Comfort

The window-pane lens
focuses the sun’s winter
rays on one bright point.

Propped up in bed, with
the curtains open, I feel
my sore throat drenched in
the white-hot linctus.


4 February 2009


And another on the same day! Still not sure about the title, I considered: Heat, Warmth, Soothed, etc. I am also aware that one swallows linctus, so the effect is felt on the inside of one's throat: oh, well!

Thaw

The trees weep cold tears,
as the fluffy, white duvet
slides from their branches.


4 February 2009


The 4th of February was obviously an inspiring day! I seem to be writing a lot of poems with one-word titles at the moment...

Stain

A single, red rose
lies on the snow. Blood on a
clean, white handkerchief.


4 February 2009


This was something I saw during the big snows we had a few weeks ago. I've been very slow to put it up on the blog, as I've had rather a lot going on. As with so many of my "pavement poems", one is left wondering about the "back story": some tragic love affair, or just a florist dropping part of their delivery.

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...

Winter’s Trail

Gold chrysanthemums -
each one smaller than the last -
dropped at intervals
along the dark, wet pavement:
sunset on a winter’s day.


27 November 2008


A tanka, as I cldn't quite fit it into a haiku! Why do I find pavemnets such a source of inspiration? (I actually ought to count up how many poesm I've written about them!_

Munchausen Worries

My son had a temperature
of 102 for thirty-six hours.
He did not ask to play
on the PS3,
or to use the computer.
He was polite, and grateful
for everything I did for him.
Now he’s himself again,
I fight the unmotherly thoughts that
I look forward to his next illness.


25 November 2008


William got that terrible flu that has been going round. I've never known him so ill, but it did have its upside!