Category Archives: Poetry

A Poem a Day #5: On knowing nothing

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On knowing nothing
ipse se nihil scire id unum sciat – Cicero

And I said: nothing will come of nothing.
Then I tried to examine my life
through notebooks, pencil sketches, a drawing,
lines scribbled over. I’m supposed to strive
for high ideals. That poem on the wall,
that creased, yellowed, clichéd observation
half-way up the stairs: a beautiful world.
Stodgy stanzas and then the frustration:
not knowing any “proper” poetry.
Subsistence, to stumble on or to climb
down, or up, to the (multi)verse. Well, try,
be that poet in that tree, on a limb,
watch the day shed in leaves then shade to blue.
There’s still a lot of nothing left to know.

Poem a Day #4: Cut grass

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Cut grass

Close enough to wake the dead,
loud as the roadworks,
close buzzcut of grass.
Morning mowing in All Saints Park

and a memory of chlorophyll,
of a green Elsewhere,
when we, summerslow,
cycled to that meadow

balancing instruments
on handles and crossbars.
We piled down on unmown lawns
someone played Wish You Were Here

on a battered Spanish guitar.
The sweet hug of hash
tugged into the lungs,
you tried to dreadlock your thinning hair.

We were two lost souls,
not swimming but drowning
in the buttercups.
You cut your locks that autumn.

I’m less green than I was;
I’ve not seen you for years
you had, and have, a habit
of appearing in the mind.

**

In the library, glancing down
at the short back and sides
there are daffodils,
drooped heads as if in thought.

Poem a Day #3: This was the bank

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This was the bank

where once a line of green
would have edged the Mersey.
King Street, Victorian brick,
a wall with shabby fern,
Maidenhair spleenwort.
On the wall, bumblefoot,
a solitary pigeon with
one melted foot,
a last stand is stood on one scaled leg.
Thick paste of uric acid,
the pink wasted stump.
Eight black beaded eyes,
eight for a wish
or perhaps the bliss of a Columbidae snack.
Watched by the rest of the grey feathered flock,
siblings perched on the place
where you could do paintball,
pellets of colourful chroma
shot fast, nictitating membrane.
Gammy Leg’s primaries already dip-dyed red,
her head bobs, nods to passing cars.
If she could fly, her view
would take in M60 lines,
its odd seashore sound.
Beyond the business park,
over Brinksway,
then on to the Pyramid
all vitrified blue sand, sunglasses reflection.
Cooperative: a name, a navy point
that’s obscured by its own dark, corvid cloud.

Poem a Day #1: The April Fools’ Train to Manchester

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_20170401_210350The April Fools’ Train to Manchester

It’s in the pen in the fist
coiled up in a list
or the twist of a fern unfurling.

It’s the sun on the Lune,
an upsidedown moon,
we’ll soon be in Preston (gods willing).

Watch the canal ducks,
drop the bag full of books,
get funny looks off the guard.

With slight passenger freight
speed past Galgate
(with a weight off the mind and the heart).

Follow the silvery line
in the dimming sunshine,
time slow as the trees in the field.

From the fenced hill
see a derelict mill
train still as the points switch back.

With a jolt and a whack
two trains are attached,
between tracks there’s golden gorse.

At Preston it’s busy,
lasses Prosecco fizzy
all dizzy with swearing perfume.

It’s months from Whitsun
but they’re off for some fun,
get spun-out in Manchester.

And so we all flock
to that city of shock
pulling in to the dock of Piccadilly.

Fifth Birthday

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Traces and prints; sometimes I wonder if you were ever there.

Inky traces. Sometimes I wonder if you ever were.

Five years ago you were a stone
marbled grey, except your piggy pink toes,
cold to touch.

Seasons shift. Constellations are
the pour of cream in a dark whirlpool.

I brought you leaves every September,
and tucked them up in your unmarked grave,
then sat on that bench as drops of water
magnified red and gold veins.

A sudden shift in the scene; you’re there.
Not stone, nor bone,
the ink is the shadowbut there
black eyes reflect blue-grey.

I saw that you were now corvid,
with wings, with black feathers
all over your body.

You landed on my lap, I bounced you on my knees.
When it was over, you bowed your head.
Then I let you go.

Read & Feed: research meets real life

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Over August I’ve been involved in Smallbridge Library’s Read & Feed project. As it pertains to Rochdale there’s more about this on the Writing Rochdale blog. It’s not strictly PhD related – although I will be reflecting upon all work I’ve been doing over the last two and a bit years in the borough – I thought I’d mention it here too! It’s been an absolute privilege to share my practice and learn from the young people of Smallbridge.

First blog: reading, writing, social justice and sandwiches.owlSecond blog: Don’t call me Miss.

Dragon graphic novel

The final blog will up be after the celebration event on the 2nd Sept so keep an eye out!

