts
Saturday, 9 March 2019
Thursday, 14 February 2019
LOVE is in the NEWS! - Shamima Begum, St Valentine’s Day, 2019
Shamima Begum, St Valentine’s Day, 2019
Nineteen and very pregnant,
Nineteen and very pregnant,
she wants to come home.
Two children lost already, she doesn’t want
to lose a third.
She and two friends ran away
To join IS in 2015. One is dead,
the fate of the other unknown.
No wonder she wants to come home.
I imagine myself and two friends
at fifteen, sixteen,
full of religious fervour and romantic ideas,
easily influenced..
I imagine how I’d feel,
friends lost, living under a repressive regime,
desperate to see my family, save my child.
I know what people will say, about her, about me.
Perhaps I'm soft
but I know I’d let her
come home.
© Jenni Wyn Hyatt
British IS schoolgirl 'wants to return home'
Jenni was born in Wales in 1942 and now lives in Derbyshire. She started writing poetry when she was in her late sixties and also translates verse from Welsh to English. Her work features regularly in 'The Lyric' and other magazines for formal verse. She published her first collection, 'Perhaps One Day', in 2017 and is in the process of preparing a second.
© Jenni Wyn Hyatt
British IS schoolgirl 'wants to return home'
Jenni was born in Wales in 1942 and now lives in Derbyshire. She started writing poetry when she was in her late sixties and also translates verse from Welsh to English. Her work features regularly in 'The Lyric' and other magazines for formal verse. She published her first collection, 'Perhaps One Day', in 2017 and is in the process of preparing a second.
Sunday, 19 August 2018
That Was the MUSE That Was
Cave Rescue, July 2018
the sudden flood that would not let them leave;
a football coach who sacrificed his food,
taught meditation to enhance their mood
and keep them strong. The never-ending wait
for news of rescue, parents desperate.
Collective prayer, by those of every faith
and none. A world that watched and held its breath;
a rescue mission, scrupulously planned
with diverse knowledge flown from distant lands;
a man who lost his life but not in vain,
his part a vital linkage in the chain
that, ultimately, brought them all out - safe,
a modern miracle, a world’s relief.
© Jenni Wyn Hyatt
Jenni Wyn Hyatt was born in Wales in 1942. She now lives in Derbyshire, and started writing poetry in her late sixties. Jenni published her first collection, 'Perhaps One Day' in 2017.
Saturday, 14 July 2018
Trump's in Town
Courtesy of Private Eye cartoonist, Rob Bullen
Swallow
Allow this man
and others of his kind
to visit this land of yours and mine
if that’s what they really want
When they arrive
we shall carry our children and grandchildren
aloft upon our shoulders so they can see for themselves
that these people look deceptively like us
generally human in appearance
And when they speak
our offspring will hear the sound snakes make
to sanitise their decisions and the steps they take
in the name of narcissistic whim or profit
regardless of impact on people or planet
Our precious ones
will this way learn
whom to avoid
whom to distrust
whom they must
not allow themselves to become
Allowing
the vile to be here for a while
putting their poisonous ideas on trial
should not increase their following
but will teach us that
when the venom is spat
the secret is not swallowing
© Peter A Kelly
Note: 'Swallow' first appeared in I am not a silent poet and appears here by kind permission. (Ed)
Peter A Kelly sometimes draws or photographs but usually writes instead. Occasionally published, one poetry prize, but best rewarded when his work affects others.
Note: 'Swallow' first appeared in I am not a silent poet and appears here by kind permission. (Ed)
Peter A Kelly sometimes draws or photographs but usually writes instead. Occasionally published, one poetry prize, but best rewarded when his work affects others.
Extremely egotistical,
mindlessly misogynistic,
narcissistic nincompoop,
crass climate change denier,
blustering, bigoted buffoon,
rampantly racist cager of children,
petty, petulant president.
Please - go home.
A President’s Lot Is Not A Happy One!
When the President’s enduring a State visit
Or maturing his fascistic little plan (little plan)
His capacity for humour is diminished (is diminished)
He’ll sulk, and skulk, and whinge like any man (any man
She’s still after a trade deal with her Brexit
But Had to say 'Theresa you've been had!'
