01/09/2026
The next of our Shortlisted poems is It Isn’y Halloween by April Golightly!
April Golightly is… A late in life closet-leaver/ Late in life self-believer/ Late in life Borders dweller/ Late in life story-teller/ All life-long a secret writer/ All life-long her thoughts inside her/ Till finally at forty-eight/ Told the world she wasn’t straight/ Wrote a book to share the news/ Self-published it to mixed reviews/ Covid brought another two/ Gave her something fun to do./ So is she a writer? You tell me/ Come to Pride and let us see.
She wrote this poem based on, “a true exchange that happened in Galashiels, and I wanted to focus on how there are many more tolerant and kind people than bigots – although sometimes it’s hard to remember that when you’re in the middle of it. The poem is meant to show resilience and encourage anyone who feels targeted just to be themselves.”
It Isn’y Halloween
April Golightly
I’d been here just about two years, still hadn’t made a friend,
Tried going out for coffees, beers - gave up in the end,
Mainly stayed inside my flat, just went to work and back,
Accepted life would be just that. Till the day of the attack.
See, sometimes people look at me and I’m not what they expect,
Decide they don’t like what they see and that I don’t deserve respect.
I’m not young and I’m not thin but I don’t hide that away,
I wear clothes I feel good in no matter what folk say.
That day I set out from my flat and walked along the street
In bright pink shirt and bowler hat, my pride boots on my feet.
A local chap passed by me and did not like what he’d seen,
So chose to sneer and tell me, ‘It’s not bloody Halloween.’
I’m kinda used to all that stuff, I could have just gone to my car,
But that day I thought enough’s enough – this has gone too far.
I stopped and turned myself around, said, ‘Excuse me, what was that?’
I was anxious but I stood my ground and got ready for a spat.
‘You heard me,’ he called over his shoulder. I said, ‘I heard the words you uttered,
But I wondered why you weren’t bolder? I wondered why you muttered?
If you have something to say to me then say it to my face,
We’ll agree to disagree, but say it with good grace.’
And then as if a sewer burst, he vented out his bile,
Called me names, and swore, and cursed in ungentlemanly style.
I won’t give air to what he said - you’ve heard it all before.
He lives with that poison in his head like a weeping canker sore.
No, the part I want to focus on is the decent Gala folk
Who heard and did not just walk on but challenged how he spoke:
The lass who told him to shut his face, the one who checked I was okay,
The lad who chased him from the place, the man who made him go away.
And the little girls, just about eight, who ran up when he’d fled,
‘We want to say that you look great, so don’t be sad’ they said.
A good place to conclude this tale if an ending that could be,
But sadly kindness can’t always curtail the nastiness we see.
Yes, I’m a le***an, fat and old, and I dress like a costume ball,
If my choice of fashion leaves you cold, I do not care at all.
I’m not harming you, my style is my own, and I just don’t give a damn.
Love me or loathe me or leave me alone - I am what I am.
