openings 30 - 2013
DESCRIPTION
ÂTRANSCRIPT
Openings 30 The Poetry Society of the Open University
Annual Anthology of
OU Poets
2013
2
Copyright remains with the individual poets.
All rights reserved.
Published 2013 by Open University Poets.
ISBN 978-0-9567833-1-8
ISSN-2049-7091
Editor: Al Campbell
Cover Photography: Cold Mt, Al Campbell
Printed by:
3 Gabalfa Workshops, Cardiff
(029) 2062 5420
3
Contents
Introduction 5
Sleeping Partners David Blaber 7
Mum Helen Harvey 8
Untitled Leslie Scrase 10
Bluebells Heather Walker 11
Bright Day - Brisk Wind Anthony Stainer 12
Beachy Head Julie Stamp 14
Across the Seer Waters Matthew Macer-Wright 16
Havisham’s Knell Susan Jarvis Bryant 17
Klezmer Jim Lindop 18
No Two Alike Carol Ann Lintern 20
The Poem the Idiot Sent You Onno Tromp 21
Late - Night Journey Lem Ibbotson 22
Nothing to Worry About Mariana Zavati 24
Home Madeline Parsons 25
Cotton Traders John Starbuck 26
Snail Barbara Cumbers 27
In Denial Kewal Paigankar 28
Lines a la Housman Feona Stewart 29
Lately Alice Harrison 30
The Blessings of Cardboard Ted Griffin 31
Epidauros Daphne Phillips 32
New Mills Al Campbell 34
Through the Looking Glass Christine Frederick 35
Four Ladies Sue Spiers 36
Strange Jukebox Andrew W Pye 37
Boustrophedon Mark Bones 38
When Day Comes In Hilary Mellon 40
A Lie Phil Craddock 41
St Patrick’s Day Last Denis Ahern 42
Echo Rosa Thomas 43
Our Lady of Loneliness Jenny Hamlett 44
A Sunny Day Stacey Lane 45
Harris Hawk Hamilton Wood KJ Barrett 46
Song of Gaea Bronwen Vizard 47
The Meads Adrian Green 48
Familiar Katherine Rawlings 49
It’s how you tell them Ron Dodge 50
Sunday 29th April Nina Mattar 51
LXI Dave Etchell 52
Raindance Liz Rowlands 53
The Midnight Cat Peter Godfrey 54
Bright Yellow Poncho Cate Cody 55
The Surface of Water Kathryn Alderman 56
October Barrie Williams 57
4
5
Introduction
OU Poets is the Poetry Society of the Open University, it is
open to any student or staff member, past or present. At the
time of going to press there are about 120 members from all
over the UK, with some in Ireland and in mainland Europe.
Members of the society submit poems to a magazine, which is
produced 5 times a year, each one having a different voluntary
editor. The magazine is not a publication per se and is strictly
produced by the members for the members. There is a section
for comment and criticism of members' work.
At the end of the year, members are asked to vote for the 20
poems they most appreciated from the 5 magazines produced
that year. Those with the most votes, allowing for no more than
one poem per poet, appear in the following year's issue of Open-
ings. The anthology is as broad-based as the society itself and
reflects the varied backgrounds, interests and tastes of the
members.
If you would like more information about OU Poets, please con-
tact the Secretary:
Adrian Green
Flat 3
1 Clifton Terrace
Southend-on-Sea
SS1 1DT
or visit our website at http://www.oupoets.org.uk
6
7
David Blaber Sleeping Partners
I long to fall asleep but do not dare
to yield for fear you'll leave me in the night.
Distressed, observing you, I doubt you care.
Awake, in aching hope that you will share
the watch beside me to the dawn's grey light,
I long to fall asleep but do not dare.
I do not know your name, nor can I swear
that I'd acknowledge it as yours by right.
Distressed, observing you, I doubt you care.
Your name may vary with the places where
your image fires my mind and floods my sight.
I long to fall asleep but do not dare
relax for fear I'll never see you flare
in all-embracing warmth to calm my fright.
Distressed, observing you, I doubt you care.
Sovereign, insensitive to my despair
and dread, you smile, refining dreams of flight.
I long to fall asleep but do not dare,
distressed, for want of you. I doubt you care.
8
Helen Harvey
Mum
3.00am.
The fierce chin-height strap of heat
dies instantly as I turn off the grill,
butter the toast, lean against the draining board
and comfort-eat, uncomfortably
shifting feet and thinking how
what I want most right now
is Mum.
I’d call her – speed dial, except she isn’t set up
and I’d have to check the number in the book –
but thirteen digits and the single insistent tone
of a long distance call
is not that much of a journey at all
and I’d say, ‘Mum…’;
she’d catch the note in my voice,
pack her bag and come
on the next cheap flight, Easyjet to Leeds,
and despite the northern fog-clogged air
would catch the bus out of town
to avoid the taxi fare,
arrive at my door in her low Spanish heels,
and that beige coat she wears
against the British cold.
