|
|
Here are some
poems which I'm currently working on. Please do give me your
feedback. I'm just beginning to feel
my way into material for a third collection. Interiors are still influencing my poems
but I'm currently writing more about light and also the idea of visitation and vision, as in
the first poem which imagines what might have happened if Mary hadn't been in 'the right
place at the right time' for the Annunciation. The second poem grew out of an artists' residency which
I became involved in at the Museum of Domestic Design and Architecture based at the University of Middlesex.
The artists in question, Barbara Dean, Hilary Kneale and Anne Rapstoff, used the museum's collections to create art
and events around ideas of the domestic space, the results can be viewed on the
residency website. I took part in a workshop which involved participants bringing along
objects which had a story attached to them or some personal significance. This got me thinking about those items which
have lost their specific history: they may bear the marks of usage but how they were used and why they were
kept has not been recorded. I've always been attracted to Dutch still lives and the way they capture both a sense of history
and of timelessness. In this poem, 'After Life', I consider how the women who used these objects have also faded from
memory but how their lives continue as a kind of echo in the simple objects that formed part of their daily routine.
|
|
Among Women
This evening I came back home
and everything was just as I'd left it -
except the bowls gleamed with a new knowledge,
the cat wore her yellow gaze like a mask
and I sensed the house had been visited,
saw sun streaming in through the spare room window,
a square of gold on the empty floor:
the clock had lost a minute it never regained.
I was blessed with children anyway,
I shook my life out like a cloth,
yet I am different for not being chosen:
on summer mornings I slip into the garden
before the dew has lifted - I have the blue sky to myself,
a full moon melting like a wafer on the tongue.
|
|
|
After Life
As far back as great, great, great
names and faces
are scoured away
like plates scraped clean
of painted flowers
by daughters wanting more.
What remains
after voice and gesture are lost,
is less love,
than force of habit:
the angle of a peeler's
thinning blade,
its proverbial sharpness;
the battered wisdom of the pan
you boil the morning milk in,
its patina of burnt lace.
If only I could learn to be
this fit for purpose:
the passed-down smoothness,
of handled ash,
a daily-ness
like prayer or bread
and the mouth's need of them.
At this blue-glazed distance
even hunger
begins to be beautiful:
look at these spoons
I lay my kitchen table with,
their worn silver edges,
their bowls filled with light.
|
|
|
At the Falls Cafe
Think of me as the waitress
serving drinks at the Falls Caf,
who carries tumblers of iced water
on a tilting silver tray above her head
as she threads the crowds of tourists,
always watching over that solitary guest
who lets the skin grow on their coffee,
whose fingers shred white serviettes,
or circle the edge of their bitter cups,
whose gaze is lost in the rainbows and mist.
Think of my touch
as the hand laid softly on your shoulder
that returns you, blinking, back to earth,
to the unbroken rolls on your table,
this camera holding your face in the dark.
|
[top]
|