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.
Fading House
It was the one in the distance, the one turning
from green to blue, the one not quite catching
the light, like a surface that had lost its polish.
I remember thinking it was like a reed
or like a bird on a reed or like a pool
or like the air above a pool, reflected.
I don't know if those wooden steps were there
or those curtains with their pattern
of bulrushes, or the kingfishers on the paper.
It could have been a distant ship
or a heron, turning from a reed
into a bird with a bend of its neck
in the water-meadow, where the stream
once curled against the field, beside
the willows. It could have been a boat run dry.
This poem was first published in Poetry Wales.
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.
Fading House
It was the one in the distance, the one turning
from green to blue, the one not quite catching
the light, like a surface that had lost its polish.
I remember thinking it was like a reed
or like a bird on a reed or like a pool
or like the air above a pool, reflected.
I don't know if those wooden steps were there
or those curtains with their pattern
of bulrushes, or the kingfishers on the paper.
It could have been a distant ship
or a heron, turning from a reed
into a bird with a bend of its neck
in the water-meadow, where the stream
once curled against the field, beside
the willows. It could have been a boat run dry.
This poem was first published in Poetry Wales.