DPVP does NaPoWriMo – Untitled by Alex


I am the roaring waves across the ocean
and I am the gentle meander of the stream.
I am the all engulfing fire of incineration
and I am the smallest spark on a candle.
I am the tornado’s urgent, rushing wind
And the beat of a hummingbird’s wings.
I am the rumbling power of an earthquake,
Yet still I am the cave in which you shelter from the storm.
I am an enigma, uncategorised by that which I am and that I am not.
I wilfully discard the bindings of society’s labels.
I enthusiastically debunk the myths of right and wrong.
I am all that I have ever been and more that I’m yet to know.
I am growing, evolving, changing; bursting forth from the shadows.
I will be free. I will be me.
You can call me he.


DPVP does NaPoWriMo – Epic Poem by Paul

An Epic Poem for Queen Cartimandua


Settle back now and hear my tale,
Of cunning and deceit I will unveil.
Of a tribe in the North of this fair land,
Now listen to my story and you’ll understand.
Queen she was, Cartimandua was her name,
Leading the Brigantes tribe, earned her fame.
Married to Venutius, leading the biggest tribe,
Working with the Romans, we have nothing to hide.
We are proud warriors, nothing do we fear,
But why fight the Romans, they’ll soon disappear.
Our tribe will be here when the Romans have gone,
Back across the water is where they were from.
The plunder this land and tried ruling us too,
But we are not interested, for they are few.
And when we are ready, we will rise with our might,
And smash those puny Romans and put them to flight.
But why should we war when they leave us alone,
And our fair precious Queen does sit on our thrown.
For the Romans need grain and cattle to last,
We can spare both, our riches are vast.
Our Gods will protect us their power is true,
Roman Gods are weak and relatively new.
Other tribes are unhappy and looking for trouble,
They would pull down the Romans and reduce them to rubble.
Caratacus their King comes to us for help,
We bind him with chains till he doth yelp.
Off to the Romans we take him that day,
Then off to their jails, for a very long stay.
Queen Cartimandua is mighty but her husband he thinks,
That the Romans would run if we kick up a stink.
The Queen says no and Venutius backs down,
Ruling together they share a joint crown.
But Venutius is cunning and plots in the dark,
The Queen is unhappy and tells the King to hark,
“Go from me now, I divorce you with sorrow”,
“Pack your bags and go, be gone by tomorrow”.
“A new man I now have, Vellocatus his name”,
“Once your shield bearer, he now brings you shame”.
Venutius leaves then and disappears on the double,
Plotting with other tribes, he wants to make trouble.
Other tribes are angry at the Romans we know,
But we are still happy and go with the flow.
He plots and recruits tribes and warriors to his name,
And draws them all in to his deadly game.
He attacks our tribe at the dawn of first light,
But the Romans arrive to help with our fight.
We repel their attacks with our combined might,
Away the rebels go, we put them to flight.
For the Romans support us and want us to win,
Their Kingdom is shaky, their future is grim.
All across Europe other tribes grow their might,
Fighting the Romans, its not a pretty sight.
But here in the North, we repel all traitors,
We catch and we kill all Brigantia haters.
Venutius slinks off, with anger and sorrow,
But plotting revenge his soul feeling hollow.
He gathers more tribes whilst we still rule,
Does he take our Queen to be such a fool?
For the Romans will help us, they’re strong overseas.
We’ll vanquish our enemies with a terrible ease.
But the Romans are weakening this much is true,
Wars on all sides their strength is through.
Roman Emperor Nero fiddles when Rome burns,
Venutius takes his chance, he thinks it his turn.
For power he wants and the Queen she must go,
He gathers the tribes the throne to overthrow.
Attacks us brave warriors, we laugh at his name,
But this time it’s different and it’s not the same.
The Romans send help, that much is true,
But not many centurians and most of them new.
We fight and are slaughtered the tribe is no more,
Venutius has won, he’s evened the score.
But Queen Cartimandua escapes from the fight,
From history’s books she disappears from sight.
But this tale is true about our warrior Queen,
Boudicca gets the fame and the only one seen.
But look to the North for strong women as well,
And never forget this true tale I do tell.