S.O. Fasrus: Social Justice Campaigner & Social Research Interviewer. Her verse and poems; some comic; satirical; and serious; can be found online. Recent poems are in New Verse News, Culture Matters, and Poems for Grenfell Tower.
Trump's tresses
Trump went to dinner with May
His hair got out of the car before he did;
I'm not sure any dignitary's tresses
Have been discussed
As much as Trump's is
(Asides from a certain Korean chap).
mindlessly misogynistic,
narcissistic nincompoop,
crass climate change denier,
blustering, bigoted buffoon,
rampantly racist cager of children,
petty, petulant president.
Please - go home.
© Jenni Wyn Hyatt
Jenni Wyn Hyatt was born in Wales in 1942. She now lives in Derbyshire, and started writing poetry in her late sixties. Jenni published her first collection, 'Perhaps One Day' in 2017.
Die Blondinen
Sales of hydrogen peroxide
soar
as Golden Don
and Boris Adonis
pledge to take over the world-
soar
as Golden Don
and Boris Adonis
pledge to take over the world-
New law
dictates that blondes have more fun:
redheads, brunettes and mousey brown
there’s nowhere to run
'cos the boys are back in town
dictates that blondes have more fun:
redheads, brunettes and mousey brown
there’s nowhere to run
'cos the boys are back in town
So head straight down to Boots
there is nowhere to hide
those tell tale roots
if you don’t keep them dyed
there is nowhere to hide
those tell tale roots
if you don’t keep them dyed
Die blondinen
are the superior race as we know
the lessons from pages of history
show
that it starts with a crazy
guy raising his arm
but he’s just a nutter-
no cause for alarm
bells ringing in your head-
the crazy guy has gone now
the crazy guy is dead
are the superior race as we know
the lessons from pages of history
show
that it starts with a crazy
guy raising his arm
but he’s just a nutter-
no cause for alarm
bells ringing in your head-
the crazy guy has gone now
the crazy guy is dead
And
The Sun
shines down
on our flaxen haired gods
as they tousle their egos
two peas in a pod
The Sun
shines down
on our flaxen haired gods
as they tousle their egos
two peas in a pod
© Bex Tate
Bex Tate, frustrated with the data driven education system, recently left behind her job as a Kindergarten teacher to spend time writing and pondering life. Writing poetry helps her to try and make sense of the world...as well as giving her the chance to rant a bit!!
A President’s Lot Is Not A Happy One!
When the President’s enduring a State visit
Or maturing his fascistic little plan (little plan)
His capacity for humour is diminished (is diminished)
He’ll sulk, and skulk, and whinge like any man (any man
A dinner with a Queen just don’t excite him
But Presidential duties must go on (must go on)
He’s wondering if she’ll stoop to serving burgers,
Oh a President’s lot is not a happy one. (happy one)
OH A PRESIDENT’S LOT IS NOT A HAPPY ONE. (HAPPY ONE)
But Presidential duties must go on (must go on)
He’s wondering if she’ll stoop to serving burgers,
Oh a President’s lot is not a happy one. (happy one)
OH A PRESIDENT’S LOT IS NOT A HAPPY ONE. (HAPPY ONE)
When our enterprising President’s cutting taxes
When he’s stealing little children off their folks
He longs for Mar-a Lago and his golf balls
And party girls that laugh at all his jokes (all his jokes)
When he’s stealing little children off their folks
He longs for Mar-a Lago and his golf balls
And party girls that laugh at all his jokes (all his jokes)
The lying media’s making up more stories
Though he’s building walls and keeping hombres out
now Brits are floating b'lloons with him in diapers
A stoopid hairdo and a massive pout.
Though he’s building walls and keeping hombres out
now Brits are floating b'lloons with him in diapers
A stoopid hairdo and a massive pout.
He has to take the hand of their old PM
(Those fancy dinners leave him feeling bad)She’s still after a trade deal with her Brexit
But Had to say 'Theresa you've been had!'