9
Perhaps we’d hug – she’d hold
her delicate, sun-dried hands
around my back and then…
… and then, how would we bridge that long-haul gap
between eighteen years of weather reports
and ‘How is Dad’s knee?’
to her being here, and what’s happening to me?
We don’t share a language for that foreign land;
how awkward for me to try to explain,
how difficult for her to understand
that while she travelled the curve of the earth,
I fell from the edge of a world turned flat;
how could she – stranger now to stranger –
help me with that? And how would she know,
since she flies, and we can’t speak,
that my low is measured in fathoms, not feet,
and I’m drowning?
Thirteen digits and a foreign exchange?
I’d rather not call; though I finish the un-tasted toast
in wonder that Mum is still,
after all,
the one I want most.
10
Leslie Scrase
Untitled
He saw ‘the footprints in the dark red tile’
and thought upon a child
who lived in Roman times
before the Saxons came
and yesterday I saw some footprints in the sand
soon washed away
by the incoming tide
and thought of permanence and transience.
We honour those who leave no stain,
whose footprint lies but lightly on the earth,
who live life well but leave no mark,
no heavy statue or false story in a history book.
For all of us have had one hour
to call our own:
the child, the young, the middle aged, the old.
Each one can say ‘and I have had my hour’.
That is the truth and meaning of our lives.
We come, we go, we are and then
we are not anymore – and most
leave little more than footprints in the sand.
11
Heather Walker
Bluebells
In dawn’s sweet nectar
a girl gathers bluebells for her mother.
She does not know that she was conceived here
one spring between the owls’ call
and the foxes bark,
when the moon shied away
from fingers exploring hidden places.
But she knows that when autumn
released its dying leaves
her father went with them.
And she knows her mother
lives in a shadow world
where her mumbled words
echo off the cottage walls.
So she searches for her father here,
in every birdsong,
in the dappled sunlight
and in the bluebells
she gathers for her mother.
12
Anthony Stainer
Bright Day – Brisk Wind
This is a brisk wind –
schoolmarmish – new leaves
back up, bob down, scattered
playground kids. And the shore
is awash with brown foam,
weeds and anger. Detritus gathers
at the top line – raucous football
spectators canned up with beer
and looking for trouble, so
they scuffle. The big birds love it,
soar and bicker, noisy as auctioneers.
Small ones cower, they – the infant
class – wish there was not so
much clatter and bluster... the wind
doesn’t care, his ambition’s to be a
gale – then it can really play hell
13
and make the daft crowd
roar like thunder... A daft
dog bites each wave as it
comes ashore. Does its owner
count the score? Dog barks as
it gets wetter and wetter. No
matter how often he does it
he never gets better.
Waves win.
Dog swamped.
Brisk wind. Bright day.
14
Julie Stamp
Beachy Head
At first, it seems such a long way off:
now rising – rising, reaching ear-popping height,
gain fields, hedges – fear;
arriving somewhere yet nowhere.
Silent crows coast salt-thick thermals,
trees stoop beneath savage winds,
markers of unseen storms, gnarled and omniscient.
Sheep stare, blank and white through loss-laden air,
piercing the pressing chill of despair.
A lone bench invites reflection, doubt,
a wavering of reason; that final blow
to the heart. Choose the 100-metre stride, breach the post and wire fence, reach the shrine-scarred edge, lock eyes on the horizon; let life go. For all its car park, pub - countless visitors -
nothing’s good about this place: not much of a view
beyond cliff, rocks, sea; the wave-smashed barber’s pole
down below, last-glanced by wretched souls in flight.
15
Down below, last-glanced by wretched souls in flight
beyond cliff, rocks, sea - the wave-smashed barber’s pole.
Nothing’s good about this place, not much of a view
for all its car park, pub. Countless visitors
lock eyes on the horizon, let life go:
breach the post and wire fence, reach the shrine,
(scarred edge to the heart), choose the 100-metre stride;
a wavering of reason, that final blow…
A lone bench invites reflection,
doubt piercing the pressing chill of despair.
Sheep stare, blank and white.
Through loss-laden air, markers of unseen storms;
gnarled and omniscient trees stoop
beneath savage winds. Silent crows
coast salt-thick thermals, arriving somewhere
yet nowhere; gain fields, hedges. Fear now rising,
rising, reaching ear-popping height.
At first it seems such a long way off…
16
Matthew Macer-Wright
Across the Seer Waters
I shall row myself
across the seer waters –
one tiny boat
and the plunge of two oars.
Seabirds may come
to plunder my body,
I shall feed them gems
laid sounding before me,
each haunts a day,
glass bells in memory,
and I must throw off
these weights of time.
It was so lovely, this dream,
but dreaming is over.
