Mara-Mara Capybara

Mara-Mara

Capybara

bought a pretty

pink tiara

looking like

a superstar

she put it

on her head

Mara-Mara

Capybara

ate a plate

of carbonara

in her pretty

pink tiara

sitting up

in bed

Joshua Seigal

Joshua Seigal is Highly Commended in Poetry Wales Award 2026

Well then. I can finally announce it. I have been Highly Commended in the 2026 Poetry Wales Award. The poem that garnered this accolade is called 'Football on the Radio', and I am delighted to share it here on my blog. However, before I do so, I should say that an interesting thing happened: by mistake, I submitted an early draft of the poem to the award (which ended up being Highly Commended). However, I have since edited the poem into a final version, which will hopefully appear in a forthcoming collection. So I will present the two poems side by side, to give you a flavour of the editing process, and also because you might have your own opinion as to which version is 'better'. Here, then, is the final, finished version:

Football on the Radio

There he is, my dad, listening to the radio

at the kitchen table. No internet back then,

no mobile phones – I’m lying in my bed

and he’s downstairs following the match,

adjusting the aerial to get the right signal,

moving in and out through static and crackle.

Take it in: he’s pounding his fists, a whoop

and a clap when we score, a colourful curse

when the run of play doesn’t go our way.

And there I am, six years old, downstairs now

on a school night, sitting on his knee, 

listening to the match on that little box

and I can’t quite work out what’s going on

but here we are, and he holds me tight, and 

we’re winning, we’re winning, we’re winning.

........................................................................................

And here is the earlier version, which was judged by the Poetry Wales Award. I think it is not quite as good as the finished version, but hey - why not make up your own minds?

Thank you so much to everyone involved in the Poetry Wales Award, and Poetry Wales magazine (who published me in 2023), for having faith in me and my work!!

Tiny Dogs

Step outside and you will see

The tiny dogs of Italy 

Ladies strutting down the street

Whilst pooches totter at their feet

Smart young men in dapper cuffs

With fancy canines (never scruffs)

Models like you see in mags

With cool chihuahuas in their bags

A classy granny quaffs a spritz

Whilst on her lap a poodle sits

Yes amble round the little towns 

With teeny tykes in whites and browns

And notice how, in Italy

A pup suits people prettily.

Joshua Seigal 

If the World Were a Cat

If the world were a cat

people might think twice

before burning it. 

People are not generally given

to letting cats go up in flames. 

In general, people nurture

and cherish felines – 

that’s how cats have thrived

over thousands of years. 

If the world were a cat

people would doubtless

be a bit kinder to it. 

They’d give it what it needs. 

They wouldn’t want to see it suffer. 

Even though cats

don’t really do an awful lot,

we love them. We care. 

Think of all we do for cats. 

And think of all the world

does for us.

Joshua Seigal 

LIVING WITH ANXIETY

This morning I woke up in a panic. I was worried that the electrical set up of our kitchen appliances constituted a major fire hazard. Two years ago we had a new fridge freezer fitted, and the guy who installed it said the electrics looked a bit dodgy. It wasn’t within his remit to advise what to do, so he just installed the thing and went on his way. It’s been fine ever since, and I haven’t really thought about it. Until this morning, when I woke up in a maelstrom of terror. I’m currently waiting for the emergency electrician to come and take a look, and will probably pay through the nose for peace of mind.*

This is what living with anxiety is like. Normal life events become a case of fire fighting. My brain is constantly scanning for things that might go wrong. Are the windows in our flat suitable for jumping ouf of, in case there is a fire? Do we have the proper insurance? Are the flights booked for when we go away? Is my website set up correctly? Did I inadvertently plagiarise a poem? Did I just go through a red traffic light?

Talking of cars, I had a borderline mental breakdown in 2018, the year of my wedding, when I thought I was going to get a driving ban. The wedding was occupying a lot of my thought, and I was also doing a lot of driving for work, often in unfamiliar parts of the country. Perhaps because my mind was elsewhere, I ended up accruing a series of penalty points for some fairly minor infractions. I was at risk of a driving ban, and had to go to court in Leamington to plead my case. Luckily I wasn’t banned, but boy – the anxiety was something else. And because I actually have a certified anxiety disorder, my mind went to all kinds of weird and wonderful places: What if I end up in the local paper: ‘Children’s Poet Gets Driving Ban’? What if schools don’t want to employ me because of this? What if what if what if?