One day he’ll tell em ‘take this job and shove it’
It’s hard to think he ever stood for this
He’s doing all they voted for, and extra
Yet all they ever do is take the piss
He’s doing all they voted for, and extra
Yet all they ever do is take the piss
But a President’s life is no such happy one. (happy one)
OH A PRESIDENT’S LOT IS NOT A HAPPY ONE. (HAPPY ONE)
OH A PRESIDENT’S LOT IS NOT A HAPPY ONE. (HAPPY ONE)
© S.O. Fasrus
Trump's tresses
His hair got out of the car before he did;
I'm not sure any dignitary's tresses
Have been discussed
As much as Trump's is
(Asides from a certain Korean chap).
There's a beauty in comparing
Trump's hair to spun sugar
Catching the eve's light,
Alongside Melania's dress
Resembling a six foot yellow gladioli.
Trump's hair to spun sugar
Catching the eve's light,
Alongside Melania's dress
Resembling a six foot yellow gladioli.
He's avoiding certain parts of Britain;
Mainly areas with protesters
And some bloke with a placard to free
Tommy Robinson.
He will be attending Windsor Castle
But may avoid Buckingham-
Trumpety, Trump, Trump.
Mainly areas with protesters
And some bloke with a placard to free
Tommy Robinson.
He will be attending Windsor Castle
But may avoid Buckingham-
Trumpety, Trump, Trump.
© Amanda Derry
Amanda Derry joined a Creative Writing class, following a breakdown, which played a significant role in her recovery. She now embeds literacy skills into classes that she teaches. Amanda also runs the Facebook Group, I Love Writing.
A Special Relationship
The general consensus seems to be
that the Brits dislike Donald Trump.
They think he is as rude as can be,
that he's not a chum but a chump.
A Special Relationship
The general consensus seems to be
that the Brits dislike Donald Trump.
They think he is as rude as can be,
that he's not a chum but a chump.
Across the country men will protest,
(though many say the gesture is limp)
and acting more in earnest than jest,
they'll fly a twenty-foot-tall baby blimp.
(though many say the gesture is limp)
and acting more in earnest than jest,
they'll fly a twenty-foot-tall baby blimp.
As he expressed admiration for Boris
saying that he would be a good PM
his opponents criticised him in chorus
and jeered him for uttering this 'gem'.
saying that he would be a good PM
his opponents criticised him in chorus
and jeered him for uttering this 'gem'.
He claims that the Brits like him a lot
yet many thousand say he is a jerk.
He thinks the EU are hatching a plot
and a deal with them will not work.
yet many thousand say he is a jerk.
He thinks the EU are hatching a plot
and a deal with them will not work.
To be contentious for him is the norm;
he says things at which people scoff
and he flies into a diplomatic storm
when he declares that a US deal is off.
he says things at which people scoff
and he flies into a diplomatic storm
when he declares that a US deal is off.
© Luigi Pagano
Luigi Pagano has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines, UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.
Thursday, 14 June 2018
In Memory of Grenfell 💚
Caoineadh (for Grenfell) 💚
I summon to this
shadow graveside
the joys and sorrows
of our families.
My sister’s wonder at sweet pea
blossoming on a cold windowsill.
The speckled palette of her view
across an unfamiliar London sky.
Her daughter’s delight in dancing
in learning. Of uaigneas, loneliness
sadness, comforted by a letter
from home in her mother tongue.
Will anyone ask if she was happy -
if long hours cleaning hospital
wards bled her skin
dampened her soul?
Does anyone care that she was good?
she helped neighbours
her beliefs had no colour.
She is beloved, grá geal mo chroí.
That she missed music, singing
her voice strong
a skylark in London
keening for home.
© Rona Fitzgerald
Rona Fitzgerald worked on promoting gender equality for twenty years at European and national levels. She writes poems about people and about matters in the world that concern her.
Rapunzel Moss Height Glasgow 💚
Ur yi no feart? School pals wunner
Sae high up? Plump palms oan the sill
she learns the toon's clutter. Fitba pitches
whare Daddy plays day-bricht wi floodlichts.
Motors birl an hurl roon shinin the nicht.
Barbie-pink curtains aye open. The shops,
whare the wumman upstairs works, aw wee toys.