And since I was a whale
in the wrong element, drowned,
I shall row myself
across the seer waters.
17
Susan Jarvis Bryant
Havisham’s Knell
She’s locked behind the bars of time
where roses fade and dreams decay,
in crumbling cells where death knells chime.
Her clocks have stopped. Her sun won’t climb
on wishes where spring zephyrs play;
she’s locked behind the bars of time
where weak bones creak and grim ghosts whine
and peach-cheeked grins have dimmed to grey,
in crumbling cells where death knells chime
as slighted soul seeks heaven’s sign
that stars still shine at ebb of day.
She’s locked behind the bars of time
enmeshed within cobwebbed confines,
where weathered lips kiss yesterday
in crumbling cells where death knells chimes
and salt-seared eyes sting at the crime
of hands that crush love’s lush bouquet.
She’s locked behind the bars of time
in crumbling cells where death knells chime.
18
Jim Lindop
Klezmer
Rain had shuffled us
into the Izaak Synagogue:
where old walls whispered.
Out of the whitewashed walls,
the ghosts of old texts:
out of the chipped pine pews,
the scents of mortality:
out of the scarred architraves,
the jabber of voices:
out of the quivering air,
the spectre of a scream –
scream of the unborn child;
scream of its raped and ravaged mother;
scream of the plangent violin;
scream of the gassed old ones;
scream of the shot rabbi;
scream of the sad accordion;
scream of the colour red;
scream of the human hair stacked behind glass;
scream of the roomful of sweat-stained shoes;
scream of the slaughtered generation.
19
The walls whispered:
the menorah chanted:
the clerestories hummed:
the planked floor sang
the song of the green glades guarding mass graves;
the song of the potato fields mulched with grey dust;
the song of the grey dust and the charred bones;
the song of the wailing women, stripped and cold;
the song of the baffled, shoeless children in bleak lines;
the song of the cowed, uncomprehending music-men;
the song of the toothless, hairless skulls;
the song of the vodka-drinking guards;
the song of the cleaners of hideous latrines;
the song of the bayonet; the song of the gun.
As quarter-tones shimmered,
we let old voices whisper to us.
20
Carol Ann Lintern
No Two Alike
Wilson Bentley 1865-1931
You, a farmer’s son, fascinated by ice crystals
at the foot of the green mountains of Vermont,
harvested snowflakes, reaping the tiny mandalas
that are born of specks of dust and carried
on winter wind to be spun and woven by
climate, cloud vapour and gravity.
For year after patient year, from a black tray
and with a feather between freezing fingers,
holding back breath, you teased each of them
to a plate of dark glass beneath a camera lens,
attempting to capture the Miracles of Beauty.
Now you and they are dissolved into time.
I sit in a sun-warmed garden in England
wondering at your legacy recorded
in the pages of this book on my knee,
these five thousand enduring images
of intricate patterns, like heavenly frozen lace,
that are the trace of your life.
21
Onno Tromp
The Poem the Idiot Sent You
the poem
a language stripped of everything
that makes a language
whose uniform can persuade
the reader of no form
as far as can be discerned
you then say how like Ezra Pound
or Baudelaire
whose meanings obviously never resided there
for how could they
yet that is what it means to you
obviously a poem by Baudelaire
will have to do
22
Lem Ibbotson
Late-Night Journey
I need to go, but how shall I arrive?
I don’t know if I’m really fit to drive.
If only I had taken time to think
Before I took that final fateful drink
Responding to the landlord’s closing call –
I’d only had a couple after all!
I don’t feel that I’m really drunk at all:
I must be fully sober to arrive.
I’ll stop for coffee and I’ll make a call;
Before that I’ll be careful how I drive.
They say it makes you slower when you drink;
Perhaps I’ll stop and take some time to think.
If I drive slow I’ll be alright, I think;
I shall not need to park-up after all.
It’s half an hour since my final drink
And just an hour till I should arrive.
I should find space to park up on their drive –
No need, I guess, to make a mobile call.
23
The phone is ringing – shall I take the call?
No one around to notice it, I think.
You shouldn’t use a mobile while you drive,
But this might be important, after all.
I could ring back as soon as I arrive –
And after that I’ll have another drink.
The copper now is checking me for drink –
He saw me as I took that mobile call.
It seems that I’m not going to arrive.
What will I do? I really have to think.
I mustn’t lose my licence above all:
I’m finished if I’m not allowed to drive!
Thank goodness! Now I’m parking on their drive.
Hot coffee’s what I really need to drink.
Just below the limit after all,
But prosecution pending for the call.
Stupid, but lucky on the whole, I think
And really very happy to arrive.
If you’re going to drive, you must arrive
Not the worse for drink, so you should think,
And above all – park-up to make a call!
