A pamphlet containing five of my poems from the first Covid-19 UK lockdown has been published in the ‘Unmasked Writings’ series by Egg Box Publishing of Norwich.
The experiences of those days seem quite distant now. Having WordPress and you, its lovely online readers and writers, was a central part of the experience and crucial to me being able to maintain perspective. The poems in the collection are hereby dedicated to each of you who has ever read, liked, or commented on my posts. Thank you for being out there.
Alongside a prose poem by André P Hughes, the five poems I wrote in this short collection, appear with beautiful Spanish translations by Aida López Milán. If you would like a copy, please order from Egg Box Publishing:
crossing road, stops, waits leave, or carry it over? hedgehog prickles sharp
n.b. It’s been some time since I have seen a hedgehog alive. Their natural defence is to stop, curl into a ballthen hold still until the perceived threat passes. They have yet to work out that this doesn’t work when approached by motor vehicles.
This beauty stopped right in the middle of the street as I was passing last evening, so I lifted it with barehands and placed it behind a low wall on some grass on the side it was heading.
A few moments later three police vehicles rolled by very slowly and quietly. They turned left and pulled up to make a raid. The hedgehog would have had no chance against that convoy.
Woman in Bath by woodworms after Picasso What next? Guernica?
n.b. It is thought possible (by some mathematicians) that given enough monkeys at keyboards, eventually one would type out the complete works of Shakespeare purely by chance. That woodworms have bored out Picasso style artwork, who would ever doubt the mathematicians and their monkeys, but who couldn’t give a monkeys?
would we make up
n.b. NaPoWriMo 2022 Day Twenty-eight prompt; Concrete poem. I have to admit to having had such thoughts lately. Day twenty-eight of NaPoWriMo 2022, but day Sixty Three in Ukraine.
unseasonable warmth petite clouds white buds pinned to infinite blue fine grass blades grass by the millpond prick my pale winter skin my flat weight crumples daisies in cool shade of the willow’s weeping
tumble of the waterwheel low hum of bumble bees
with eyes closed I see all the birds I hear from within this sonorous wall soft notes a woman’s song
so tired so tired so tired
my head so heavy it cannot turn my eyelids stuck down by pinks and blues my arms so heavy they will not move my legs feel bound they cannot run my voice clasped tight within my throat I hear her singing
she sings of lilac yet to bloom
she sings of lambs not yet sprung
she sings of hedgerows nestlings yet to fledge
she sings of the stream yet to flood
she sings of oak still to leaf
she sings of the summer yet to burn
she sings of two lovers yet to meet
she sings of harvest we’ve yet to reap
she sings of apples we’ll collect
she sings of mists that will rise from dew
she sings of the plough that will tear the earth
she sings of crows that will draw in the night
she sings of frost that will veil the soil
she sings of the fireplace as autumn leaves
so tired so tired so tired
slowly I wake remembering how far I must go before I finally reach my home
n.b. NaPoWriMo 2022Day Twenty-five prompt: write an aisling.