Hir magic show. Dancin wi the wind the swayin flats
fuel hir dreams. Oer the noise o the babby
through the wa greetin, the telly blethers.
A hundred people now feared dead
in the Grenfell Tower blaze.
Streechin oot, freckles agin the gless
she peers doon at hir building, wunners
Whit's cladding?
© Finola Scott
Finola Scott likes writing and tickling her grandchildren. A Slam-winning granny, she appeared this year at the EIBF as well as reading in Rosslyn Chapel by candelight.
Face Lift 💚
My face in lining up to check
its worn cheeks and over-hanging eyelids
in the mirror. Like any old building,
the elements have washed it
into disrepair, though not yet instability.
No need for signs warning of
falling debris.
I slap on a bit of make-up sure,
but it's purely cosmetic,
just to plaster over cracks,
add some colour.
If I had more money than sense,
they could lift me, suck me, fill me,
provide full and costly renovation.
But when you are poor, all you get is
unsuitable cladding
and no real means of escape.
© Pat Edwards
Pat Edwards is a writer, teacher and performer living in Mid Wales. Her work has appeared in various publications including Prole, Picaroon, The Curlew, Ink Sweat and Tears and the soon to be published #MeToo Anthology. Pat runs Verbatim poetry open mic nights and curates Welshpool Poetry Festival.
Enquiry 💚
If we could, we’d ask them what it was like:
when the fire had taken hold and was rip-roaring close
and they knew, no way, were they getting out
and they wondered what it was going to be:
barbequed, flash-fried alive, sizzle and flame,
or deep-sea drowned, gulp-gulp-gulping acrid smoke.
If we could, we’d ask them what they felt:
in the super-heated furnace of their guts,
in the roaring Hell-fire of their heart,
in the blazing bonfire of their brain.
But as it is, we can only ask ourselves:
who’s fault it was, who was to blame.
© Richard Devereux
Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.
Grenfell Tower 💚
‘Grenfell Tower’ was first published in ‘The Lyric’, Summer 2017
How must it feel to know you’re going to die
when rabid flames demolish and devour
and leave a mausoleum in the sky?
How must it feel to know you’re going to die
too young, and bid your family goodbye,
when acrid fumes constrict and overpower?
How must it feel to know you’re going to die
when rabid flames demolish and devour?
How must it feel to try to carry on
when you escaped the blaze but at what cost,
to suffer nightmares which will run and run?
How must it feel to try to carry on,
when much of what made life worthwhile has gone,
with home and treasures, friends and loved ones lost?
How must it feel to try to carry on
when you escaped the blaze at such a cost?
© Jenni Wyn Hyatt
Jenni Wyn Hyatt was born in Wales in 1942. She now lives in Derbyshire, and started writing poetry in her late sixties. Jenni published her first collection, 'Perhaps One Day' in 2017.
One Year 💚
One year
does not
fill the spaces
where lives were once lived -
does not
fade the image
of their faces
their voices
crying out
from inside
until the lines went
dead
One year does not stop
the anger
the pain
the numbness
the nagging knowledge
that they will not
come back -
does not stem
tears falling like rain
dropping out of eyes
that would rather not have seen
the unseeable -
nor silence ears
that would rather not have heard
the unspeakable
One year on
there is no
sprinkler system
to douse memories
no extinguisher
no Jack and Jill
pail of water
to put out
the grief smarting
in hearts
broken
One year on
empty rhetoric
can and never will
fill the spaces
where lives were once lived
One year on
one love
one green heart –
many voices
unite
through silence💚
© Bex Tate
Grenfell one year on: ‘We don’t want those lives to be lost for nothing’
Bex Tate, frustrated with the data driven education system, recently left behind her job as a Kindergarten teacher to spend time writing and pondering life. Writing poetry helps her to try and make sense of the world...as well as giving her the chance to rant a bit!!
Grenfell (a double triolet) 💚
What would William Blake have done
as Grenfell Tower was burning bright
and names extinguished, one by one?
What could William Blake have done
to wake the rich in Kensington
before the sirens cried that night?
What would William Blake have done
as Grenfell Tower was burning bright?
What would William Blake have said
to those who built the fatal walls,
trapping the innocents in bed?