24
Mariana Zavati
Nothing to Worry About
One day copies another
in the looking-glass
of the wallpapered bedroom
with dead anecdotes
I am not looking, but…
I can see the lagoon
from the bay window
of my cushioned window-sill
I am not listening, but…
I can hear inside the house
of burning words
shut in loud questions
I am not touching, but…
I can feel rising hedges
in a game invented when surfing
over the fields of grey
I am not close, but…
I can smell the sweat of pain
rising like arched fog
tanned in sea water
I am not eating, but…
I can taste what has been lost
from that dream in the pillows
against crimson rolling tongues
25
One shape copies another
in the paralysed glass
of fading unshaped voices
no new beginning… no new end…
��
Madeline Parsons
Home
Time had done for you, or so I thought; packed
you up neatly and filed you in a box marked over. I was mistaken. Last night you glided up the length
of me and laid your head upon my breast. Your skin
smelled honey-sweet, like wine, and on your mouth,
the taste of apples. It seemed as if you’d been in Eden
for a while, but suddenly decided to come home.
26
John Starbuck
Cotton Traders
Their title tries to evoke a remnant
Of Empire, of the days when our ships
Sailed the globe, bringing prosperity,
Affordable garments and the ruinations
Of native peoples far away, all for good
And the advancement of profits.
Now cotton implies not synthetic;
It implies green for honesty and purity
Is now the advertorial for togetherness,
With rucksacks, wheelie cases,
And organiser shoulder-bags,
We are all happy travellers
Who do not go on Plantations Tours,
Who do not trek to East African forts,
Although we’ve been to Styal Mill
For a shufti at our National Trust
History on-site lessons and marvelled
At how far we’ve come, we who never
Conceive our families as workers.
Bonnets, yes. The wearing of a bonnet
Is much approved on weekended TV,
Just like watching rugby. Rugby!
I can’t stand the bloody game,
So why wear shirts that look the shame?
27
Barbara Cumbers
Snail
Feel the ground as it moves beneath you,
the smoothness of your glide forward
laying the road as you go, your choice of path
through grass blades, the grace of your body
as it swings around curves, the way your horns
wave to the scents in the air, the rasp of your mouth
exploring fresh leaves; how you move slowly
onto hostas and delphiniums that you know are there,
upwind, around the euonymus that is not to your taste.
You make your stately way across the barriers
laid in your path – gravel, eggshells, husks –
your progress sure over all roughness,
you pay no heed to protein lost in a trail of mucus,
the dissipation of water, the labour
of bearing the weight of your whole being
on a slide of yourself. How successful you are,
how ubiquitous, how you always know
where home is, the comfort of it.
28
Kewal Paigankar
In Denial
Her parting shot,
Words imbued with paradox and contradictions
As I boarded
She alighted, pausing to whisper,
“I am living a lie
While searching for the truth”;
A crowded suburban train
On an old track, carriages rattling,
An unlikely setting
For her epitaph.
We had been here before
Years ago, decades earlier
In another lifetime
Around Sydenham, Beckenham and Bellingham,
Twickenham to the west,
Putting our feet on seats
Lighting a Woodbine in a no-smoking compartment;
Running through carriages
Rebels making discoveries
In waiting rooms, flushed with nascent romance;
Late adolescence, early adulthood
The illusion that was lasting love.
The break-up, the intervening years
Her freckled face bearing scars,
Shadows below her eyes
Needle marks on her arms.
29
Adventure and convention
The dichotomy and conflict;
She chose the former
The giddying heights of delusion
Before reality hit; the descent into penury
A cramped bed-sit in Balham
And its misery.
The queen of denial
Hurt and in hiding from the truth.
��
Fiona Stewart
Lines á la Housman
O, I was a child then
When the stream was running clean
And fresh and clear
And teeming full of sticklebacks
In the years of glimmering sun.
For O, when the stream was full of sticklebacks
It was then that I was young
30
Alice Harrison
Lately
Someone has taken over my attic.
All day she stays quiet
but for a shuffle and a heartbeat.
At night she slip-slops down the stairs,
scrabbles through drawers, dishevels the wardrobe
and smears all the windows.
She disorders the bookshelves, deranges pictures,
unhinges boxes, muddles photographs
and paints nightmares in the kitchen.
She smudges the television screen,
turns the volume down
and the central heating up.
On the computer she hides documents,
removes words from the dictionary
and names from Wikipedia, then disconnects.
Since she came the house has loose slates.
Walls crack, boards creak, damp seeps.
I fear she's undermining the foundations.
31
Ted Griffin
The Blessings of Cardboard - ?
I am looking at the curtains,
Except that they are not curtains
But pieces of flattened cardboard box
Masquerading as curtains
Because we don’t want anyone looking in
When we take our clothes off
(Or before we put them on if you like)
And people will stare if there are no curtains
And cardboard has the same effect
~If not so elegant as curtains –
Which we cannot afford, even
The cheapest bought on the market
And made of low-grade cloth
no doubt knocked off
After making an unauthorised exit
Out of the back door of some warehouse
Which probably did not have curtains
At the windows either but bars.