My anxiety is intermingled with OCD. OCD means that I get certain, highly specific worries in my mind, and literally can’t relax or do anything else until I think I’ve solved them. It never gets properly solved though; the worries just find new ways to intrude. The real way to deal with it is simply to sit with the anxiety until it goes away. That’s the theory anyway. Much easier said than done. Because anxiety and OCD are technically separate conditions, they affect me in slightly different ways. Anxiety is a response to normal life events (such as the electrics in the kitchen) that get blown way out of proportion in my mind; OCD can latch on to things that are a little bit more, well, weird. It also thrives around transitions – getting married, moving house, having a baby, getting a new job – and attempts to hijack it. It saps joy. It causes misery. 

I say that anxiety and OCD are technically separate conditions; this is according to the DSM, a document that doctors have produced in an attempt to codify and classify diagnoses. My own lived experience, however, tells me that they are actually very hard to disentangle. I’m not sure how much I trust the DSM anyway. I know that its utility is often disputed among professionals. 

Take the issue of world events. Since the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, I have been obsessed with geopolitics. The nuclear spectre has loomed extremely large, but the fear of conventional war in Europe is pretty intense too. Anxiety around this issue would be pretty normal, and I spend a lot of my time, sometimes whole days, 24/7, worried about it. For myself and for future generations. But OCD plays a part as well, in the form of compulsions which are undertaken in a misguided attempt to relieve the anxiety. These involve obsessively checking the news, and also asking questions to AI. I do this until I get the answer I want, then do it all over again as soon as another scary headline hits the news. It’s exhausting.

Part of living with anxiety and OCD is the sensation of not going anywhere. Of staying still. Stuck. I said earlier that I might worry about whether our windows are safe enough in the event of a fire. Do I do anything to actually check the windows? No. I just worry about it. The energy gets used up in the worry, rather than any action I might undertake. Do I actually get involved with organisations that might help contribute to global safety? Not really. I just obsessively worry about it. I didn’t leave home until I was 27. I was single for ten years before meeting my wife, because I got too anxious to form a relationship. I took years to decide to get married. And years more to decide to do other things that might advance my life. One of the reasons I love my wife is that she is a do-er. She wants to move forward. We complement each other well. I think. (Am I going to start obsessing over this, now?...)

I’m not sure why I wrote this blog post. Maybe it’s simply to give others a flavour of what my mind is like, and to let those whose minds work in similar ways know that they are not alone. Maybe there are some benefits to the anxiety too: I am fastidious in my writing, and scrupulous in my desire to be a good husband. But it’s all very tiring. Sending big love to all, wherever and whoever you are. 

*The electrician came, said everything was OK, and charged £230. 

I wrote a poem about love

and now I can’t even bear to look at it. 

You sit there asking what do we do? what do we do?

and I’ve no idea. I’ve no idea. 

We hold hands tightly. I stroke your thigh.

My poems don’t matter anymore. Nothing matters

except you. Except me with you. 

You with me. Damn the poems. 

We are the poems. The poems are us

and I can barely bear to look at them.

What good are these love poems

when you’re having a panic attack at 5am?

When you can barely breathe?

I wrote a poem about love

and now I can’t even bear to look at it. 

I’m too busy looking to bear it.

Joshua Seigal 

Cupboard Love

There’s nothing like a cupboard

to deposit all your stuff,

like sausages and sandwiches

and tangled balls of fluff,

plus slugs and scraps of paper

you discovered on the street – 

just chuck them in your cupboard

and the mission is complete.

There’s nothing like a cupboard

to secrete those treasured goodies,

like sweaty socks and undies

and a heap of unwashed hoodies.

For all the bits you’ve gathered,

when your space has been exceeded,

a little extra room’s a must – 

a cupboard’s what is needed.

There’s nothing like a cupboard

to secure that precious stash

of cartons of rice pudding

you recovered from the trash.

I love my trusty cupboard

and it cannot be denied,

so stick a clothes-peg on your nose

and take a peak inside.

