Crossing Over

The child minder crosses
at the lights with a push-chair
and a little girl
in a pink, woolly hat.

The little girl is skipping.

I have never seen
an adult skip. When do we
forget the steps to
The Dance of Lambs in Spring?


16 January 2009


I'm not sure I've achieved what I wanted to with this poem, but I was struck by the two thoughts that stopping skipping is definitely a sign of crossing from childhood into adulthood, so it was ironic I saw this when the child was crossing the road; and that it's as if growing up involves forgetting something beautiful, like a dance (and skipping is, of course, sort of dance-like...) Hints of "A Dance to the Music of Time" as well, I suppose...

Vicarious

Half my life ago,
I lay with another black
cat with swelling sides,
waiting for her babies. Now,
my womb howls for each child who
drowned in its warm, red darkness.


10 January 2009



I wrote the poem below, about my pregnant, black cat Grizzabella, on 14 August 1983, which is actually pretty close to 25 years ago, though I didn't know that, until I checked the old poem...

Mother-to-Be

She is unsure of her ballooning body…
Sometimes, she mistimes her jumps,
And has to claw her way to safety.
Sometimes, she lies in the garden,
Smugly spreading her stomach to the sun,
Her swollen teats, two rows of white-iced cupcakes,
Topped with sugary-pink jelly tots.

Tonight, she sleeps on my stomach,
And I stroke the dark and velvet fur,
Feeling the tiny lumps
Writhe under my fingertips.

I wrap her whole body
In my flesh, and whisper –
My babies,
My babies.


Since then, I have had William, Alice's still birth, and all the miscarriages, plus I am too old for children now, so the contrast seems particularly painful. I fiddled with it for ages, and am still not sure I have the best version. Not at all sure about the title either: oh, well...