At least we don’t have those yet
Because they don’t take the place of curtains,
And if we had bars, which we don’t,
We would still have to have curtains
As well, or cardboard
Which we’ve got.
32
Daphne Phillips
Epidauros
Ladies and gentlemen,
Welcome to Epidauros, where regularly
Fifteen thousand people gathered at dawn,
For a whole day of heady drama.
‘Ye gods!’ I can hear you muttering,
‘Fifteen thousand people!
Sitting here all day on these stone seats!
You can’t imagine it, can you!’
But some of you assuredly can,
So settle quietly onto your stone seats,
And close your eyes for a moment –
Those of you who are complaining
About the seats being wet
Would do better to wait for us at the coach.
Right, close your eyes for a moment
And imagine yourself
One of those fifteen thousand people;
Day is dying, the light failing
Behind these fearful hills.
The Bacchae is almost over; here are the women
Returning from their rites. Do you see
That abandoned blood splattered up them?
Do you see
What Agave is cradling in her arms?
33
‘Look!’ she cries, ‘I killed a lion cub,
And all the women sang in my honour.
Pentheus will surely praise his mother
For the lion cub that she has killed!’
Agave is crazed.
Do you see what she really cradles?
It is the head of Pentheus.
Pentheus.
Her only son.
Now do you feel an unnatural chill
Settling on you?
Do your hands and thighs feel clammy?
Your head pound?
And now do you recognise
Those fifteen thousand people?
Welcome to Epidauros,
Ladies and gentlemen.
34
Al Campbell
New Mills
From our window – slowly
four wind turbines turn
not your trad windmills
Dutch things of wood &
fabric – creaking & decrepit
from some picturesque past
of canals - clogs & cycles
These mills are brave & new
sleek & shiny – abstract yet
solemn – free & non-polluting
no coal – carbon or fusion – soot
waste or corruption – no hazed
obscurity - no menace - danger
or kick up the backside
I feel proud to see them daily
almost from in my back yard
a product of art & technique
engineers and architects
remember the covenant of a
lost Eden & weary world left
better than we found it
35
Christine Frederick
Through the Looking Glass
On display in the mirror frame what can I see?
A rather strange woman looks back at me.
Face, which is care worn, strong, yet round.
The beauty of long ago, now not there found.
Ears that are hidden, because they’re too big.
Hair tied behind them, a less glorious wig.
Eyes, which are deep set, now hooded, less clear.
Jaw, which has double chins hanging, I fear.
Nose rather large, with freckles now sprinkled.
Lips less defined, and neck lined and wrinkled.
Where has she gone, that creature so fair?
With shining green eyes and lustrous long hair?
Where are the keen eyes, smiling lips and good grace?
That boys, long ago sought quickly to chase.
Where is the swan neck, the nose, oh so haughty?
The very quick wit and the humour so naughty?
How and when did she leave? Where did she go?
When last did I see her face all aglow?
On display in the mirror frame what do I see?
A rather strong woman looks back at me.
Beauty is timeless. Experience the true measure.
Memories and a life well lived is rich treasure.
36
Sue Spiers
Four Ladies
At table four, watched by a snail,
four ladies sat, all British pale.
In Spain they drank and bathed in sun.
It’s one for all and all for one.
Four ladies sat with dregs of wine
and smiled for José, ass divine
in tight black trousers, served the meal
and dodged the hands that tried to feel.
Away on fun, their bellies full,
four ladies laughed, out on the pull.
No kids, no spouse, no boss, no chores –
no doubt what God made ladies for.
A sisterhood for forty years,
four ladies hide their deepest fears;
one lady’s curse - to do good deeds,
denies her own for family needs;
one lady’s melancholy mood
suppresses angst with comfort food;
one lady has her breast cut off,
the cancer stems her partner’s love;
one lady mourns the son who died
and drinks away her loss, and pride.
Four ladies laughter heard no more;
no doubt what God made ladies for.
(From Photo, Barcelona, 2001).
37
- Andrew W. Pye.
Strange Jukebox
The staffroom has, along one wall;
a locker line that's six feet tall.
These lockers, grey, stand side-by-side.
They're built of steel and one foot wide.
While workers work in worker zones
these lockers hold their mobile phones.
These phones thus ring, these mobiles chime,
from coming-in to clock-out time.
They cannot hear the ringing bells
of cell-phones locked in cell-phones' cells.
For eight hour shift, from nine to five,
these unheard phones both jump and jive.
The ring-tones ring behind the doors
from ceiling to the polished floor.
The cell-phone sounds of cell-phone calls
that echo round the staffroom walls.
A beep-beep here, a boop-boop there,
a tring-a-ling that's ev-ry where.