Poetry process and progress

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Even when winter sadness nips, even when parents are ill, every day I remind myself how lucky I am to be doing what I’m doing. To be working with who I work with – genuinely fantastic, intelligent, fun, and intriguing people – and to be encouraged to write!

Today here’s a short blog post about process – my current “pencil only” notebook* is, as a friend put it, the “under the bonnet” bit of writing. (* I have different notebooks for different writing purposes!) Thanks to the University’s Poetry in Practice sessions, and a theme challenge from Dr Sam Illingworth, I’ve written a new poem – possibly not completely finished – in the form of a Ghazal (let’s call it a “sort of Ghazal“). I thought I’d share my writing process for it in order to demonstrate how a piece progresses. Have a peek under the bonnet!

First pass - spot the cheesy rhyming scheme, scribbling out, the terrible handwriting.


First pass – spot the cheesy rhyming scheme, scribbling out, the terrible handwriting.

 

Second attempt - hmm, still scribbles and changes being made but it's beginning to take shape.

Second attempt – Hmmm. Still scribbles and changes being made – but it’s beginning to take shape.

 

Third go - perhaps this is nearly it! The closest to the final thing...

Third go – perhaps this is nearly it! The closest to the final thing…

 

So, what’s your process?!

 

A liberated battery hen. Image from https://www.flickr.com/photos/72284410@N08/8567581815 (Creative Commons share license)

A liberated battery hen. Image from http://tiny.cc/freehen (Creative Commons share license)

Ghazal for the Battery Girls

No gilded life, still she tries to fly. Turn gold;

the sun is setting. Spark in her eye – turn gold.

 

Dusk is settling, her sisters: a feathered mass.

Hens compose a discordant cry. Turn gold.

 

The liberators  – silent shadows in black plumage –

snip razorwire in half-light, no one will die. Turn gold

 

when freedom is complete. Battery barn empty of promises.

Re-homed as sunrise paints the sky, return gold.

That Question

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red breeze in the leaves the annual musical

red breeze in the leaves the annual musical

When you ask that question:
a pause,
a nervous laugh,
the “no”
followed by
“yes, actually.”
The explanation,
a nervous laugh,
change the subject
like the leaves change
the yellow to red
caution to stop.

When the wind blows
the leaves fall
when the wind blows
everyone feels it
when the wind stops
only you do.

When you ask that question:
the crumpled paper feeling
behind the ribs.
It sounds
like leaves
beneath the feet;
seasonal gifts
on an unmarked grave.

When the wind blows
the leaves fall
when the wind blows
everyone feels it
when the wind stops
only you do.

Beats, blocks, and poetry

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This week my dad went into hospital once again. He was diagnosed with congestive heart failure in February 2010. Heart failure. Where that organ so attributed to romantic “whimsy” cannot cope with pumping the blood around the body as the vessels are weakened. My dad has been smoking for about half a century which has probably been the major contributor. On Wednesday he had a pacemaker put in – thank you National Health Service – and boasts about being “semi-bionic”. My dad has arrhythmia – where the regular dance of the heart is irregular leading to dizziness, the need for a rainbow’s worth of colourful pills. The pacemaker that he had put in on Wednesday means that this cocktail of drugs can be slimmed down, and that the device will “nudge” his heart into a more regular beat. He’s OK which is the important thing. For now.

This week, then, has been a bit of a write-off in terms of work; worry has lead to writer’s block. As an academic-in-training, there are large amounts of words to compose, papers to sculpt and script, a short film to edit. All are put to one side as the parent pops into the head…

So, not brilliant but that’s what urban nature is for – to help stomp out your feelings, to breathe the wind that slips through willow and silver birch. To walk off that grief. To share your tears with spring budding trees and the kingfisher that skims over a trolley dumped in the Mersey.

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A brief wander along a different route, followed by a coffee and writing session at Rhode Island Coffee. Forced to pick up a pencil and notebook in mental payment for this caffeinated treat. Using the prompt from NaPoWriMo day 16, this is a poem written in the form of a terzanelle – I’ve not written in this form before, it’s rather lovely to work with. (The poem isn’t one of my favourites that I’ve written, but hey, it’s an exercise!)

Insomniac Hours

Some things are better off said unsaid.
(I wish that I’d told you how much I loved you.)
Some things are better off left unsaid

or left in the head. I’m buried deep in blue,
there are oceans more shallow than this regret.
I wish that I’d told you how much I loved you.

Insomniac hours, eyes dried with sleep debt,
I lie on my back count the cars that drive past.
(There are oceans more shallow than this regret.)

Sleepless for decades? I wonder how long this will last.
The ceiling flickers with bright, coloured light,
I lie on my back count the cars that drive past.

The colours blend into a brilliant white,
I count the times that I’ve been tongue-tied.
The ceiling flickers with bright, coloured light.

I wish that I’d done more, I wish that I’d tried –
some things are better off left unsaid –
I count the times that I’ve been tongue-tied.
Some things are better off left unsaid.