Elderflower Cordial: The Making Thereof

The visit to the garden of my son’s old school.
The borrowing of the janitor’s ladder.
The secateuring of the thirty fattest, whitest blossom heads.
The vigorous shaking to remove any insects
(never wash, but why not?).
The pouring of two kilos of caster sugar
into the huge, stainless-steel pan borrowed
(and never returned)
from my tolerant friend.
The dissolving of the sugar in one litre of boiling water.
The glutinous clearing of the liquid.
The drowning of each pale hemisphere.
The stirring in of the rind of two lemons
(must be unwaxed)
and seventy-five grams of citric acid powder,
especially ordered in by my obliging chemist
(not normally stocked, as drug dealers use it to cut cocaine).
The placing of derinded lemon slices
in an orderly and attractive pattern
on the pondy surface.
The covering of the pan
With a damp tea-towel.

The twenty-four hours living in an air-freshener advert.

The sieving of the scented mush
through the afore-mentioned tea-towel.
The decanting into boot-sale-bought bottles.
The sticking of pseudo-handwritten labels
(green ink, of course).
The presenting to friends.
The freezing in small containers.
The wishing I’d kept more for myself.

The thawing out in winter.
The sudden, swirling, time-travelling
back to early summer.

23 April 2008

Inspired by the fact that I am really looking forward to elderflowers blossoming again, as last May, I made elderflower cordial for the first time, and absolutely loved everything about it! This is SO not my usual style, that I'm astonished I wrote it! I think it may be something to do with the fact that I had my first East London Stanza meeting on Sunday? (When I joined The Poetry Society in January, I was disappointed to find there was no local group in my area, so volunteered to set it up...) Talking to other poets, and seeing what they'd written, might have opened me up to a different way of working.

They Said it would Snow

I slept at my friend's house
After a movie,
Too haunting,
Too haunted,
For me to be
Old-house-alone.

With my pillow against
The window wall,
I lie and look up
Through the two-inch, curtain crack,
To see black flecks
Falling from the white sky.

I do not lift my head
To peer at the garden,
For fear
It will be perfectly preserved,
Under archaeological layers
Of ash.

6 April 2008

Another poem that's not in my usual style! I wrote the first draft of this yesterday, whilst staying at Bridget's, having seen "The Orphanage" the night before. I originally called it "April Snow", and had the current title as the first line. I'm still wondering whether the last few lines shld be changed, so the "ash" is "archaeological" rather than the "layers" (and, of course, the "perfectly preserved" is a deliberate cliché.) I am also not sure if, in my attempts to avoid actually mentioning Pompeii directly, I've made it such a subtle reference, that it can be missed altogether?

Anniversary: 1

We did not know then,
That this was the last day of
Another life.

7 April 2008

I can't pretend that anything I write over the next few days is going to be any good, but you don't always write poetry to create a work of art...

British Summer Time

The gift of this slipped
Hour to me: The homeward walk
In drunken daylight.

30 March 2008


This is all linked to the Summer and Winter Solstice poems, I suppose, in that I cheer up on 21 December, and get depressed on 21 June, but putting the clocks forward is actually a tangible change...

Chiffon Knickers

I own just one pair
Of sexy knickers.
I wear them under
A clinging dress,
To avoid the rolling of fat
Over elastic waist bands,
Because they rest on my flesh,
And don't dig in.

But I also know
All day, that they are there,
And await their discovery
By the ambulance men,
After the bus accident of legend,
Our mothers always warned us about.

3 March 2008

I forgot to say earlier, that this was one I wrote"on the spot" during one of my creative writing workshops with Paula. We chose the theme of clothes. Not my usual style at all! I'm still debating whether I shld have "skin" at the end of the 7th line. It rhymes with the "in" in the next line, but "flesh" assonnates (is that the verb?!) with "rest". Strangely, Paula's poem was much more in my usual style!

Victor/Conqueror/Might is Right [work in progress]

The roof is decorated/fringed
With pigeons - evenly spaced like gargoyles
On a Gothic cathedral.

The white pigeon
Works his way [sidles/shuffles] along the ridge pole,
Forcing/skittling his grey companions [out of his way]
Onto the lower slopes/tiles,
Until he is at the far end,
Alone.


2 March 2008

This obviously still needs a lot of work, but I thought it might be interesting for people (if anyone reads this!) to see how I work... I did consider "Apartheid" as a title, but thought it was too unsubtle?

Corrida

The pigeon flock takes flight:
The snapping swirl
Of the toreador's cloak,
In a grainy, black-and-white,
Spanish documentary.

1 March 2008


Yet another of my pigeon poems! When will this obsession end?! Don't really like the title, but am yet to think of a better one.