The numbers rung, the mobiles ring:
these bells of hell go ding-a-ling.
A locker rolls, shakes, rattles, rocks,
like atom-powered music box.
Like organ pipes, not round but square,
they scatter notes unto the air.
The lockers play the themes from Bond;
Star Wars - and Trek - On Golden Pond.
The twelve-inch widths of six foot doors
unleash the Dead, the Damned, the Doors.
They're like a wall of Marshall amps
that play the Kinks, the Clash, the Cramps.
But no-one hears these mobile phones
while workers work in worker zones.
38
Mark Bones
Boustrophedon (for Hilary’s underestimated imagination)
Well now, there’s a word !
Imagine it. Your oxen turning
as they reach the headland
of a sun-bleached margin,
heaving themselves around
to carry their furrow back
the way they have come, across
a page of sunbleached land
above an islanded sea, then
back the way they have come,
again and then again, and on,
and on, through time.
Or oxgangs turning the heavy
Anglian ridges over and over,
followed by the cries of gulls
from a far-off whale’s way, until
they mark the acres as deeply
as the titles on beechwood,
that have also named the book
of the page of our time.
39
Or perhaps still further afield ?
Imagine these : your ideograms
on the march both up and down
a middle kingdom, threatened
by herders of buffaloes and yaks
and that awful otherness, beyond
the great walls of the margins of
your ricepaper scroll.
Or the outstretched skins of lambs
adorned with poems, hung upside
down so heaven can easily savour
the yearnings in charcoal and ash
that call to the eyes of a wistful
lover, from campfires long since
hidden by the page of the desert ?
Or the folded sheet in a bottle, cast
on the shifting page of the ocean,
for someone, somewhere and why not
you, to open ?
Or a digital message sent through space,
in the burning hope of greeting …
the truly un-imaginable …
for the turning page is never,
merely, the page ?
40
Hilary Mellon
When Day Comes In
When day comes in
she screws up the sky
like grey tissue paper
then spreads it – stretched thin as a drum skin
and ties it to the four
corners of the morning
leaving just
a few
small
gaps
for the light to seep through
Then
slowly
still brittle with sleep
her legs scratched by unheeded points of stars
and knees bleeding – she clambers down
unwashed and almost sluttish with her bright hair tousled
but so beautiful in those new red shoes
kicking through night’s foul jetsam
striding over the old railway bridge
and on down the Southwell Road
41
Phil Craddock
A Lie
Do not ask.
I cannot tell a lie in the sunshine of day
nor in the indigo clear of night.
But in a storm, a downpour, fog
even a silvery morning mist
I can move a mountain of truth.
42
Denis Ahern
St. Patrick’s Day Last
November and it’s high time I phoned,
a call to Cork, the last remaining ones,
cousins, although they’re never at home,
away in Dublin, busy, getting on.
It’s always their mother, widow of an uncle
- is that an aunt? – but she’s the best one
for the news, asking, no matter how long
since I left, when am I coming home.
Surviving her generation by decades,
she always knows who’s doing what,
sympathetic with unhappy events,
interested, curious, glad to hear from me.
This time it’s a man’s voice, Cork accent,
the cousin, the one I usually hope to get.
Exchange of pleasantries, ages since I called,
all’s well here, oh, the state of the economy.
Then, later than is proper, I ask after his mother.
‘She passed away St. Patrick’s Day last.’
43
Rosa Thomas
Echo
I saw him standing at the water's brink
and I loved him - - loved him - - loved him. As he
stooped as though to take a drink
I called him - - called him - - called him. He
would not turn to look at me
though I waited - - waited - - waited.
For his own was the form he desired to see.
All day, he gazed in the limpid pool
while I loved him - - loved him - - loved him. The
moon came up, and I, love's fool
called him - - called him - - called him. In her
pallid light, he stood there still, and I waited -
- waited - - waited
till bright Aurora stepped over the hill.
Seven days and nights went by in a dream as I
waited - - waited - -waited.
I saw him change as he gazed in the stream and I
called him - - called him - - called him;
his feet turned to roots and his limbs grew green.
The fairest flower that ever was seen,
still I loved him - - loved him - - loved him.
My beauty dimmed as I waited there and my
flesh dissolved with longing. Nothing is left
but voice, love and air and I call him - - call
him - - call him from every cliff and hollow,
"Oh, lift your feet from out the mud and
follow - - follow - - follow."
44
Jenny Hamlett
Our Lady of Loneliness
Sometimes you'll find her
in the empty places,
a spirit in a green silk dress
gliding above bog myrtle;
her face see-through
less solid than glass,
thin bare arms,
fingers tapering to mist.
She's waiting
beyond the last house.
Her smile flickers,
an aspen in a breeze.
She edges closer as you pause
where a signpost fallen
or the path is indistinct.