Joshua Seigal

Lenny Won't Walk

Lenny won’t walk

when you put on his lead. 

It’s against his beliefs. 

It conflicts with his creed. 

You can offer him treats. 

You can tempt and cajole. 

He won’t go for an amble,

a jaunt or a stroll. 

Lenny won’t walk 

if you beg and you plea.

He just sits on the pavement

or goes for a wee. 

You can bellow and urge

and beseech and solicit – 

a stubborn refusal 

is always explicit. 

It’s really no use 

if you holler or squawk.

No, it’s best to give up

because Lenny won’t walk.

Joshua Seigal

Exact Replica

after Arnold Zuboff 

They made an exact replica of my wife.

Cell for cell, precisely duplicated.

It had all the same memories, hopes, desires.

It had all the same quirks, dreams, regrets.

It knew me by name.

And as I heard it rattling the doorknob,

trying hard to get in,

calling out for me, I held your hand.

Brain-blank and spine-shot,

your soft hand in mine,

the both of us encased

in the white walls of the hospital.

For Better or Worse, I promised.

The You is the Love that persists.

Joshua Seigal 

The Book-Child

You spend your days and nights shaping it into

something approaching perfection. Or, if not perfection,

helping it live up to its potential – an extra comma

here, a colon there, maybe a sentence or two to be deleted. 

This thing means something. It’s part of you. You wake up

at 4am – has it transmogrified without your knowledge?

You open up the document and give it another read.

It’s just as you left it. Back to bed. Come the morning

you know its safe, sleeping soundly in its little folder.

But potential means the big wide world, that frisson of

getting older. Maybe others won’t gift it quite the same love,

won’t understand it as you do, won’t see it as worthy of

quite the same stakes. That’s the risk you have to take. 

You can’t keep your baby at home forever. You have to

let paper wings fly. You have to kiss them goodbye.

Joshua Seigal 

On Making Money (Or Not)

Since the beginning of this year, I have been working extremely hard on a project which I know will never make me any money. I have been continuing to visit schools and run workshops, which does make money, and thus I have been able to keep up a decent income. But the lion's share of my creative endeavours have been going towards a project which, almost certainly, will reap zero pecuniary benefit. 

The project in question is a pamphlet of poems aimed at adults. Since 2016, I have been lucky enough to have had seven books of children's poetry published by Bloomsbury, and two by HarperCollins. Whilst my author's cut of the profits from these books is not what it should be -- such is the case for all authors -- I nonetheless get a royalty cheque twice a year, and am able to buy copies of my books myself at a hefty discount, and thus make a profit when I sell them during school visits. Therefore, when working on these books, I know that there will be money in it for me. It's not that I am even thinking about this when I write, but I am in a different position to that which I now find myself in. 

Why do I know my project won't make me any money? Because poetry aimed at grown ups doesn't sell well, for one. Even very accomplished poets don't make money from their books, they make it from their other pursuits, which in the world of 'grown up' poetry is mostly teaching, lecturing, or some other kind of day job. And this is the well known poets. In the world of grown up poetry, I am a complete nobody. I was extremely fortunate to have had a poem published in Poetry Wales magazine in 2023, and this is no small feat (you can read the poem here, and I've made it prominent on the right of this blog, under the 'Featured Post' heading). This poem will hopefully form the backbone of my forthcoming collection. But I am far from the sort of name the casual browser would ever think to pluck off the bookshelf. No: if my pamphlet ever sees the light of day with a publisher, I am unlikely to see my bank balance rise, even slightly, as a result of it. And that's if it ever gets published, which it might well not.

The other week, my mum asked what I was working on, and I told her about my pamphlet. I do not come from an artistic family. Her primary concern was when, how, and indeed whether this would make any money. I said it would not, ever, even if I strike lucky with publication someday. She was confused: why on earth would I be doing such a thing? Why would I spend my time on this? My somewhat frivolous response was that Van Gogh never sold a single painting during his lifetime, and that didn't stop him. My mum wasn't particularly impressed.

