It’s a matter of perspective.

It matters where you stand.

A says stoutly she knew the law

but chose to play the dice;

B that she was stupid

but does not deserve to die.

C pleads indifference and does not care;

D speaks of ‘just deserts’;

E deplores the use of drugs

and praises those who kill.

Me, though, what do I think?

I am glad I am not called upon to judge.

From the far, high ground and looking down,

these things may yet be blurred.

The focus shifts, a mist rolls down.

It matters where you stand.

To see her folly and feel her pain

is not to miss the point;

is not to make excuses

but may teach us proper love.

© Abigail Wyatt, 2013

Death sentence passed on British woman

Abigail Wyatt was born in Essex but now lives in Cornwall where she writes poetry and short fiction and tries not to get into too much trouble. She can be found on Facebook and blogs at abigailelizabethwyatt.wordpress.com

A Prince should act with dignity, not cut ungainly capers,

Unless he wants his manhood to appear in all the papers.

Such was the case with Harry, who cavorted just for fun,

And whose weapons-grade equipment duly showed up in the Sun.

It was awful, it was horrid, it was not the kind of tone

That the Murdoch press expected of a chip from off the Throne.

But now he's back from serving in a lovely bit of war –

And how the tabloids' tone has changed from what has gone before!

A helicopter pilot may by hazard come a-cropper,

When partying in Vegas, by the flashing of his chopper.

But journalists forgive a Royal taking off his togs,

If he should go to Asia and blow up sufficient wogs.

© Philip Challinor, 2013

 Harry the Hero

http://www.thecurmudgeonly.blogspot.com

Mhttp://www.lulu.com/spotlight/challinor07

I have now deleted from my life,
An army man and an army wife,
Though it sliced me like the knife,
I saw no option.

I questioned not the courage there,
Nor intent to prove a care,
Nor the man of action rare,
But blind obedience.

If I am a parcel of vain strivings tied,
It is a horse’s conscience you provide,
So friendship for truth’s sake has died,
And suffered greatly.

It was the praise of Harry’s sin,
Applauded seven seconds in,
His ominous and passing grin,
Precisely seven seconds in,
That ominous and passing grin,
Which tipped me over.

I've not the time to argue, or,
The energy to make case for,
The pulling from all foreign war,
While ignorance of this magnitude reigns.

© Craig Guthrie

Prince Harry in Afghanistan

Craig Guthrie is from Wirral, UK. You can read more of his work on his blog, Satan is Biting My Ankle

Time and tide wait
For no man they say
But here the tide swallows
The whole of the bay.

Where once we called home
The ocean laps high
We swam and we paddled
And we waved it goodbye.

But the waves kept on coming
And still they rise now
Oh to stem back the waters
I wish I knew how.

I'll wait for that message
A voice in the dark
To tell me that it's time
To begin on my ark.

© James Bessant

Sea Change: the Bay of Bengal's vanishing islands

James lives in London, and has been writing stories and poems for some years. His blog can be found at jamesbessant.blogspot.co.uk

Here at Poetry 24 the week didn't start until Tuesday. I am not sure quite what happened there but, generally, it has been that sort of week. Since my new laptop gave up the ghost very early on Monday morning I have been in a state of solemn and desperate mourning. Yes, I know I still have my iPad but it really isn't the same.

For one thing, I have had to rely on Hamish and Michael to keep the poems coming. (Without a laptop the necessary formatting just cannot be done.) For another, the trauma associated with the loss has impacted on my own writing. I have produced one poem and half a short story. It really isn't enough.

Thankfully, our contributors have done rather better. Maeve Heneghan opened on a powerful note with her spare and uncompromising 'Justice and the Beast', a poem which we were pleased to see elicited much comment. Our thanks go to all those who took the time to register their support for justice for women. Regular readers will know that it is a cause close to my heart.

Equally powerful and also much appreciated both by readers and fellow contributors was Philip Johnson's  'eve of holocaust memorial day' with its haunting image of the man 'wearing striped pyjamas'.  In the words of our own  David Subbacchi, it was both 'concise' and 'mysterious'.

