I slept nine hours last night, she says,
I dreamed of you.
I asked if that was why she slept so long.
Only joking.
She laughs and say for sure it was.
Warm weather here.
Cold there.
Spring, how lovely.
Flowers and butterflies.
Yes.
I smile.
She always thinks of something pretty.
The taxi driver had a Brooklyn accent.
Like all the films, I think,
and remember Sophie’s Choice
Timbered houses, gables.
Tragic story.
Quick slices of happiness.
Madness.
Thinking of that I miss her next two sentences.
I come back to her.
Heavy luggage.
Last night was full of sirens and voices.
The Broadway shows cost a lot.
Traffic.
We’re leaving here soon, she says,
and I can’t wait to see you.
Everything is going to be so good.
Every word she says, is interspersed,
with saying how she loves me
and how she’s longing to be near me.
Napowrimo
Carrying my father home
Far heavier than I expected
and the size of an old sweet jar,
opaque plastic, black lidded.
Thank heaven it wasn’t transparent.
I could not have gone on like that.
I carried my father’s ashes
through the streets,
past the church and the chapel,
past the pizza parlour and meaty kebab shops,
under summer trees and fuming traffic,
everything poignantly normal.
We didn’t walk often together.
My father preferred his home.
I was sweating from heat and emotion.
Such a hot afternoon it was.
Haunted House
These ghosts are more than memory.
I saw them once or twice
when time slips sideways, ajar.
I enter the room and feel them,
feel the warmth on the arm of a chair
where his hand leaned a moment ago.
I know he left by the opposite door.
There is a slight disturbance
sketched on moving air,
as real as the solid oak table
and the light on the polished floor.
It is winter now.
The house is cold and damp.
The ghosts hang like a fine sea mist
by the dying, darkening fire.
At night he climbs the stair,
always ahead of me, here
We don’t intrude or disturb them.
We live with them side by side.
When I am gone, they’ll still be here.
I turn out the light
and walk in the dark
knowing they do the same.
Transported
The past returns
as I round a curve
in the path by the river.
On warm summer air
the scent of syringa,
sweet, astringent,
delicate, transient,
transcending;
I am five again,
in the garden
by the slope.
I run downhill
my arms outspread
Making Tea
Making tea is not the easy task it may seem.
To make it alone is simple,
it’s a matter of getting up steam
and not stewing the brew
but keeping it fresh and delightful.
I keep a few blends by to heal me
and stave off the winter colds
(or so we are told)
but orange pekoe is best,
or simple assam, bright and dark,
they outstrip the rest.
I have loved them for years
since I was just a young spark.
Lapsang souchong may be more hip,
it’s aroma may be more inspiring
but i gave up after one sip.
We all have our preference
and that’s where the problem comes in
Must every choice be political
or a statement of ethical pride?
What pleasure does that enhance?
My cupboard has a full range
in case a friend should come round
and inspect my tea making stance
and state their own, to impress.
There’s also the sweetening question;
none, sugar or honey.
Such noble-hearted obsessions
backed with the full force of money
request what I cannot afford.
Be assured, I would if i could.
It was quite a relief
when my latest guest came
and asked for a cup of hot water.
I think she won the great game.
My Late Start on National/Global Poetry Month
I didn’t get my usual notification and overlooked the start. I WILL be catching up. What follows explains what its all about and gives the Day 1 prompt
Na/GloPoWriMo is an annual challenge in which participants write a poem a day during the month of April. What do you need to do to participate? Just write a poem each day! If you fall behind, try to catch up, but don’t be too hard on yourself – the idea here is to expand your writing practice and engage with new ideas, not to stress yourself out. All too many poets, regardless of their level of experience, get blocked in their writing because they start editing even before they have written anything at all. Let’s leave the editing, criticizing, and stressing out for May and beyond! This month, the idea is just to get something on the page.
If you’ll be posting your efforts to a blog or other website, you can provide us with the link using our “Submit Your Site” form, and it will show up on our “Participants’ Sites” page. But if you’re not going to be posting your work, no worries! It’s not a requirement at all – again, all we’re really trying to do is encourage people to write.
To help with that, we’ll be providing some daily inspiration. Each day, we’ll be featuring a participant, providing you with an optional prompt, and giving you an extra poetry resource. This year, those resources will take the form of poetry-related videos.
And now, without further ado – let’s get to it!
Our first featured participant is Miss Ella’s House of Sleep, whose poem “Annie Edson Taylor’s Birthday Plunge,” used our early-bird prompt to explore a fascinating and little-known historical figure.
Our resource for the day is a short film of January Gill O’Neil reading (and acting out!) her poem “How to Make a Crab Cake.”
For our first (optional) prompt, let’s take our cue from O’Neil’s poem, and write poems that provide the reader with instructions on how to do something. It can be a sort of recipe, like O’Neil’s poem. Or you could try to play on the notorious unreliability of instructional manuals (if you’ve ever tried to put IKEA furniture together, you know what I mean). You could even write a dis-instruction poem, that tells the reader how not to do something.