Paul Brighouse

DPVP does NaPoWriMo – Only She Can Judge Me by Jen

Only She Can Judge Me

There are worse secrets

Still people are shocked

When I confess

I really, really like…

A diminutive reality

TV star, whose wisdom shines far 

Surely Solomon reborn

In the TV courtroom genre

Endless streams of litigants

Seek binding arbitration

Over such foul, heinous acts Dodgy prom gowns, loans owing

Pets attack, who should pay

The mounting ER bill

Whose fault the fender bender

Fear not all will be revealed

Her pithy quips fall from her lips

Defendants are left raging

When Judge Judy exclaims

“Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining”  


DPVP does NaPoWriMo – Tips

In our preparation for National Poetry Writing Months, where we’re encouraging everyone to write poetry (and share it with us, if you’re feeling brave enough!), here’s author, editor, bloggist, artist and team Web Elf, Nimue Brown, with some top tips!


Never written a poem but want to have a go? Here are some pointers that will help you avoid the mistakes new poets often make and jump straight in with something strong and engaging.

  • Read some poems. Particularly, read some poems by professional poets. Don’t worry about analysing them, just let them happen to you. Poets who read poetry are greatly advantaged in their own writing. Or, get on youtube and listen.
  • Go with that first rush of emotion and inspiration. Then leave what you’ve written alone for a bit and come back. Don’t treat those words as sacred. Take what works, ditch what doesn’t. You need inspiration and crafting to make a good poem.
  • Try reading it out loud if you can – that often reveals places where the words don’t flow well.
  • You do not have to rhyme. In fact, too much rhyming can sound naive or forced. Don’t sacrifice meaning for the sake of rhyming. If you have to stretch a line to hit the rhyme at the end, ditch it. Those never sound good.
  • Think about who you are writing for. There is nothing wrong with writing poetry as catharsis, but ask who is going to want to read it? Do the catharsis first, then come back on your second draft and think about who the poem is for, and what they will get out of it. If you are just wallowing in misery – as too many amateur poets do – it gets dull really fast for the reader. If what you’ve written is so full of personal references that no one else could hope to understand it, then it won’t work for a reader. The aim is not to write a cryptic puzzle for other people to try and figure out. The aim is to communicate something. Don’t baffle your readers, enlighten them.
  • A poem is not a collection of metaphors thrown at an idea to see what sticks. If you like metaphors, don’t throw them at each other randomly. Also, watch out for mixed metaphors that make no sense. Go and listen to this song, and then do some other thing. https://youtu.be/8vVuVn1Yb8A (unless, like Mitch Benn, you’re doing it for laughs, that’s always fine.)
  • Simple is often best. Use the language you speak in. Don’t shoehorn in Shakespearean thees and thous and cants and hasts – if that’s not how you talk it will, I promise you, sound weird. Don’t use words whose meaning you are unsure of – I’ve seen people do it and you can undermine what you meant to say so very easily. The language you use is good enough. Go listen to some Kate Tempest for a fine example of someone using her own voice. https://youtu.be/z4qGLDkK9TA
  • Be you. Be real. Be authentic. Be bold. Be brave. Say what matters. Say something you’ve never heard anyone else say but that needs to be out there. Say what you love. Say what you’re angry about. Say what needs to change. Write poetry to change the world.

DPVP does NaPoWriMo

Do you love a good acronym?
For anyone who doesn’t know; DPVP is the Disabled Pagans Voices Project. This project, hosted by the Pagan Federation Disabilities Team, gives a space for disabled Pagans (and their carers and families) to raise their voices. We invite submissions in the way of blogs, essays, short stories, art, music, poetry and more. We welcome any creative offering that you would like to share.

Here’s Debi Gregory talking about the DPVP, two years ago at the Online Lughnasadh Festival about ways in which Disabled Voices could be heard.

One of my first interactions with the Pagan Federation Disabilities Team was to submit a poem to the DPVP.