Thursday and Friday brought us back to the story with which we started the week and it is clear that there are issues here that resonate for many of our readers. First, Amy Barry communicated to us something of the anguish that must have been felt by Fiona Doyle as, in the wake of her father's trial, she found herself obliged to continue 'Her Life Sentence'. As someone who, in her early teens had taste this kind of 'justice', what I found most powerful about this poem was its commanding physicality, most particularly the poet's representation of an anger too extreme to be expressed: 'Hot blood rages through her veins and 'she wants to thump her fists/ against his chest,/ his face.'

Then, on Friday, Caroline Hurley also had her say reminding us of some of the wider issues: for example, how 'Austerity cuts keep the people lean' and also 'the prisons full'. 'Perversities' also reminds that, even in incarcerated in our prisons, we are far from being 'in it together' as she points a telling finger at the 'fallen fat-cats in their first class cells.'

Saturday, though, struck a different note - and the pun is entirely and unashamedly intended - with Steve Pottinger's  tribute to the courage and generosity of spirit of rock musician Wilko Johnson who has recently received a diagnosis of terminal cancer. 'The day we elected...'  has something to say to us all so I would like to close this week's review by quoting  the WJ's 'simple words': 'I don't wanna be greedy.' Well said, Mr Johnson. It would be a better world if we could all say the same.

Abigail Wyatt

... Wilko Johnson president
the sun shone.
Which was a start.
He walked into Parliament with a heart
full of honest intentions
and a Telecaster in his arms
and we were one nation under a groove
under a riff. A distinctive, choppy, furious,
down-and-dirty-and-your-momma-wouldn’t-like-it riff.

The day we elected Wilko Johnson president
the Commons rocked out in a way
it hadn’t since Pitt the Younger’s solo
on a harpsichord he’d smuggled into the chamber
during the Poor Law debate
stilled the shouting
knocked the discord dead
and became the stuff of legend.
But now we had amplification
and a lot more soul.

The day we elected Wilko Johnson president
we ditched the old national anthem
for the new. Some bloke from Canvey Island saying
Well, shit happens
80 000 people roared along at Wembley
the 5 Live commentator was still chuckling
when San Marino scored their second
England lost 3-1. No-one cared.

The day we elected Wilko Johnson president
the sun shone.
Or it may have rained.
I don’t know, I was drunk for a week
singing our three-word anthem
with friends, strangers, countrymen
watching borders become meaningless
wealth become worthless
his simple words
I don’t wanna be greedy
echoing through my mind
like a Telecaster, riffing on sustain.

© Steve Pottinger

This poem was inspired by Wilko Johnson's comment - on receiving the news he has terminal cancer - that he'd had a good life, and didn't want to be greedy.
http://stevepottinger.co.uk
twitter: @oneangrypoet

Postponing years of a life already diabolically infringed upon
By the imposition of a father’s lust on her defenceless young flesh,
She appeals over the family head: social justice is once more transgressed.

Austerity cuts keep the people lean, in line, and the prisons full;
Over-crowded, violent and drug-soaked, save for the sexual offenders,
Cossetted, apart, in clover, and for the fallen fat-cats in their first-class cells.

Restorative measures, worthwhile for inducing wrongdoers to understand and
Endure consequences of their crimes, are back-burnered; their cathartic truths
Faithfully practised only by conscientious objectors and by common criminals inside.

© Caroline Hurley

Man who raped daughter  for 10 years released on bail

Why our jails fail

Caroline's poems have previously appeared in Poetry24. Some were also published in the e-magazine, The Electric Acorn. Besides poetry, she's written a novel, short stories, and both a stage and screenplay. Clebran.org featured a chapter from her novel and some flash fiction. Her current project is young adult fiction.

Numbed,
as wooden as a puppet,
she yearns for something to make sense.

Teardrops gathering
on her lower eyelid,
waiting to fall.

The disappointment,
burns her eyes, her brain.
Hot blood rages through her veins,
she wants to thump her fists
against his chest,
his face.

Pained memories,
like rough charcoal- sketches
in her soul,

wrongly remembered.