What could William Blake have said?
The names and numbers of the dead
hide under an official pall.
What would William Blake have said
to those who built the fatal walls?
© Jennifer Davis Michael
Grenfell Tower lit green a year after fire
Jennifer Davis Michael is Professor and Chair of English at the University of the South in Sewanee,TN, USA. Her work has appeared in Mezzo Cammin, New Verse News, Literary Mama, and elsewhere.
I summon to this
shadow graveside
the joys and sorrows
of our families.
My sister’s wonder at sweet pea
blossoming on a cold windowsill.
The speckled palette of her view
across an unfamiliar London sky.
Her daughter’s delight in dancing
in learning. Of uaigneas, loneliness
sadness, comforted by a letter
from home in her mother tongue.
Will anyone ask if she was happy -
if long hours cleaning hospital
wards bled her skin
dampened her soul?
Does anyone care that she was good?
she helped neighbours
her beliefs had no colour.
She is beloved, grá geal mo chroí.
That she missed music, singing
her voice strong
a skylark in London
keening for home.
© Rona Fitzgerald
Rona Fitzgerald worked on promoting gender equality for twenty years at European and national levels. She writes poems about people and about matters in the world that concern her.
Rapunzel Moss Height Glasgow 💚
Ur yi no feart? School pals wunner
Sae high up? Plump palms oan the sill
she learns the toon's clutter. Fitba pitches
whare Daddy plays day-bricht wi floodlichts.
Motors birl an hurl roon shinin the nicht.
Barbie-pink curtains aye open. The shops,
whare the wumman upstairs works, aw wee toys.
Hir magic show. Dancin wi the wind the swayin flats
fuel hir dreams. Oer the noise o the babby
through the wa greetin, the telly blethers.
A hundred people now feared dead
in the Grenfell Tower blaze.
Streechin oot, freckles agin the gless
she peers doon at hir building, wunners
Whit's cladding?
© Finola Scott
Finola Scott likes writing and tickling her grandchildren. A Slam-winning granny, she appeared this year at the EIBF as well as reading in Rosslyn Chapel by candelight.
Face Lift 💚
My face in lining up to check
its worn cheeks and over-hanging eyelids
in the mirror. Like any old building,
the elements have washed it
into disrepair, though not yet instability.
No need for signs warning of
falling debris.
I slap on a bit of make-up sure,
but it's purely cosmetic,
just to plaster over cracks,
add some colour.
If I had more money than sense,
they could lift me, suck me, fill me,
provide full and costly renovation.
But when you are poor, all you get is
unsuitable cladding
and no real means of escape.
© Pat Edwards
Pat Edwards is a writer, teacher and performer living in Mid Wales. Her work has appeared in various publications including Prole, Picaroon, The Curlew, Ink Sweat and Tears and the soon to be published #MeToo Anthology. Pat runs Verbatim poetry open mic nights and curates Welshpool Poetry Festival.
Enquiry 💚
If we could, we’d ask them what it was like:
when the fire had taken hold and was rip-roaring close
and they knew, no way, were they getting out
and they wondered what it was going to be:
barbequed, flash-fried alive, sizzle and flame,
or deep-sea drowned, gulp-gulp-gulping acrid smoke.
If we could, we’d ask them what they felt:
in the super-heated furnace of their guts,
in the roaring Hell-fire of their heart,
in the blazing bonfire of their brain.
But as it is, we can only ask ourselves:
who’s fault it was, who was to blame.
© Richard Devereux
Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.
Grenfell Tower 💚
‘Grenfell Tower’ was first published in ‘The Lyric’, Summer 2017
How must it feel to know you’re going to die
when rabid flames demolish and devour
and leave a mausoleum in the sky?
How must it feel to know you’re going to die
too young, and bid your family goodbye,
when acrid fumes constrict and overpower?
How must it feel to know you’re going to die
when rabid flames demolish and devour?
How must it feel to try to carry on
when you escaped the blaze but at what cost,
to suffer nightmares which will run and run?
How must it feel to try to carry on,
when much of what made life worthwhile has gone,
with home and treasures, friends and loved ones lost?