So what about the NaPoWriMo?
It is National Poetry Writing Month, an annual poetry project where poets (and the poetically curious) are encouraged to write a poem, every day for the month of April. The project was the brain child of poet Maureen Thorson who was inspired by National Novel Writing Month. Maureen started back publishing on her own blog in 2003 and as the project grew she started an independent website where people could link their own poetry.
NaPoWriMo is an amazing way to get people committing to writing poetry. Each day there is an optional prompt that you can work with. Everything from trying out different poetic forms like a Tanka (the Haiku’s older, longer, Granddaddy) or writing a New York Style poem (which is a veritable recipe and makes for really bizarre but enjoyable poem). It’s fun, its challenging and an excellent way to flex your creative muscle.


Like any challenge it is meant to be fun, if you can’t commit to a month, do what you can. If you have never written a poem, feel free to find your muse and have a try. I’ve been participating in NaPoWriMo since 2014. What makes it special for me is having a community to share with. So this year I thought it might be nice to get DPVP poets and aspiring poets to participate in writing along with NaPoWriMo.

If you feel inspired to join in, send your poems or your blog links and we will publish them on the DPVP blog.

To get involved with the DPVP’s NaPoWriMo, email dpvp@paganfederation.co.uk and use NaPoWriMo in the title!


National Deputy Disabilities Manager
District Disabilities Liaison – South East

Happy Feet with Muddy Podiatrist

As June is Feet for Life month, Jenny has asked me to write a guest blog
on foot health for all of you lovely lot. I am currently training to be
a podiatrist and will quite happily ramble about feet to anyone who will
listen. I was told I would have a captive audience so grab a cup of tea
and a biscuit, make yourself comfortable and we’ll begin. Please feel
free to stop me if I’m still going next Tuesday.

It’s quite difficult to pick a foot health topic that will be relevant
to every member of our disability community so I am going to go broad
and simple.

Look at your feet. If you don’t have feet, look at your legs, stumps,
knees or whatever lower extremity you have. Really look. What does your
skin look like? Any cuts or bits of hard skin? Has that mole always been
there? Do your nails need a trim? When was the last time you had a
really good look at your own feet?

If you have diabetes, I’m really hoping that you’ve had at least a
cursory look in the last 24 hours. Diabetes causes damage to nerves and
blood vessels, meaning that if someone with the condition gets a cut on
their foot not only might they be unable to feel it due to nerve damage,
but the lack of blood supply also means their body is unable to heal it
effectively. I won’t put you off your garibaldi by telling you exactly
what happens if a diabetic foot ulcer is left untreated, but believe me
when I tell you it’s a scary prospect.

“But my insulin levels are fine!” I hear you cry. “Why am I
staring at the little piggy who went to market?”

Well, dear reader, there is an awful lot that can go wrong with the
lower limb if we don’t look after it properly, and the sooner you spot
any problems the greater the chances that they will be resolved quickly
and easily. Most people are familiar with how to check for breast or
testicular lumps and try to check on a fairly regular basis (I recommend
finding a buddy and checking each other), and checking your feet should
be a similar routine couple of minutes out of the month (buddy system
optional depending on your preferences).

So what did you see when you had a look?

I would imagine there would be a bit of redness in places. Probably
around the one or two littlest toes, and maybe around the big toe.
Although most people have this, it is not actually considered normal.
It’s a sign of badly fitting shoes, but as the market is filled with
badly fitting shoes there’s not a lot we can really do about this.
Just keep an eye on this for now, and seek further advice if it becomes
painful, swells, oozes or smells.

I suspect there will also be some hard skin in places. Again, not
considered normal but an unfortunate part of modern life. If it’s not
causing you any problems then we’re not going to worry too much. If it
ain’t broke, don’t fix it. If it’s getting uncomfortable or
splitting it might be time to get some further care though. Try to see a
podiatrist or a chiropodist (they’re the same thing, just use
different words to confuse people) if you can, but a doctor or
pharmacist may be able to help depending on the severity of the problem.

How is your skin looking? Is it soft and supple, or looking a bit dry?
The skin is our first line of defence against bugs and infections, so we
want to keep it in its best possible condition. And when you think that
your feet are down there on the ground with all the dust and bacteria
you realise just how easy it is for something to sneak into a patch of
flaky skin and BAM! Itching and pus and mushrooms and all sorts of
wondrous delights living under your toenails. It’s not just vanity –
moisturising saves lives, people! Or at least prevents another course of
antibiotics. But that’s important too.