© Amy Barry

Woman raped by father 'devastated' at sentencing

Fiona Doyle says she feels 'vindicated' after rapist father jailed

Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media industry as a Public Relations officer. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all inspired her work. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

they don't even stop for the two minutes silence
cenotaph day - never mind respect the dead
or the sacrifice

as I walked in to administer meds last night
the man who sat on Ellena's bed wearing striped pyjamas

ashen faced
translucent
simply looked me in the eye and faded away
shrugging his shoulders

© Philip Johnson

Eleanor Margolis on her mixed feelings about Holocaust Memorial Day

Philip's words have appeared in: The Ugly Tree; Poetry Scotland, Emergency Verse, Write Away, Caught In The Net, Red Pencil, Writer's Hood, Transparent Words. He works in elder care.

The scales of justice
Tipped in favour
Of depravity
Again.

Evil spat in the face of courage
And walked free.

If heaven holds a place
For those who pray
What does hell reserve
For those who don’t?

© Maeve Heneghan

Self-confessed rapist father walks free

Maeve Heneghan is a native of County Dublin.  She has been writing poetry and short stories for a number of years now and has had some of her work published with First Cut, Verse land,  Static Poetry and Every Day Poets.

Hello, the week seems to have ended with a lot of snow, I hope it's not affected our readers too much. This week we began with The Season Ends by Amy Barry. It was a very sad and moving poem and quite powerful about a fifteen year old girl who had committed suicide after being tormented in school over sex rumours. It was a complicated story of sadness and cruelty and I'm reminded of the final, short stanza: 'Her body / found hanging / from the maple tree, / in winter.'

Suicide was a recurring theme as another story popped up, this time in the military as combat lessens. Show Me Something I've Seen Before by David Mellor was published on Tuesday. It shows us a kind of torment with being in the military and not fighting, which seems to create a psychological torment and shows someone to wishing to see their normal life, 'Something I've seen before, me and Steve growing up in the candy store.'

Fellow Poetry24 editor, Abigail Wyatt was published on Wednesday with Proper Love. It's a thought-provoking poem about the 56 year old British woman who was sentenced to death in Bali for cocaine smuggling. The poem questions the way we judge and the decisions we make. The ideas of right and wrong and crime and punishment.

Royal Pardon on Thursday, written by Philip Challinor, was a satirical approach to the tabloid stories about Prince Harry. It references the naive and immature actions Prince Harry did in the past and the negative press he gained from it, but then the change in opinion about him, to forgive him, when he joined the army, 'Go to Asia and blow up sufficient wogs.' I suppose this wasn't about Harry and what he's done in his life, but about the silly, fickle tabloid journalists who really only write about their own agendas.

Clare Kirwan returned to Poetry24 on Friday when we published The Moses of Elephants. This was about the baby elephant that died in the BBC show Africa and David Attenborough defended it, saying it was a natural tragedy. The poem is filled with religious imagery and almost sanctifies the elephant in question, showing that the elephant's death was indeed natural and, in a sense, beautiful, and there was never any need to complain about it.

Finally, we published Prisoner at Home by Katie Beviss to end the week. The news story was about Palestinians who threatened to sue Israel over settlements. The poem is very powerful and interesting from the first line: 'The man at no.3 has been taken prisoner.' I particularly liked the use of Hebrew '"מתים המהלכים"' to read 'The Walking Dead.'

Remember to keep submitting to us at poetry24@hotmail.com and tell your friends about us. You can like us on Facebook on our Poetry24 page.

Hope you've all had a good week and have better one to follow.

Michael.

The man at no.3 has been taken prisoner.
I can see it now when I look into his eyes
that there is no coming out of his coma,
when I place my hand against his it passes through him like a ghost.
The Politian shouts that he is “מתים המהלכים" (The Walking Dead)
but he doesn’t hear that his house is marked X.

He surrounds himself with heirlooms
passed down through the hands of spirit family members
who visit now and then when the door is left ajar;
but make no sound for fear of distressing his heart.
In his eyes I see anguish and I see so much joy.
In his eyes I see pain and I see a lifetime of love and faith.
In his eyes I see proudness for a beautiful daughter and son and I see fear for these same peoples' lives.

When I visit again,
his body may be translucent and white as snow.
His organs as bright as flowers sprouting in his blood,
but he will teach me how to see with immortal eyes.
Sleep like I’m feigning death but awake, so awake
to watch the beauty of his world burn away in war.