The Fairy Investigation Society ~ Urgent Memo
We recently heard of sightings
in a nearby Nottingham wood.
(As far as we ascertain
there is no link to Robin Hood
and no clear reference to Folk Lore
though we will investigate more).
A family out on a picnic,
wandered deep into the forest
to a pleasant clearing
beside a flooded stream,
where they came upon a scene
reminiscent of Arden
and Shakespeare’s Midsummer Dream.
This is what they found;
upon a grassy mound
small figures in pointed hats,
entirely dressed in green,
were prancing hand in hand,
spinning around in a circle,
their feet just above the ground.
Their faces were not clearly seen.
There is no report of wings.
The light was reported as hazy,
and the turf described as soft.
A small king stood at the centre
holding a lamp aloft.
The family stood in shock,
rooted to the spot,
and watched him as he sauntered
to a sturdy leaf of dock
where he sat in dignified leisure
and, possibly over-heated,
fanned himself quite a lot
with an unidentified leaf.
To be brief;
A gentleman of the party
moved for a closer look
but failed to stifle a cough.
(The local pollen count was high.
I don’t claim fairy dust).
The small creatures all ran off
at incredible speed.
The family looked about for a time,
searching the nearby weeds
which had sprung up all around
but no sign of the small folk was found.
Our colleague, Marjorie Johnson,
having studied the correspondence,
found one further eyes witness
who claimed to have seen the same elves
about a decade before.
There is more.
This witness on many occasions
saw leaves and varied twigs,
laid out in a curious fashion,
beneath an ancient Ash.
Marjorie made the decision
to visit the site herself
(as she frequently does).
She left in the middle of May.
She has not returned to date.
We informed the local police
who conducted a thorough search,
finding her camera and glove.
Please advise. Don’t delay.
We must avert a scandal.
We need a Press Release.
Please note:
We found a long lost manuscript
from the early Tudor era
stating that, in this forest,
frequently over the years
as the month of June drew nearer,
people had disappeared.
We cannot continue to hope.
Little Rainbow
She never answers when I call
but sits alone and mutters
or goes amongst the old ash trees
and whispers to the leaves.
I can’t decipher all she says,
the words are never plain,
but the music of their pattern
is always much the same.
She plays with mud and twigs
and lays them out repeatedly
in one ornate design.
Like hieroglyphs
they seem to have significance,
but she won’t write her name.
Her teachers and her parents
are much disturbed by her.
They say she’s on the borderline
of a broad and complex spectrum
that I don’t understand.
I ask, in jest, if she might be
a special rainbow child.
No-one smiled.
I’m here as the au pair.
I just let her play.
We have to get away.
There is avoidance in her eyes.
She simply won’t obey.
That much is very clear.
They want her analysed.
I know she’s wild
but I have secrets
I am not prepared to share.
She chases hawks away from mice.
She calls the birds to comb her hair
and lets them hide in there.
When she sleeps the owl hoots twice,
the fox creeps from its lair
and sidles past my fireside chair
to rest all night contented,
dreaming at her feet.
The family is complete.
She’s turbulent.
She’s troublesome.
She’s stubborn
and she’s free.
She’s very gifted too,
but we won’t let them see.
I know it’s very strange indeed,
a little fae for sure.
She’s always been my own sweet child,
there’s no changing that.
We have to make a plan
and spin it very soon.
I must discuss it with my cat
before the next full moon.
Who am I today?
I have a sense of purpose
and the power to get things done.
I face the opposition,
fast thinking on my feet.
A fool might hesitate.
I’m only seeking happiness,
that’s all I really want,
and so I take the plunge again
into deeper life.
Turbulent emotions
stir the muddied waters.
Intemperate behaviour
can only hold me back.
Trust can be deceptive.
Instinctive moves are strong.
Moonlight pierces darkness.
All is clear and bright.
Patience and compassion
are the watchwords of the night.
My heart is always brave
when the time of movement comes,
and in the time of changes,
help is close at hand.
When considering my options
I take the straighter path,
remembering tradition;
the tried and tested ways.
I look into a mirror
and meet the Hierophant.
Summer Salad
Thunder crashing,
lightening flashing,
people dashing for cover,
the rain so heavy
the road is a running river.
In passing a shop
a perfume wafts out from a doorway
and carries me straight into summer,
coconut oil and vanilla,
with undernotes of soft almond.
My mind’s eye drifts to the margin
where rubbery ribbons of seaweed
lay stranded in foam and soft ripples.
The damp sand is firmer and darker.
The sea has been rough.
Dark violet clouds in the dove grey sky
are gradually clearing.
The sun blazes out in a dazzle,
bouncing on glittering water.
The salt air
and the sand in my hair
make it feel sticky and thicker
Hot sun dries the puddles of rain
on steaming hot tarmac
and I’m back in the town again,
longing for crisp juicy peppers,
freshly cut cucumber flesh, sliced lemons
and the pink thirsty heart of a melon.
On a hot sandy beach,
that burned my feet,
I once sipped a cold margarita
in the cool indigo, lavender shade
of a blindingly white umbrella.
The Dreaming Path 