And then there’s the one that everyone forgets – moles. When people
get a mole that looks a little iffy on their back the first thought is
to get it checked out with the doctor. Somehow, we seem to forget about
our feet. It’s the same with sun cream. If we’re going out in the
sun the factor 50 gets smeared all over arms, legs and backs, but how
often do we forget about the tops of our feet? If you’re wearing
sandals in the sun that could be a recipe for a very painful few days,
not to mention the same risk of sun damage as the rest of your skin.

It’s particularly tough to think feet if you’ve got a physical
disability that limits your movement. They are all the way down there
and tend not to complain too loudly. And you know what? Most feet are
generally pretty well behaved. The better you look after them, though,
the better they will look after you. I’m not asking for miracles, just
a quick once over every now and then so that you can spot any problems
in their early stages. After all, the earlier you catch anything going
wrong the sooner it can be dealt with and the less chance there is of
you needing more meds or expensive treatment or worse.

If you really can’t reach to see, there are loads of options
available. Ask your doctor if he can have a quick look next time
you’re seeing him. If you have a partner, carer, friend or family
member who helps put your socks on, maybe they could just have a check
every now and then. If you’ve getting your toe nails cut, ask whoever
is doing them to just have a look and let you know if there’s anything
that looks off. If you end up barefoot feeling the grass between your
toes at a ritual some time, ask your fellow participants if anyone is
feeling bold and would be willing to have a goosey while you’ve got
your shoes off already.

Just be wary about asking that one slightly odd neighbour. You know the
one I mean. The one who seems just a little too invested in your foot
health. Unless you’re into that kind of thing of course. In which
case, fill your boots.

Happy Feet for Life Month.

Muddy Podiatrist.

Trigger Warning! A Night Out with Severe Anxiety

This is an anonymous guest post

This blog post is written by someone with Severe Anxiety. It describes what it feels like to go out when you have anxiety. Please take care of yourself if you feel this article might affect you badly. Be sure to have someone to talk to. We have a wonderfully supportive community on Facebook, however we cannot take the place of professional help. It is our hope that by sharing this person’s experience that we can help others understand the demands of Severe Anxiety. Thank you to the writer for sharing this.

This piece is shared as part of the Disabled Pagans Voices Project. The project is aimed at giving disabled pagans a voice for their experiences and their creativity. Just click on the category for more.

What am I doing here?

Why did I agree to come?

No, I’m alright. It’s just a pub. They said it was a quiet place. There won’t be too many people.

What if someone touches me?

What if they’re all drunk?

What if they’re all stoned?

What if they breathe near me?

“We can go home, if you want to.” His voice cuts through the slime in my brain. It’s not a fog. It’s thick, sticky and slows everything it touches. My thoughts, my feelings, my fears, my desires; everything is heavier, it’s all just too much.

I look into his eyes. Those deep green eyes with chestnut brown flecks, speckled with gold. He takes my hand and squeezes slightly. I look at his hand. Steady and warm, full of strength. He gives his strength to me through that hand, the one I hold so often. He’s right. We can go home.

But do I really want to go home? Do I want to miss out again? See the pictures of the fun that I could have been a part of? Hear people tell me again that I missed a good night? No! I don’t want to hear about it. I want to be that person who says “Sorry we missed you last night. Maybe we’ll catch you next time?” I want to be the one telling the jokes, getting a round in, laughing at my friend’s anecdotes.

I smile into the face that is watching me, waiting patiently to see what I would do. Not caring that I may have wasted his time by having him drive me to a place that I may not even work up the courage to face. I’ve done this to him so many times. Wasting his time, frustrating him with my indecision, worrying him with my panics. This time I would try harder. I squeeze his hand and smile before turning to open my door.

As usual, I cautiously take small breaths. Trying to get a sense of how the air smells. Does it smell clean? Are there any triggers in the air? Not yet. In fact, it’s quite a clear night. I feel better. At least outside is clear and trigger free.

He comes around the car and holds my hand. I snuggle close to him and let my body relax a little, knowing that the shaking will stop soon if I can just avoid any triggers. A few people are stood by the door smoking, a cloud is hovering just above their heads, swirling in the light from the windows. I instinctively cover my face with the scarf I always have around my neck and try to make it look as though I’m just… I don’t know… Snuggling my scarf? I know I look ridiculous but it’s this or… The alternative.