How must it feel to try to carry on
when you escaped the blaze at such a cost?
© Jenni Wyn Hyatt
Jenni Wyn Hyatt was born in Wales in 1942. She now lives in Derbyshire, and started writing poetry in her late sixties. Jenni published her first collection, 'Perhaps One Day' in 2017.
One Year 💚
One year
does not
fill the spaces
where lives were once lived -
does not
fade the image
of their faces
their voices
crying out
from inside
until the lines went
dead
One year does not stop
the anger
the pain
the numbness
the nagging knowledge
that they will not
come back -
does not stem
tears falling like rain
dropping out of eyes
that would rather not have seen
the unseeable -
nor silence ears
that would rather not have heard
the unspeakable
One year on
there is no
sprinkler system
to douse memories
no extinguisher
no Jack and Jill
pail of water
to put out
the grief smarting
in hearts
broken
One year on
empty rhetoric
can and never will
fill the spaces
where lives were once lived
One year on
one love
one green heart –
many voices
unite
through silence💚
© Bex Tate
Grenfell one year on: ‘We don’t want those lives to be lost for nothing’
Bex Tate, frustrated with the data driven education system, recently left behind her job as a Kindergarten teacher to spend time writing and pondering life. Writing poetry helps her to try and make sense of the world...as well as giving her the chance to rant a bit!!
Grenfell (a double triolet) 💚
What would William Blake have done
as Grenfell Tower was burning bright
and names extinguished, one by one?
What could William Blake have done
to wake the rich in Kensington
before the sirens cried that night?
What would William Blake have done
as Grenfell Tower was burning bright?
What would William Blake have said
to those who built the fatal walls,
trapping the innocents in bed?
What could William Blake have said?
The names and numbers of the dead
hide under an official pall.
What would William Blake have said
to those who built the fatal walls?
© Jennifer Davis Michael
Grenfell Tower lit green a year after fire
Jennifer Davis Michael is Professor and Chair of English at the University of the South in Sewanee,TN, USA. Her work has appeared in Mezzo Cammin, New Verse News, Literary Mama, and elsewhere.
Thursday, 25 January 2018
Bear Arms
Comfort Zone
The military mind, as we all know,
Is disciplined, methodical and slow.
Although it likes its toys all gleaming new,
In most things it prefers the tried and true:
When fighting for the freedom of the West,
The older bogeymen are often best.
Thus, once again, we're ordered to beware
The rumblings of the ruthless Russian Bear:
That empire's seeking of its evil ends
Might soon deprive us of some Nazi friends.
It last attacked us – well, don't mind the date –
But let's to arms before we are too late
To tame the deadly threat that NATO faces
From right inside our worldwide ring of bases.
© Philip Challinor
Russia is biggest threat to UK since cold war, says head of British army
Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.
Priorities
The military mind, as we all know,
Is disciplined, methodical and slow.
Although it likes its toys all gleaming new,
In most things it prefers the tried and true:
When fighting for the freedom of the West,
The older bogeymen are often best.
Thus, once again, we're ordered to beware
The rumblings of the ruthless Russian Bear:
That empire's seeking of its evil ends
Might soon deprive us of some Nazi friends.
It last attacked us – well, don't mind the date –
But let's to arms before we are too late
To tame the deadly threat that NATO faces
From right inside our worldwide ring of bases.
© Philip Challinor
Russia is biggest threat to UK since cold war, says head of British army
Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.
Priorities
Russia develops instruments of war.
In this sad world of poverty and pain,
such money could be used for so much more.
Russia develops instruments of war,
bigger and better than it had before,
to kill and injure, subjugate and maim.
Russia develops instruments of war
in this sad world of poverty and pain.
In this sad world of poverty and pain,
such money could be used for so much more.
Russia develops instruments of war,
bigger and better than it had before,
to kill and injure, subjugate and maim.
Russia develops instruments of war
in this sad world of poverty and pain.
© Jenni Hyatt
Jenni Wyn Hyatt was born in Wales in 1942. She now lives in Derbyshire, and started writing poetry in her late sixties. Jenni published her first collection, 'Perhaps One Day' in 2017.
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