I’m delighted to let you know that I have a poem up on The Drabble. They’ve chosen such a great image to go with it, too!
He’s a good husband, yes.
Sometimes, when he looks at me
I know my strong legs, my feet planted
in this red clay – they’re not enough.
My warm arms hold him,
like a cage of flesh. My hands burn.
I know he longs for something
he can’t hardly name – the pale flicker
of white fingers, never stained
with soil, or mucky from the fireplace,
the glimmering silvery gold
of hair left loose, swayed by the water.
Silence makes a dark pool in our house.
And when the tide turns,
and the wind is right,
and the sea calls him
I know he leaves me
with a happy heart.
De – Whimsygizmo – is hosting at dVerseand we’re looking at sirens, selkies and mermaids – the mysterious creatures of the water. You might also like this: https://soundcloud.com/b5m7/selkie – a lockdown project I did with my friend Dave Hope.
This is a stubborn place, I’d say.
Old names live on here. Bits of wild
cling to steep hillsides, linger
in forgotten corners.
Three nights ago we saw a hare
lop-lollying along the ridges
in the maize field. I wonder
what she thinks of our machines,
our lines. We carve the landscape,
make divisions, demarcations.
Up on the hill, the farm name holds
the memory of a sacred grove.
Scrabbled scruffy stands of ash and oak
are still held sacred – never cut.
Our hedgerows are all tangled sanctuaries –
blackthorn, hazel, haw –
small creatures hiding, homing there.
Last night an owl swooped silent
across Nick and Jennie’s field,
clipping the long grass, almost.
We watched him scouting,
criss-crossing the scrubby corner
where the lane turns east.
Things are a little tatty here.
There’s space for nesting sparrows,
jackdaws crank call from the bottom barn,
and the rooks nest all along
the field’s top corner, and beyond.
You’ll see them march
across the slurried fields.
Leatherjackets, that’s what
they’re after, beaks plunged
in the smelly ground.
we’ll meet a deer, tip-toeing.
Wildness ebbs and flows –
a field left fallow,
a field ploughed,
an old hedge lost
to trees. A lane forgetting
it was ever paved.
We make accommodations here.
We let the nettles grow,
the brambles fling their skinny arms out.
We are not too fussy.
Well, we can’t afford to be –
you turn your back round here
and the wild slips back,
whispering old stories,
old secrets, trailing
old scents, remembering.
A poem for Brandon at Earthweal. I’m lucky to live in a rural backwater. I’ve been angry for a while now, at so many things happening in the world. I’ve given myself a break in this one, and indulged myself, revelling in the beauty of the world around me.
I don’t often get thanks from people I’ve worked with – I think most of them are glad to be moving on – maybe I’m part of something they would like to forget. Three weeks ago, however, I was given flowers, and a card. I was stunned, and moved almost to tears. It was completely unexpected, a gift from a family I’ve worked with for years. The strange thing is, I wouldn’t say I’d made a whole lot of difference: I’ve advocated for them, pushed for a diagnosis that helped with educational planning, but other than that I’ve been mostly offering support and validation. I’m trained to make change, to make things better. I never felt I’d done enough for this family – never been good enough. Maybe that’s something I need to reflect on.
pink and white and blue
I place flowers in a vase
small buds unfurling
Lillian is hosting at dVerse tonight. She asks us to write a haibun about a “shining moment”, incorporating a traditional haiku.
pink and white
across the lawn,
the path –
heads hanging heavy –
and the grass –
green – too green –
and the soft bee buzz
starting up again.
One summer we collected caterpillars,
picked them, green and glistening,
off the cabbage leaves.
We kept them in a glass box
in the shed, and fed them
fat and slow
until they built themselves cocoons.
We left them then,
grey chrysalises, dry and dead,
forgot them over winter.
One morning, bright with spring,
I went into the shed
and found it full
of fragile, fluttering wings
we set them free.
A poem for Anmol’s last dVerse prompt. I’m sorry that this is his last one – his prompts have been challenging and creative, and I will miss them. As a final flourish, he asks us to write in the awareness that this is Pride Month, a time to celebrate the lgbtq+ community in all its shapes and forms. I’ve chosen to write about transformation, about finding freedom through that transformation. This is for anybody who has had to find themselves.
She won’t march
to the beat of your drum
she’ll only dance
to the sound of her heart
he won’t fight
to the call of your drum
he wants to dream
to the sound of the rain
yet you still drum
For Mish at dVerse, who’s drumming her fingers on the bar waiting for our quadrilles. In a good way.
I’ve walked with the goddess, yes,
in these deep lanes. I’ve smelled
her dark scent – shit and honeysuckle –
felt her hush before the hare –
I’ve seen her dancing
in the desert eyes
of the man who showed me
where I saw
her hands on mine
feeding the good soil
her laughter in the
flicksilver darting of the fish
her rainbow tears
I’ve met her broad-hipped
by the slow river, easy,
seen her walk before me
in the bare rocky places
where life hides in cracks
I am a thread
in her great cloak
a cell in her
and so beloved
Sherry is hosting at Earthwealthis week, reminding us to sing love songs to Mother Earth – if we don’t love her, how can we save her?
I don’t know much.
I do know this:
your hunger doesn’t fill me
your contentment doesn’t empty me
your fear doesn’t comfort me
your comfort doesn’t frighten me
your anger doesn’t still me
your stillness doesn’t make me angry
your pain doesn’t heal me
your health doesn’t sicken me
your weakness doesn’t strengthen me
your strength doesn’t weaken me
your song doesn’t silence me
your silence doesn’t make me sing
your ignorance doesn’t make me clever
your knowledge doesn’t make me ignorant
your loving doesn’t make me unloved
if you can’t breathe,
how can I?
For Grace at dVerse. The world’s a garden, not a pie.
White, I told them, white –
everything white – dress me
in white linen, drape me
with white silk. White satin pillows
for my head.
Pile up white lilies all around me.
Fill each white vase
with soft white roses –
set white sheets on my white bed –
white curtains billowing,
white candles, white, white.
I am not ready to go down
into the dark.
Laura is tending the bar at dVerse tonight, and asks us to be inspired by the fictional dead. She reminds us of the strange comfort of graveyards, and shares some graveyard poems with us. My poem is inspired by the Longfellow verse she shares:
Longfellow’s “In the Churchyard at Cambridge”
…“In the village churchyard she lies,
Dust is in her beautiful eyes,
No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;
At her feet and at her head
Lies a slave to attend the dead,
But their dust is white as hers.
Was she a lady of high degree,
So much in love with the vanity
And foolish pomp of this world of ours?
Or was it Christian charity,
And lowliness and humility,
The richest and rarest of all dowers?
Who shall tell us? No one speaks;” …