Poems

 In 2021 the Tiny Seed Journal published one of her lockdown poems, A Lament for Blackthorn Blossom .

A Lament for Blackthorn Blossom

Only last week, its froth framed
this Welsh lane with a wedding arch,
a pair of willow warbler, the happy couple.
Meanwhile the virus was in hideous rise,
morgues appeared on football fields;
my body urged – feast on trees.

I am unreasonably tearful at the brown.
Crab apples begin their opening dance –
a polka of dark pink buds.
Days later, the hawthorn steps up.
Nature opens me to how it is –
with its cascade of little deaths.

In 2020, her poem The Building on Stilts was published in BeWILDering, the book of poems that was part of her Brent2020 project with the Willesden Junction Poets. It’s about the mystery building on the left as you enter the station from the Harrow Rd.

The Building On Stilts

 With your knobbly steel joints,

you are an alien,

up in the air -

above the red brick transformer building,

below the derelict arts and crafts wonder,

near the Harrow Road exit.

You lurch forward,

past Nichola begging and lost in a book,

along the wire walkway from hell,

past piles of gritty ballast,

loomy grey towers nearby,

stop; stupefied by the wild cherry trees.

That creamy, ethereal blossom,

you breathe in their prunus perfume,

a bounty from the railway gods.

Your cladded upper body

is where water was once stored,

before becoming steam.

 In 2019, The Tarn was published in Wild Land, the book of poems and paintings that she created with her partner, Asanga. The tarn is in Ilkley where she went to school.

The Tarn 

Puddle one of The Stanza Stones is nearby.

The bench where Sarah first kissed Gregory,

now dedicated to a female sinologist.

My mum skated here, in her teens too.

Back in the homeland, old Olicanian girls,

we delve into our rich blur,

admire wood sorrel, wild garlic and gorse.

Mellow Yellow was playing during spin the bottle.

There have been other watery terrains,

antics with lovers in Port Antonio’s Blue Lagoon,

the eco-crafted swimming pool at Huzar Vadisi,

scrubby hills in Malaga after a too-early death.

The rain is making little ripples,

a red-beaked  moorhen has its own wash.

We argue about the name of trees,

it’s our code for coming home.

 Vase of Feathers is another poem from Wild Land. The feathers turn into a memoir.

Vase of Feathers

Ah, the giddy texture of partridge,

passed on from my grandfather’s collection,

gathered haphazardly in his Otley shed.

I put it to my cheek, test for time-travel,

recall the warmth of his gruff consonants.

The turquoise of this peacock eye,

temptress, fag-hag, Pre-Raphaelite trumpery

tricked out the ornate headdress for my sixtieth,

declaration of age war in Norfolk,

feathers as frivolous armour.

Dyed candy pink, the monumental ostrich plume

is a burlesque star lent to dear friends.

Sarang wore it with crazy aplomb

one Field of Love cabaret night,

Dorset gloaming gifted a wayward hue.

Near the back, lies the ragged crow quill

in all its black finery gone awry.

Found in the faery dell on the Gaeth,

I hesitated in fear of its potency,

unclear whether protector or portent.

 In 2017, her pamphlet Tantric Goddess came out on Eyewear. She was 64. The eponymous poem is about her relationship with her partner.

Tantric Goddess

 His question forms on the goodbye platform

                                                                at Bangor station,

after the speeding-through-Snowdonia-tomfoolery

had me locking down my mouth

into a prevention-of-swearing moue.

This was our first meeting

following the Path of Love Group Process.

He had been my ‘angel’,

I failed to notice his buff upper torso

or the layers of his embrace.

At his thick-walled house in its acres of wild,

our tears arrived at different times.

I lay my clothed body on his clothed body,

felt safe land not far away.

We talked at length about past sexual adventures,

decadent amuse-bouches for the other to savour.

As the train moves off, his lips begin.

 And another one is a homage to her masseuse, Jo-Anne Nighey who she’s been visiting for the past 20 years.

Massage Therapist as my Mother

Deep tissue is also a dive

into the messy substances

swelling through my cells.

I am naked beyond my skin.

She is petite yet sturdy

in her touch. Like a technician

of the sub-limb, she delves

into the emotional nuances

of existence. The fragility

of last night’s argument

surfaces in all its filthy turmoil.

She makes ‘Ah, Ah’ sounds,

presses into my upper dorsal.

The alchemy is in the relationship;

I trust as if her daughter.

She holds my foot with devotion,

I sink into melt up.