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Holly Bars
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the poet
Known for her work on surviving CSA, Leeds poet Holly Bars has been published in The Moth, Stand, The London Magazine, Ink, Sweat & Tears and elsewhere. She was one of six New Northern Poets in 2024, as chosen by the Ilkley Literature Festival, and published her debut, Dirty, with Yaffle Press. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Leeds.
the poems
Rewriting my Mother’s Death
The Moon kissed my mother,
came in through the front door, to her room,
to her bed, and it fitted perfectly;
the Moon was all cream and sugar that night, and my mother was coffee.
Moon kissed my mother like mercy:
the awaited home after a journey;
smoke in the chimney;
the warm teacup. Kissed my mother,
and I can see how the Moon filled the room
with the opposite of alone. Moon
kissed my mother
when my mother could barely
hold herself up; the longest night.
The Moon kissed my mother, Alicia, and she kissed back.
Breathing in stardom
with all the glamour
of a maisonette in Bramley.
Our coke is cut with crystals
of Persil, paracetamol, gunpowder.
Someone’s mum’s kitchen
is our dressing room
whilst she’s sectioned.
Someone else fetches a mirror,
CD cases, rolls up five pound notes
which probe our nostrils, fills them fat
till our amethyst veins crack.
We stream onto the red carpet
of the living room,
clamour in 60-watt light,
and not even beetling mould
can dampen this.
Everyone wants us.
Someone plays bassline
and it beats down our arms,
pulses in our nipples
and clits and cocks.
And we hang off fire,
white and obvious,
lips releasing,
talking the rabbit off the moon.
Even our blood is noisy,
itching with wishes and achievement
because we’re seventeen,
bright and brilliant
in this beautiful snow blanket
we dress ourselves in
for a night; kiss and talk,
fuck forever. Before
morning dusts us,
sun steals our starlight
and blood becomes black.
The Magic Circle
Magicians keep their methods in a ring,
wear ordinary clothes, ordinary faces,
have ordinary jobs.
Some people tell you that magicians
are old men with a pension and no hobbies:
this is a trick.
Magicians love tricks, especially that one;
it helps them, makes them mythic.
Magicians love getting away with it.
They love their stage and apparatus,
their wands, pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
Magicians pick their assistants carefully.
But most of all, they love the hoodwink.
Magicians love showmanship, to flaunt.
They love the awe of the audience,
the round of applause.
Magicians love the climax;
the white dove disappearing;
a body sawn in half.
They live for the wonder in a child’s eyes.
A good magician never tells their secrets.
Publishing credits
Rewriting my Mother’s Death: Black Nore Review (Nov 28th 2024)
Breathing in Stardom / The Magic Circle: Dirty (Yaffle Press)