© Katie Beviss

Palestinians threaten to sue Israel over settlements

Katie Beviss grew up in England. As a child she found a way to express herself through writing. She has been writing poetry since she was eleven and wouldn’t know how to stop.

with much trumpeting, called together families
of pachyderms: We’re going on a journey.
Beyond the burning bush and luscious forest,
the memory of trees, the bones of loved ones
is another place and I will lead you.

Now we live on salt and thorn, the taste
of sorrow, the promised land a mirage, metaphor.
Awaking to another blasted dawn; the first born
dead, a plague of promises. We will be
carrion, old elephants whisper like law.

Thirsty and yearning for an end to adventure,
there’s nothing in this wilderness but suffering.
Sunbright bones identify our path;
we aim for Eden, with our ears for sails,
across a sea of sand, scratching for sustenance.

From hidden ducts behind our eyes, elephants weeping,
a slow procession, lacking even music. This silence,
the buckling of knees, our young ones cargoes
lost upon the way, all bones and sagging grey:
such sadness can never be forgotten.

The Moses of elephants found an idea of God
and followed without knowing. Faith! He said,
which made it sound important, solid, real.
I believe and you are coming with me.
Parts the sea of doubt with broken tusk.

©  Clare Kirwan

Producer defends a natural tragedy

Clare Kirwan is a Merseyside poet and short fiction writer and hopes to bring out her  first collection this year. By day she works in a library - like Batgirl. http://brokenbiro.blogspot.co.uk/ Twitter: @ClareKirwan

Show me something I’ve never seen before
Away from the one bar and candy store
Show me something I wish I’d never seen before

It’s friendly for a while , with no foe, we can play cards for a while
Til I see their limbs go
Away from this Taliban strong hold back in bits to this one bar and candy store

Show me something at night , now I can’t pull the trigger
Show me something at night , that’s not Steve falling like a pack of cards
Show me something that’s not my leg and soul in bits

Show me something I’ve seen before, me and Steve growing up in the candy store passing our days in the one bar
Forever and a day away from this

copyright@David R Mellor, 2013

Suicide in military rise even as combat lessens

David was born in Liverpool in 1964. He left school with nothing, rummaged around various dead end jobs, then back to college and uni. In his 20s he first discovered poetry, starting writing and performing and has done so ever since. I has lived on the Wirral for the past 8 years.

The sound of crows
cawing on their lonely
flight home,
she stands beside the maple tree,
sodden dark bark from
the heavy rain,
moss creeps up its trunk,
fine play of colours,
autumn hues
of green, black, yellow
and rust,
bitter contrast to
her fine, white face,
a poignant image,
a youth blooming
in a season
of endings.

Her body
found hanging
from the maple tree,
in winter.

 © Amy Barry, 2013

Tormented: Felicia Garcia

Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media industry as a Public Relations officer. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all inspired her work. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

Hi all, it's been a bit of an up and down week here. We started the week with Aparna Pathak's poem "Intentions" about the Pakistani/India clash that is ongoing in Kashmir. It is a simple yet powerful poem that could apply to most conflict in the world. A bowl of humanity is what is needed.
David Mellor continued his recent run of good poems with "Truce Bomb" about the Syrian rebellion and the West's attitude toward it.
Editor Michael Holloway contributed a great poem "An Evil of Want" about the current British government and their attacks on the most vulnerable people in society. I particularly liked his phrase:
"The small eyes, gap-toothed grin beneath balding head,
laughs without shame or remorse".   
Marie Ryan contributed her first poem to Poetry24 with "Here Comes the Sun" an ironic title considering that the subject is the worsening world situation and containing the memorable line 
"Winter sun skis to April fools."
Nicola Copeland's poem "No Pancakes on Sunday" is a wonderfully sad poem about a British soldier dying from his wounds inflicted when he was in Afghanistan.
All in all it was a great week of poems but we had a break in transmission due to a glitch in scheduling and a low level of submissions. As Abi Wyatt said "Come on guys, it is time to shake off that comfortable and euphoric drowsiness brought on by the excesses of the festive season, time to get your backsides in gear and get down to work."   