At other times she'll draw you
towards city lights
slipping through crowds
where you know no one
and no-one smiles.
She's at your elbow
as you stare
into the bright windows of shut shops.
45
She's beautiful
as glittering Christmas lights.
Don't touch her.
She's the beggar's friend
as he hugs his knees for warmth.
Others turn aside but she will hold him
until he becomes
a sculpture of ice.
��
Stacey Lane
A Sunny Day
Sunlight overlays the air like syrup,
seeps into the ground
to rise again in sap for
bursting leaves and blossoms.
Bees harvest its golden granary.
Jack is abroad.
Nodding bluebells,
and the old cherry tree glow
in Technicolor vibrancy.
My skin and soul warm
after winter’s monochrome.
I am at peace.
46
K.J. Barrett
Harris Hawk
Hamilton Wood
It was nearing dusk
And in the stillness
A hawk rose from a gloved hand
Into the thinness.
Wood smoke tangled with confusion,
The nerves high strung
Sense the intruder beneath the oak.
The whistle travels on the wind, wings unfurl,
The woods empty of light
Pass beneath wing tips
The stranger fades into memory
His arm extends like a friend.
47
Bronwen Vizard
Song of Gaea
Motherhood is no easy task
No-one could disagree with me
when I claim patience. You’ve seen me
stoical in the face of disruption,
ignoring spats and scratches,
impervious to misbehaviour.
They try this, try that, never satisfied,
altering this, altering that, ignoring
good teachers who try to help me.
I have been too lenient, too giving.
For millennia I tried to get it right.
Today I can give no more.
Across the cosmos the grapevine of stars
whispers urgently. They’ll not survive.
Have another go. Try again.
It saddens me.
Motherhood is no easy task.
48
Adrian Green
The Meads
It was the start of love,
or at least awareness of lust
in that meadow by the lock –
the way your image stayed
imprinted in the sunlight
as you rested on the lock-gate arm,
and the only sounds were birdsong,
a trickle of water through the gate,
and children’s laughter
in the distant afternoon –
nothing would be the same
after the millstream sluices opened.
49
Katherine Rawlings
Familiar
I tread lightly in her sleep
I follow her waking hours
In her dreams
At her lips
Under her fingers
She who has given me birth
To climb and descend
The tonic sol-fa
With arpeggios and trills
The eddies on a stream of consciousness
Day and night
My sweetness a whistling
Whisper from her
To all who hear me
With her breath
I have a life of my own
The sharps and flats
Majors and minors
Her gift to me
The wind in my wood
50
Ron Dodge
It’s how you tell them
I’ve been to the opticians and I see
so much more clearly – much much more.
But when I think of it, it’s not just what,
it’s how I look at things I saw before.
Golly, wow, amazing – OMG! It’s iconic, quintessentially.
I am beginning to form the view
As I escalate the stairs tonight
that I should go back to check whether
I am comprehending as I might.
It’s almost unique, well fairly unique. It was a big ask, but it’s gone viral. Now it’s iconic, quintessentially, And I’m ratcheting up the spiral.
Where are, indeed, the snows of yesteryear
And is there Salmond still for tea?
And still stands Scotland where it did?
And will things still be
as they were with you and me?
51
This is something else you guys – ballistic! It’s sooo last year. Cool! Like Yo! Holistic. They’re words to go and when they’re gone, they’re gone. This is just awesome, literally – a con. Iconic... Wow, amazing! Iconic… ��
Nina Mattar
Sunday 29th April
Dark clouds
cover the sky
wind blowing
trees waving
leaves shivering
flowers wafting
shrubs sighing
rain heavily dropping
Oh the pain the pain
of the wind and rain.
52
Dave Etchell
LXI
A perfect summer, sadly, now is dying,
Its shroud of mists and shadows veils the trees,
In autumn’s arms fond memories are lying
Of sun-kissed glory, gathered like the sheaves.
Wild gold has vanished from the sheltered valley,
Sparse ranks of stubble march across the field;
Leaves grow yellow, failing, yet they dally,
Life’s dregs are sweet beside those death might yield.
Reluctantly, we too must soon relinquish
Those heights we scaled when in our godlike prime,
Nights grow longer, soon lost years will vanquish
All hope, all love, all reason for all time.
Fate alone must know, yet gives no reason,
Why dark corruption ends perfection’s season.
53
Liz Rowlands
Raindance
Lightning flashdances across a darkened sky,
we count seconds like beats in a bar
until thunder rumbas miles away.
Pedestrians quickstep along pavements
at the first heavy drops of rain.
Couples in parks huddle together
slowdancing under spread of trees.
Wind whips umbrellas
inside out, their owners
waltz around to revert them,
stepping backwards in the female role.
Wind spins them round again,
wrenching umbrellas to armslength,
so they proceed tango-style.
