go on, then
browse me
flick your fingers through
my paper soul – underline
keywords – love lust hate
bookmark my memories
step from one image
to the next, unroll
a narrative
highlight the highlights
erase
bookmark my thoughts
write “yes, this!” in the margin
circle a pearl of wisdom
scrawl your name
I just bought my first strawberries of the season. They smell so good. On the way home, in the warm car, I held them on my lap while my husband drove. The car filled up with that sweet strawberry scent.
We grow a few strawberries – little wild ones that self-seed round the garden – looking for them feels like a treasure hunt – and bigger ones that are lost to wildlife half the time. They’re all still white petalled flowers at the moment – not even tiny, hard, green fruit. The berries I bought were grown in a greenhouse in Herefordshire – small, artificial summers. Today, I don’t care. We’ll eat them with cream and a sprinkling of sugar, and we’ll know that summer is just around the corner. We’re teetering on the edge of it, ready to fall.
sunshine
the dancing of bees
ripening fruit
A haibun for Frank at dVerse. We’re considering summer…
I sit and drowse by candlelight.
I dream that this, my little house
becomes a boat on seas of night,
and it’s my job to turn the prow
towards the welcome harbour lights –
by candlelight I sit and drowse.
Stay close to me, I’ll keep you warm;
my arms about you are the key
to safety from the coming storm –
your arms about me, equally
will hold me safe, away from harm:
I’ll keep you warm, stay close to me.
By candlelight we’ll sit and dream,
the stars are clear, the moon is bright,
the world is shimmering and gleams,
and all the dangers of the night
are simply stories we have seen –
we sit and dream by candlelight.
A sparrowlet for Grace at dVerse. Grace introduces us to this form, that takes this shape:
RRRA, RRRB
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxa
RRRB, RRRA
It’s quite…technical. Anyhow, head over to dVerse to see more.
It was supposed to taste
of your childhood –
a childhood that I didn’t know –
I never knew you grazed-kneed,
talking excitedly, packed onto
that back bench, trapped
between a brother and a sister –
but instead, made something
different. You liked it. It was not
your childhood, rain on the windows,
warmth in the kitchen –
it was something different,
tastier, maybe, comforting
as the day fades, as the wind
rattles roudn the house –
warm cinnamon, half-melted butter
oozing off the fruited slice –
a new coziness. Isn’t that
how marriage works? We bring
our memories, make something new,
cherish the old. Relish this now.
Barmbrack is an Irish tea loaf, traditionally eaten at Halloween, with charms inside it that have various symbolic meanings. My Irish husband mentions it every Halloween, and one year I decided to bake a loaf for him. If you want the recipe, it’s here: https://www.irishexaminer.com/recipes/?c-recipeid=4079
I’m not a great baker, but this is delicious. It tastes nothing like my husband’s childhood memories, but it’s become part of our repertoire.
This is for dVerse. I’m hosting tonight, and we’re writing poems about food.
Winter is a cruel mistress,
alluring in ice diamonds and snowy dress,
she curls her lip at shivering and distress.
And yet winter never lies,
her eyes are the colour of open skies,
her heartbeat steady beneath the earth on which she lies.
She sometimes shares secrets
and sometimes splashes field and forest
with bright berries or a robin’s breast.
And when winter glowers,
punishes us with gales and hail showers,
we hunker by the fire for hours
waiting for her forgiving smile
twinkling in icicles, cold and beautiful.
Thank you to Kim Russell for this glittering, icy poem.
Montmartre, after midnight,
in the very depth of winter,
under the host of her Cœur
in candlelight as black boa
feathers teased keys on pianos
and bowls of French onion soup.
In a gypsy skirt, she twirled
her midlife around the 25th,
familiar threads of childhood,
like the first snows falling,
decorate steps of the Élysée.
Moments are thus sealed;
making mangers into magic.
On a market morning, pre-
feasting, stuffing red noses
into picks of ripe pineapples,
in gloved hands December’s
icicles thought to be trees.
In Le Train of many more
colours than just Bleu, chefs
at side tables flambé Suzette
till sugar runs liquid across
the stationed tongue of Lyon
that we’d mistaken to be l’Est.
Snowflakes, catching flight
on the staircases of interior
courtyards, with its Romeos
on balconies and holly berries
trailing, in a former factory.
Aotearoa on périphérique
of Paris, gifting out parcels
to Lusk girl, no longer local.
Montmartre, after midnight,
child born to be King and we,
under the giggle of cocktail,
whisper au revoir to the new
friends found as snow melts.
Never the same flake. Flame.
Moment. We cannot go back
and equally, can never let go.
Damien B Donnelly needs no introduction from me. Poet, podcaster, consummate host and supporter of poets and poetry, you can find him here:
Websitehttps://eatthestorms.com/
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/eatthestorms/?hl=en
Podcasthttps://open.spotify.com/show/0mOECCAcx0kMXg25S0aywi?si=ttUYKsf9TX-WaeitLg6hpA
Email eatthestorms@yahoo.com
Eat the Storms is available from the Hedgehog Press, or Damien’s own website – and new publications are on the way.
Cobwebs of crystal thread and
crisp flattened leaves held the path
we dared that morning.
Coats crammed full spurning the
whip of air; boots sketching the way.
Sun’s glare was too harsh to warm,
but the thrill of snow could scrape
winter’s stinging grasp.
We were catching snowflakes as giddy children.
Julie Stevens @JumpingJules kicks us off! Day 1 of the poetry advent calendar 2021.
By which I mean
The way the robin throws his song
out to the world
The way the herring gull
carves the sky
The way the starlings
create dreams
The way the wren
calls from the hedge
The way the pigeons
swagger across the city square
The way the goldfinch
embroiders a line
between tree and sky
The way the blackbird
melts the world into music
The way the cormorant
opens its wings its arms its heart
to the wind
The way the lark
sings only of summer
The way the buzzard
reminds us to trust the sky
A poem for Brendan at earthweal, celebrating biodiversity.
I don’t really get writer’s block. But sometimes I don’t write much, and sometimes I don’t write at all. I’m learning to trust those fallow times. The fields look very bare in winter, but there’s a lot going on deep in that cold earth.
in the dark earth daffodil bulb planted waiting out winter
Oh, this is very short. A haibun for Frank at dVerse.
Yggdrasil is dying. I’ve seen it – branches bare as arms reaching towards the sky. Trees scream silently, carrying the heavens in their branches, weaving the world with their roots – what happens now? Yggdrasil fumbles, falls - worlds drift away - the gods slip into darkness - frost and fire and flood - and where will we find wisdom now Yggdrasil is dying? Whose arms will we hang in? Only emptiness.
Brendan at earthweal invites us to write about trees. Here in Devon, our ash trees are dying. They are such a massive, ancient part of our landscape – the countryside round here is going to look very different in 5, 10 years’ time. I’ve been part of a project called the Ode to the Ash Tree Project. As an extra bonus, here’s a video of Katy Lee performing my poem Devon Ash. You CAN watch the video – just click where it says Watch on Vimeo.
Sarah writes poems 