It was Sunday.
I heard a gunshot, not so far from where I was standing.
The rain was falling hard now,
it bounced off my helmet like pennies in a sweet jar.
Ting, ting, ting.
Mud had begun to rise further up my legs.
It smelt dirty, hot, and miserable.
This was a long way from home.
I missed the sweet smell of pancakes on a Sunday morning,
and fresh cereal on Mondays.
I was jealous and hated that I had to eat out of a grotty metal tin;
cold beans, hard rice, dirty water.
I can only moan to myself, in my head, inaudible to the rest.
My friend died yesterday.
A bullet zipped through the night air and pierced his left lung.
Unstoppable.
Now, there was more gun fire up ahead.
The air was thick and heavy, suffocating.
I dropped to the floor, repulsing as the dirt invaded my eyes.
With my vision blurred, I crawled to a fortress of rocks.
Looking around I saw an arm leave its body,
a sea of red followed.
The medic attended.
The captain was shouting over the radio for help.
The bullets became heavier and the noise became louder.
I could hear my own breathing over it all,
my heart was beating too fast.
The heat from the blaze seared my skin like boiling water.
I gripped my gun, pulled it to my chest, trigger finger ready.
I thought of home, of the sweet Sunday pancakes.
I looked up to the sun.

© Nicola Copeland 

British soldier who died from wounds named

Nicola Copeland, 25 years old, started writing poetry about 5 years ago. She is studying towards a Masters in Writing from Liverpool John Moores University and blogs at nicolacopelandblog.wordpress.com

It seems that due to a ghost in the machine no poem has been posted for today so I have decided to use this opportunity to put out a call for submissions.

Come on guys, it is time to shake off that comfortable and euphoric drowsiness brought on by the excesses of the festive season, time to get your backsides in gear and get down to work. If she doesn't have at least half a dozen bright, quirky, powerful submissions before tomorrow tea time then Auntie Abi will be forced to get quite cross. You won't like it, children; indeed, you won't like it at all. :-)

Sun factor fifty sits idly on the glass shelf with the ‘deet’.

Pure aloe gel is starting to turn in the fridge, a faded sticker highlights the clearly stated ‘use by’ date of January.

Wax strips with complimentary dry body oil stay sealed in the wicker basket.

Lying idly on the new coffee-table, stacked high; Winter- sun brochures gleaned from the holiday expo.

This year differs for, the calendar will

change.

Auld Lang Syne moves from December to March.

Winter sun skis to April fools.

The campaign, led by tour operators, beauticians and taxi operators; gains

momentum.

Political big wigs worry about job losses in the leisure sector, value of Sterling against the Euro and psychological counselling costs for stressed executives.

Recessionary times take a cold grip. Travel agents cut credit facilities to banking staff following the announcement that their New Year bonus won’t clear until April.

Moleskin one page a day diaries go to reprint.

© Maire Ryan, January, 2013

Sir Mervyn slams Goldman tax move

Maire Ryan McSherry started writing in 2011. She writes mainly prose poetry and short stories. Maire lives in Wexford in South East Ireland, works full time in the financial services sector and is a mum to two boys. 

I shall never get you to entirely understand

the distance so far between us.

A great, grand Liberal stood atop the head of a man

with no ears, mouth, or eyes.

An evil Want of post-war Britain ended

with Beveridge. But they make us want once again.

The small eyes, gap-toothed grin beneath balding head,

laughs without shame or remorse.

Please take it from us, take it all,

take our money, take our lives.

Cupped hands to a bowl

at the knee of the millionaire government.

But still you shall give and you shall take away.

If no money now lands in our hands, perhaps it

belongs to the men in Parliament. Taking and smiling.

It seems we shall want once again.

© Michael Holloway, 2013

 Benefits: taking money from the poor.

Michael was born in Liverpool in 1985. He completed his Masters in 2012. As well as poetry, he writes short stories and hopes to get his first novel published soon. His blog is http://thehyperkarma.blogspot.co.uk/

The pound’s dropping

And in Syria   they’re dropping like flies

But there’s nothing to gain

Just humanity

And a couple of kids

Trapped together

Melted in two

But they’re foreign blood

And you hate your next door neighbour

And you’re pissed off with your friend

And you can’t remember your credit card number

No time to look at the screen

It’s digital

Coloured glass

The pain lives on

While you sip a foreign glass

Copyright©David  R Mellor 2012

Syria unrest has killed 60,000, says UN

David was born in Liverpool in 1964. He left school with nothing, rummaged around various dead end jobs, then back to college and uni. In his 20s he first discovered poetry, starting writing and performing and has done so ever since. I has lived on the Wirral for the past 8 years.