Shoppers caught unawares
shelter under awnings,
Charleston from doorways
when rain appears to ease,
thrusting a foot out
to withdraw it again
as the downfall persists.
Lightning and thunder,
wind and rain,
Cha cha cha!
54
Peter Godfrey
The Midnight Cat
He or She - our meetings are brief
And which the gender I do not know
But the choice I might make
Would stand in Book-makers words
As “Fifty-fifty”. It may be a Tom Cat
But it could be a Queen.
He - and this is my choice
Is small and as black as the hour
He visits me.
I am awake. The hour is small.
“Crunch. Crunch.” My visitor fodders
At the All Night Go-Cat Bar
Unhurriedly . One of my own cats growls
But takes no further action.
The melaniptic nightwalker
Is alert for any move this watcher
Might choose to make:
“Sorry Guv’! Can’t stop!”
If I touch the switch for light or
In the gloom, produce small sounds
Of movement.
Has he a home? All cats should.
Or is just an opportunist, All cats are.
Refuelled, this cat soft paws the stairs
To sometimes sleep upon my cushioned
Window ledge below where once we surprised
Each other when I came down for midnight fuel,
A cat of the night!
And perhaps in the nearby wood
A witch is scraping Alder bark
As she manufactures
A new broom stick.
55
Cate Cody
Bright Yellow Poncho
My gleaming sunbeam
In this misty, perpetual drizzle
My spark of summer
In the early autumn
My laughing canary,
Dazzling daffodil
Riding her bike snail-like
With rucksack house
Her golden ponytail
Swings and sways in the dusky light
As she rides away with a smile
As she rides away with a smile
Into the world on a bicycle
56
Kathryn Alderman
The Surface of Water
I re-visit the moment of our birth.
Quiet walled our world
from the clamour of your coming.
Too shot to sleep, we stared until
I held you at my breast and fell
into a well of dream water.
Were secrets shared
that deliquescent night,
ancestors’ wisdom
for your journey?
I never cared how this
would drown my thoughts
at our goodbye kiss.
You, dewy bright
at the brink of wider seas
I keep my silence.
A quark of fear smarts your gaze
that instant of becoming
your own woman,
beautiful, majestic.
Now my heart binds tight
as the surface of water,
refracting light,
so you can go and I can say
I’m happy for your freedom
mask my loss
as eddies in the flow.
57
Barrie Williams.
October
Long, long October! lengthening night
Delays the welcoming ray of dawn;
Each weary day the weakening light
Measures the Autumn tresses shorn.
It was only cunning human sleight
That stole the hour of Summer time;
But now the shortening days requite
A debt still owed from Spring's first prime.
November's knock shall echo soon
Opening with skeletonic key,
When ghosts beneath All Hallows' Moon
Shall for a season wander free.
Dame Nature now shall slumber take
To bring the infant year to birth:-
She shall at deepest winter wake
With life renewed to cheer the earth.
58
Index of Poets
Ahern, Denis..........................................................................................42
Alderman, Kathryn ..............................................................................56
Barrett, KJ............................................................................................46
Blaber, David............................................................................................7
Bones, Mark...........................................................................................38
Campbell, Al...........................................................................................34
Cody, Cate..............................................................................................55
Craddock, Phil ........................................................................................41
Cumbers, Barbara................................................................................27
Dodge, Ron .............................................................................................50
Etchell, Dave .........................................................................................52
Frederick, Christine ...........................................................................35
Godfrey, Peter .....................................................................................54
Green, Adrian........................................................................................48
Griffin, Ted............................................................................................31
Hamlett, Jenny.....................................................................................44
Harrison, Alice .....................................................................................30
Harvey, Helen ..........................................................................................8
Ibbotson, Lem.......................................................................................22
Jarvis Bryant, Susan ...........................................................................17
Lane, Stacey..........................................................................................45
Lindop, Jim .............................................................................................18
59
Lintern, Carol Ann................................................................................20
Macer-Wright, Matthew ................................................................... 16
Mattar, Nina.......................................................................................... 51
Mellon, Hilary ........................................................................................40
Paigankar, Kewal ...................................................................................28
Parsons, Madeline ................................................................................25
Phillips, Daphne.....................................................................................32
Pye, Andrew W .....................................................................................37
Rawlings, Katherine .............................................................................49
Rowlands, Liz .........................................................................................53
Scrase, Leslie........................................................................................ 10
Spiers, Sue.............................................................................................36
Stainer, Anthony.................................................................................. 12
Stamp, Julie .......................................................................................... 14
Starbuck, John.....................................................................................26
Stewart, Fiona ......................................................................................29
Walker, Heather ................................................................................... 11
Williams, Barrie....................................................................................57
Thomas, Rosa.........................................................................................43
Tromp, Onno .......................................................................................... 21
Vizard, Bronwen ...................................................................................47
Zavati, Mariana.....................................................................................24