So why am I doing it? Why am I spending all this time and energy on something which, even under the most optimistic of scenarios, will not make me any cashish? Reader, my answer will sound incredibly pretentious. I am doing it for the Art. I am simply following the current of where my artistic inspiration is taking me. For perhaps the first time in my life, I am feeling like a Real Artist, creating something for no other reason than because it is art. Paradoxically, the knowledge that it won't make any money makes me feel even more of an artist, and helps me pour even more passion into this project. It feels like the most meaningful thing I have ever done. All my writing feels meaningful to me, but this does more than anything else, because I know everything else also has a business element to it. I just hope I don't come to regret spending my time in this way, when the bills heap up.

A little preview: the pamphlet is called The Relationship Expert (ironic, or is it??), and features autobiographical poems and one or two surreal ones as well. A few of the pieces have already been published, and a few have appeared on this blog. Stay tuned. This is now the end of this blog post, and as I look at the clock I realised I have just spent an hour on another thing which I know will never make me any money. 

The Science

Then the ROCD latched onto percentages,

correlations, success rates. I began to think

of compatibility as something out there, to be

discovered. I looked up the tests they say

they have, found Wilson and Eysenck –

all of that crap. Did we have what it takes?

Are we doing it right? What does it say 

in the books? What does it say online?

A million hotshots with a million bright ideas – 

the stupid ones die off; the fittest survive.

Am I stupid? What did Finkel write?

Is this an equation, and have we been cracked?

Joshua Seigal

Cats and Cats and Cats!

I don’t want a book

about lions or dogs;

I don’t want a book

about rabbits or frogs;

I don’t want a book

about badgers or bats – 

I just want a book

about CATS!

I don’t want a book 

about windows or doors;

I don’t want a book

about tables or floors;

I don’t want a book

about T-shirts or hats – 

I just want a book

about CATS!

I don’t want a book

about hamster or horses,

or heather, or ivy,

or poppies or gorses,

or hedgehogs or hillocks

or rivers or rats – 

I just want a book

about CATS!

I don’t want a book

about anything silly,

or soppy or slimy 

or filthy or frilly;

I’m feelin' fine feline 

felicitous tracts – 

yes give me a book

about CATS!!!

Joshua Seigal

Is It Safe Yet?

I’ve not checked the news for five minutes,

so I can’t be sure. Best check again. Better yet,

ask ChatGPT if there’s been any updates – 

what’s the latest situation in Iran, Russia, the USA?

Has the nuclear risk increased?

Can I please have a percentage likelihood, please?

It haunts me in the night. I wake up at five,

shuffle into the room next door,

and – bleary eyed – I check my phone…

My therapist says this is a form of self harm:

I think it makes me safer but the opposite is true – 

the greatest danger is that which I pose

to myself. Not the tanks or the bombs. Not here

in England. (How lucky I am to live here.)

I’ve not checked the news for five minutes. 

I’ve been writing this poem and I haven’t checked. 

Is this a win? Is this a small victory?

I put down the pen. What will I do next?

Joshua Seigal 

Fire Hazard

An electrician came

to look behind the fridge-freezer

and said it was a fire hazard.

The wiring wasn’t done correctly.

For ten years I’ve been living in this flat

and the whole time there it was –

the fire hazard

waiting right in front of me.

And for forty years I’ve been living

in this world

with fire hazards everywhere.

Most of the rooms around here

don’t have windows

to escape from

and jump out of any window

and you simply land face-flat

in dry kindling anyway.

The floors are a fire hazard.

The walls are a fire hazard.

That line that separates

the land from the sky

is really a wire leading to a box of TNT.

The whole place is ready to blow.

I look at the moon

out the window at night,

casting faint light across the trees

in the park.

Come the morning

we’ll hear cries of abandon

from the swings and slides;

the quickening breath

of the crackling asphalt. 

Joshua Seigal

Come and Look at Bluebell!

Lounging on the table top

Splayed out in a belly flop 

Pretty as a movie prop – 

Come and look at Bluebell!

Curled up in a little heap 

Smiling in the grip of sleep 

Snoozing soundly, nice and deep – 

Come and look at Bluebell!

Loafing on the windowsill

Like a lumpy-bumpy hill 

Grab that camera! Have your fill – 

Come and look at Bluebell!

Munching plastic, yum yum yum 

Naughty kitty! Bad for tum!

(Now she stops and licks her bum…)

Come and look at Bluebell!

Joshua Seigal