I avert my eyes and turn my head as we walk past the group, holding my breath as well as hiding my nose and mouth in the scarf. I don’t know if it’s my imagination but I can feel their eyes on me. Feel their judgement. Hear their thoughts.
“What’s with the ugly bitch?!
“Why’s she covering her face? Probably doesn’t want to make us sick.”
“What a freak.”

I rush through the door, skirting the frame and door itself, held open for me so I don’t have to touch it. I stand in the dim room and let my eyes scan the people. They were right, it is quiet. It’s a big room and looks quite tidy. I do my usual checks, bottom to top, my eyes darting so fast I just know people are staring at me, thinking I’m having a fit. I ignore what I’m sure are judgemental stares and begin.

Floor – carpeted, well vacuumed, no visible stains from this angle.
Bar – smart bartender, no obvious puddles, not too strong a smell as I slowly lower my scarf.
Seats – a little too low, leather and wood so easily cleaned, sturdy looking, not too scratched or chipped and those that are there aren’t dark with muck so obviously well maintained.
Tables – usual pub coasters, look a little grubby and well used with the edges frayed so obviously touched by lots of people, none of them seem soggy from here.
Benches – silly, fuzzy fabric that’s typical of pubs, a little higher than the chairs so less likely to hurt getting up and down, not too grubby looking.
People – quiet but talkative, not sat too close together aside from groups in each corner.

I spot my group, they smile at me but don’t pressure me to sit with them. I look at my partner and let go of him, signalling that I’m ok to be left so he can go to the bar. I walk slowly to the group, breathing as shallowly as I can. They don’t watch me but two of them move up so I can sit on the bench beside them. I’m grateful that they’re taking my anxieties into consideration but at the same time I feel like I’m making them do silly things just to please me and I feel sad and like I wish I hadn’t come.

What if they’re only pretending to have fun, only pretending they want me here so they don’t seem nasty when really they think I’m a nuisance and want me to leave. I almost turn around leave but there he is, coming up behind me, exuding his strength, carrying a drink for himself. He knows better than to ask me if I want one.

We sit, me on the outside so I have him on one side and empty space on the other so I don’t feel closed in. I don’t touch anything as I sit, quickly making a mental assessment of how many layers are between my skin and the fuzzy bench fabric. They ask me how I am and I think I was being silly by wanting to leave. I enjoy their conversation and other than a few jumps when the door across the room opens and closes, I’m not too anxious.

Well… Unless you count the fidgeting with my rings while my hands hide up my sleeves so I don’t accidentally touch something. The eyes darting everywhere, the light layer of sweat I can feel on the back of my neck, the shallow breathing that is now making me feel slightly sick, the stuttering and stammering and the talking far too fast because I’m so nervous.

Other than that, I’m fine.

We spend an hour talking, I manage to make eye contact twice with one person and once with another and they’re so welcoming and open that I’m glad I made the effort but now I’m starting to get very tired. Being so anxious is exhausting.

Now I’m starting to think about what will happen when I leave. When I no longer have anything to focus on. When I’m finally too tired to fight anymore.

We leave and I see one of my friends physically stop herself from giving me a hug. I feel sad and almost try to hug her but I’m just not strong enough. I trust her but she’s been in this pub all night and I don’t know what she’s touched or where she was before she was here or when the last time she washed her hands was… I just daren’t so smile instead and she smiles back. I know she’s trying to look happy but I see how sad she is. I know she wants to ask me to stay. Instead she says she’ll call me, knowing full well that I mostly won’t feel up to talking. She’ll call anyway just because she knows I like to hear her voice. Her partner puts her arm around her and smiles at me too. She knows how sad this makes us both. We used to be so close. I couldn’t have even come tonight if she wasn’t there as a safeguard. Someone who knows what I can and can’t do.

He holds out his hand and I cling to him with both of mine. I know his hands are dirty from touching things in the pub but I need his hand right now. My hands are still inside my sleeves but I cling to him anyway. I don’t look back as I walk away, knowing I’ll just cry because I know I won’t be able to manage this again for a while. I know I’ll be in bed all day tomorrow recovering from the panic attack I can feel coming on.

