July 2020.
I've finally plucked up the courage to record myself reading some of my Ashdown poems on YouTube. Here they are in (almost) no particular order:
One of the Hindleap poems, along with a short (and stumbling) introduction to the collection.
Crossing the Pale, which is the first poem in the book and, because it swoops around the whole Forest, is also one of the longest.
Goat Cross, one of my poems about childhood.
The short-toed eagle bonanza that is Gills Lap.
A poem that came out of one of my Ashdown Poets' Walks, The Lancaster Room.
And finally, another childhood piece, Hindleap, Christmas Morning 1982.
Each recording shows one of Reem Acason's exquisite illustrations for the book.
Should you wish to read along... or even to read alone, here's the first Hindleap poem in the YouTube series:
Hindleap
Winter's thrown a grey net
over the day, it's caught
moss-felted trees, inevitable mud
and the rags of rooks' nests.
We used to come here all the time
when I was a kid. We had picnics
and spotted the place with dalmatians
who stole our sandwiches and rolled in fox.
Now the colours have faded.
Winter storms have spread branches.
The floor is a miniature forest: twigs
stick up and I'm a giant, squelching through.
I follow path rivers, down
till I reach the valley and the small stream
that's almost clear but orange-bottomed
chalybeate, like it's fed by rusty pipes.
I've no clue where I am (often the way:
I leave the car park, full of confidence
till I reach the place that asks
What if you never get back?).
I sit on the stream's side in cold
January leaves and write about loss.
Water flits beneath the bridge.
There's a sieve's worth of sunlight
and the trees are dripping, but
the path's turn is mine too - I've
a cold bottom and the birds know who I am:
I'm the mouth of the stream.
The stream stands up, climbs the hill.
22nd January
This poem can be found in Ashdown and an early draft of it first appeared in Agenda: New Generations.
The Daughters of Minyas
Weave these threads like vines, my loves.
Our hands, our fingers are so small
we could be birds, squealing,
sweeping high above our work.
We're black against the evening,
here in this house of dusk.
Weave, my loves.
Weave vines and emerald ivy leaves.
Weave purple grapes.
Weave them almost black,
so fat, so succulent they stain our skin.
The moon is flying.
She seems to chase the sun to bed.
We too are tireless, telling stories.
We spy each tale, listen for its pulse
and swoop to grab it in our tiny mouths, our teeth.
This poem can be found in Ovid's Echo.
Harvest
They've baled the hay in the meadow on the hill.
On Wednesday I noticed a tractor
kicking up a cloud.
There's a pigeon pulling at the elder's infant berries.
A second ago it flowered.
Now they're burgundy.
And every morning my feet and ankles ache
as if I'd spent the previous day
climbing ladders.
I tire easily, bruise easily, lose friends easily these days.
Like an old tractor though
I chug on.
I could lean a ladder horizontally from my window.
I could lift an aching foot
climb across
to the meadow, where everything since spring is rolled
into bales. They used to be
rectangular
we could sit on them. The round ones were exciting at first.
I hope I'm not a bad person -
friendships end -
but it isn't the things you expect to bite that really hurt
it's the ones that snap as quick
as time.
Once, I fell over while carrying a step-ladder, one rung
scythed my knee: a flap of skin opened, showed
bone beneath.
And August comes as quick as pulling hair out of my brush.
A tractor chugs along the lane.
I miss you.
This poem first appeared in One Hand Clapping.
I've finally plucked up the courage to record myself reading some of my Ashdown poems on YouTube. Here they are in (almost) no particular order:
One of the Hindleap poems, along with a short (and stumbling) introduction to the collection.
Crossing the Pale, which is the first poem in the book and, because it swoops around the whole Forest, is also one of the longest.
Goat Cross, one of my poems about childhood.
The short-toed eagle bonanza that is Gills Lap.
A poem that came out of one of my Ashdown Poets' Walks, The Lancaster Room.
And finally, another childhood piece, Hindleap, Christmas Morning 1982.
Each recording shows one of Reem Acason's exquisite illustrations for the book.
Should you wish to read along... or even to read alone, here's the first Hindleap poem in the YouTube series:
Hindleap
Winter's thrown a grey net
over the day, it's caught
moss-felted trees, inevitable mud
and the rags of rooks' nests.
We used to come here all the time
when I was a kid. We had picnics
and spotted the place with dalmatians
who stole our sandwiches and rolled in fox.
Now the colours have faded.
Winter storms have spread branches.
The floor is a miniature forest: twigs
stick up and I'm a giant, squelching through.
I follow path rivers, down
till I reach the valley and the small stream
that's almost clear but orange-bottomed
chalybeate, like it's fed by rusty pipes.
I've no clue where I am (often the way:
I leave the car park, full of confidence
till I reach the place that asks
What if you never get back?).
I sit on the stream's side in cold
January leaves and write about loss.
Water flits beneath the bridge.
There's a sieve's worth of sunlight
and the trees are dripping, but
the path's turn is mine too - I've
a cold bottom and the birds know who I am:
I'm the mouth of the stream.
The stream stands up, climbs the hill.
22nd January
This poem can be found in Ashdown and an early draft of it first appeared in Agenda: New Generations.
The Daughters of Minyas
Weave these threads like vines, my loves.
Our hands, our fingers are so small
we could be birds, squealing,
sweeping high above our work.
We're black against the evening,
here in this house of dusk.
Weave, my loves.
Weave vines and emerald ivy leaves.
Weave purple grapes.
Weave them almost black,
so fat, so succulent they stain our skin.
The moon is flying.
She seems to chase the sun to bed.
We too are tireless, telling stories.
We spy each tale, listen for its pulse
and swoop to grab it in our tiny mouths, our teeth.
This poem can be found in Ovid's Echo.
Harvest
They've baled the hay in the meadow on the hill.
On Wednesday I noticed a tractor
kicking up a cloud.
There's a pigeon pulling at the elder's infant berries.
A second ago it flowered.
Now they're burgundy.
And every morning my feet and ankles ache
as if I'd spent the previous day
climbing ladders.
I tire easily, bruise easily, lose friends easily these days.
Like an old tractor though
I chug on.
I could lean a ladder horizontally from my window.
I could lift an aching foot
climb across
to the meadow, where everything since spring is rolled
into bales. They used to be
rectangular
we could sit on them. The round ones were exciting at first.
I hope I'm not a bad person -
friendships end -
but it isn't the things you expect to bite that really hurt
it's the ones that snap as quick
as time.
Once, I fell over while carrying a step-ladder, one rung
scythed my knee: a flap of skin opened, showed
bone beneath.
And August comes as quick as pulling hair out of my brush.
A tractor chugs along the lane.
I miss you.
This poem first appeared in One Hand Clapping.