Shrewd intentions
Covered under
A Foggy blanket and mist
To cross the border
And stab brothers in the back
Chopping off heads
Looting things
Is shameful!

Borrowing
A glass of bravery
A bowl of humanity
A small plate full of honesty
And less self-righteousness
Would have been better!

 © Aparna Pathak 2013

Pakistan Army breaches LOC in Kashmir.

 Aparna Pathak is from India. She is Graduate in English (Honours) and Post Graduate in Public Relations. She is a blogger and her work is already being published in various anthologies and magazines all over the world.

Here in Cornwall, so far as the weather is concerned, we have had a dismal beginning to 2013. For much of the time a heavy grey mist has engulfed the beauty of our landscape and, in the intervening periods, we have been treated to - yes, you've guessed it - yet more heavy rain. Because of this, like Jessica Traynor in Nollaig Na mBan, I too could wish for 'a day disrobed' that looks beyond 'January's darkness/to search for the horizon's light'. Equally, I could wish for 'a little more promised each day'. On Tuesday, however, far from the promise of light, David Mellor's  It's Breaking News reminded us of the media's appetite for tragedy and of the fact that, all too often, the perpetrators of the most terrible violence are 'rewarded' by a perverse kind of celebrity while 'those who have gone / have no name'. Here at Poetry 24,  we ended the year sadly in the shadow of the Sandy Hook shootings and, with the greatest respect to the poets who wrote so powerfully in response to that tragedy, we hope and pray that this year no such poems will be penned.

On Wednesday, Philip Johnson's Fantuckinfastic Ideas gave us a sharp-tongued and insightful response to the recent proposal  that we should legislate against high levels of fat, sugar and salt, particularly in those products targeted at younger people. Then, on Thursday, our own Hamish Mack gave us Australia Ablaze, a delightfully spare and understated piece that ironically reassures us that we 'can / maintain our / lifestyles' but quietly asserting that we may 'make our children pay'. Then, on Friday, it was me again with 'A Dream of Retirement'. (I make no apologies for having a bit of a rant. There is, in my opinion, not enough of public ranting going on at the moment.)

Moving swiftly on, however, we arrive at Saturday and James Bessant's 'Food for Thought'. This was a piece that posed important questions about prevailing attitudes towards food and about the way in which western society both produces and markets it. Thank you, James, for ending the week on a note that may be uncomfortable for many of us. It is fitting that we should remember that, as we in the west hit our January diets, there are those, far too many, who may starve.

That said, I wish all our readers well. Please, if you will, spread the word. In order to continue this important work, we need your submissions. Remember: Poetry 24, where news is the muse.

2bn tonnes of food waste

Would be deemed in bad taste

If it ever got as far

As reaching our plates.

Those unharvested crops

Not good enough for the shops

Could still make their way

To hungrier States.

We're too picky to eat

The wings or thigh meat

Forgone taste and smell

For those sell by dates.

We should eat what we grow

We should reap what we sow

Encourage action now, not leave it

To the fates.

© James Bessant 2013

 Almost half the world's food thrown away, report finds.

Biography: James lives in London, and has been writing stories and poems for some years. His blog can be found at www.jamesbessant.blogspot.co.uk

(or The Lament of the Ageing Worker)

We must work on, workers not shirkers,

though we have laboured all our lives;

and now, when our bodies fail us us and pain us,

they make us more trouble than we're worth;

and, because our wits bend, nimble and quick,

to the root and sum of the of the past,

we offend as much by what we know

as the burden of the cost of what we eat.

They say we must stand on our two feet

and not only work but be glad;

we must teach our brittle and aching bones

how work will keep us warm and make us free;

and we must not look for peace and rest

for, in truth, we now outlast our proper use;

and, since, for us, there is no work, though we

may either freeze or sicken, we must die.


© Abigail Wyatt, 2012

And they laughed as they did it
Poorest households hardest hit

Abigail Wyatt was once a teacher but cannot live on her pension. She now works part-time in a cafe, cares for her elderly mother, watches the death throes of western capitalism, and writes whenever she can.