I hold my breath again as we leave the pub even though there’s no cloud of smoke and this time I don’t bother testing the air. I strain my lungs as I hold my breath from the door to the car. He open the door for me and puts on my seatbelt, knowing that right now all I can do is sit stiffly and wage an internal battle of wills. Me against myself.

He puts some classical music on the stereo knowing it will sooth me if I can zone into it. He doesn’t know if I can hear it but he doesn’t ask any questions because he knows I’ll speak if I can. I sit and look out of the window as we drive home. I mentally check my whole body, resisting the urge to check my pulse and my brain and heart seem to pound. My skin seems to burn like ice. I’m not even sure how that’s possible but it does. My ears feel like they’re being stabbed, my skin crawls, my hands shake, my brain feels like it’s trying to come out of my skull. I start to shake and I know I can’t stop it but my body naturally tries to stiffen against it, causing spasms that wrack my already tired body with a pain that I know will last for days. My eyes start to close and I wonder if I’m going to faint. I wonder if I care. I know fainting isn’t good for me but I also know that if I just faint, I won’t have to think, I won’t have to feel… I’ll be cocooned in a sweet oblivion that I wished I was brave enough to make last forever.

My breathing speeds up as I realise where my thoughts are going. I don’t want to be here again. Why didn’t I just stay at home? Why didn’t I just keep hiding? I didn’t contribute. No one wanted me there anyway. They were just being nice. All this was for nothing. I’m nothing. I’m not even here anymore. All that’s left is a shell where I used to be. Panic fills the shell. A wasteland of panic, anxiety, self loathing and a pathetic excuse for a self trapped in a cage and prodded by slimy demons telling her she’ll never be good enough.

It’s all too much. I can’t do this anymore.

We pull up to our house and I see the familiar sight with a feeling of dread. Will my children be asleep? If not, will I be able to get to the bathroom and bed before they see me this way? The last thing I want is for them to turn out like me. I can’t let them see me like this.

I make a run for it. I don’t greet my oldest, the last one awake. My sister follows me upstairs and makes sure the other children are asleep so they don’t see me and she locks us in the bathroom and sits on the toilet to watch me clean myself. I know she’s there. We don’t speak. She doesn’t say it, she never says it but I know. I know she’s in there to make sure I don’t hurt myself. I turn on the taps and start to lather. I used to use seven soaps in a sequence but now I only use one repeatedly. I don’t let myself feel victory. I just need to clean.

The water burns me but I lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat. I still don’t feel clean enough but I almost cry out at how hot the water is and my sister turns off the tap and unlocks the door. I strip naked and put on my night dress. I turn the tap back on and wash one more time as she watches me.

I see my bed and hope that I’ll fall straight to sleep. My sister watches me get in bed then goes down to my husband, knowing I can’t talk right now but satisfied that she’s not needed. I lay in bed and listen to the nothing screaming in my ears. I curl into a ball, my fingers at my throat to feel my pulse. I can feel the scream building inside me as the icy burns lap at my skin. I breathe. Four in, four out. Four in, four out. Four in, four out. Over and over and over until I feel my pulse slow.

The panic subsides and I wrap myself tighter, ignoring my ears, ignoring my brain, ignoring the pain in my limbs. All I am is my mind. The thoughts going around and around and around.

This wasn’t worth it.
They’re never going to ask you again.
Everything you said was stupid.
You pretend that you’re holding it together but they all know you’re a fraud.
He didn’t want to take you.
You’re ruining his life.
They’d all be better off without you.
You’d be better off without you.
There’s only one way out of this.
It’ll all go away.
Why do you even bother?
You’re pathetic.
You were the ugliest one there.
They all thought you were stupid.
Why are you such a freak?
Just get over yourself.
Drama Queen.
Ugly bitch.
Attention seeker.

Round and round and round and round… Until the darkness starts to slip over me and my last thought is a prayer to the Gods, any god… That I won’t dream tonight… Or that I just won’t wake up.

Please talk to someone if you have been affected by this post. You can talk to the Samaritans in various ways here.