James Brookes’ Sins of the Leopard

 
 
 
James Brookes was born in 1986 and grew up in rural Sussex, a few minutes’ walk from Shelley’s boyhood home of Field Place. In 1999 he won the top academic scholarship to Cranleigh School in Surrey, going from there to read English & Creative Writing at Warwick University, where he was senior student editor of the Warwick Review, and to postgraduate study at the College of Law. He received a major Eric Gregory Award from the Society of Authors in 2009 and his pamphlet The English Sweats was published by Pighog Press in the same year. His work has appeared in a wide variety of places including Poetry Review, The Rialto, Horizon Review, The White Review, The Wolf, the Swedish journal Signum and on a church pew in Taunton, Somerset. He has been invited to read at the Cuisle Festival in Limerick and the Poetry Hearings Festival in Berlin, as well as the Shakespeare Festival in Stratford and the Ledbury Poetry Festival. In 2011 he was awarded a Hawthornden International Writer’s Fellowship. He has returned to Cranleigh, where he is currently the Williams Librarian and also teaches English and History. He lives there with his fiancée, the poet and critic Charlotte Newman.
 
 
 
 
 
 
“This remarkable debut sees tales of treachery, guilt and love play out against the whole canvas of history. Empires rise and fall; the beasts of Britain stalk from the age of Rome to the new age of austerity; heroes and villains take their stands on the Sussex Downs and on the Pennines, from the Death Star to Dancing on Ice. A courageous study of the violence and beauty of belonging, this book also celebrates what really endures: the lure of power, the pain of betrayal, the solace of family and home. Vividly imagined and critically acclaimed, this is poetry for now and for years to come.”
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
“James Brookes writes a wonderfully rich and achieved poetry which reminds me of our very best practitioners such as Geoffrey Hill and David Harsent. His profound knowledge of the resources of English history and its protean language does not, however, mean he works with a restricted scope; it is a grounding for his investigation of the world’s strange treasurehouse conducted with such a challenging and imaginative musical power it is hard to believe that Sins of the Leopard is his first full collection.”

– Ian Duhig
 
 
 
“James Brookes, a recent Gregory Award winner, gets graphically muscular purchase on the bloody business of English history in his impressive debut … In Brookes’s hands, “Britain is real again”, suddenly lit up by the fierce glint of a scouring intelligence, brought grippingly alive in a language that combines Anglo-Saxon clout with Latinate gravitas. This is in every sense a generous book from a generously gifted young poet.”

– Andrew McCulloch, TLS
 
 
 
“The weight of each line here, each clause and syllable, is perfectly judged. That phrase ‘dirigible angel’ is a mark of Brookes’ talent – it is at once lyrical, sonically logical and completely surprising. There is a strictness too, strongly evoking the poetry of Geoffrey Hill, as well as a playfulness more reminiscent of Paul Muldoon at his riddling best.”

– Tom Chivers, Hand + Star Review
 
 
 
“For its energy of expression, fearlessness and sheer verbal beauty, Sins of the Leopard is a magnificent debut.”

– David Morley
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Concerning Plunder
 
 
On your coccyx, a gold contusion
holds the sinews, ropebraid tarred
to the treasure ship of
your listing body.

I hurry to kiss it,
with the old piracy
woven into us
before torques ravelled.

My not-ancestors, the White Rajahs
gave Sarawak a gold fielded ensign;
but it never turned
to an honest Gibraltar.

I plant my kisses
above your arse,
the crack of your
terra nullius.

I’ve seen the blueprint of the slave ship Brookes,
the cargo in its wooden gut
is at least in part
my inheritance.

And this house that holds
seven tenths of my life
could never own me,
though the hold stays tight.

My roving dog
with a stick in his mouth
loosed on the fields
forgives my horror

that the branch in his maw
like a spar or a mast
is the still fur-clad
foreleg of a deer,

a leg that once sailed
in a whole perfect craft
never threatening to spill
its slight ingots of bone.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Portents
 
cui candor morte redemptus

                    caption to Henry Peacham’s Emblem 75
 
 
The week stoat turned to ermine,
it entered our houses:
this wasting illness.

Too proud from the offing
we went by the old signs:
civet and leeches,

phrenology, dowsing.
The fever still came on:
it broke our houses;

we were a client kingdom.
We turned at bay then:
we wove isti mirant.

Who now is our vicegerent?
we ask, half-despairing,
clinging to relics

precision-tooled, imported
from Arimathea,
things snuck through customs:

the twice-flowering hawthorn
and a bowl for bleeding:
a needful foreign

body, a fleam, a lancet,
the spear of Longinus.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Eric Gill between Wisdom and Gaiety
 
 
Listen, between you and me, between
ourselves, be we shamefaced, be we seraphs
hearing celestial music or piping to the children,
be we the discretion of our souls’ flared serifs
or the broadcasting house of our bodies stripped, sans
pretence of innocence, be we outlaw or sheriff,
yes we’re the madness fingered by Montaigne,
the God-botherers and dog-botherers of all life,
our areolae roughened to bark & forgotten
with the spume & the salt-wind between our teeth,
and listen I’m sorry I can’t be more sorry than
this: joyously knowing each other, no buts, no ifs,
OBSCULTA•O•FILLII we make good when we are forsaken.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Ordeal by Fire, By Water
 
          i.m. Ambulance Driver Slater
 
 
War-time dark. Hedgerows by slatted headlights.
Your ambulance convoy negotiating B roads.
And one of the two in the back is a burns case,
the worst kind, will not quiet. The other, you’d have him up
     with you for his eyes alone  –
               but his breath clouds the windscreen.

You’ve missed out on France: were ice-skating
on the billet’s pond, fell through the thin roof
into that unreal house of darkness beamed
by frozen branches, skirt billowing just
as it did when you, a child, caught
                         a loose coal from the grating.

Water the most dark, blacker still than water
at Balham tube when you were first on scene.
The silence as it was then, with the limbs.
Somehow, hands pulled you out. Into the night
you went dancing, like this patient
               who quick-stepped with a squadron’s

petrol ration. Each moment’s a test
or gift. Now the van stalls. Now ignition.
Now ice shudders from the upright exhaust.
 
 
 
 
from Sins of the Leopard (Salt Publishing, 2012).

Order Sins of the Leopard.
 
 
 
*

Kirsten Irving’s Never Never Never Come Back

 
 
 
Kirsten Irving was born in Lincolnshire, lives and works in London and is one half of the team behind cult handmade magazine Fuselit and collaborative poetry press Sidekick Books. She won the Live Canon International Prize in 2011. In 2010 she co-authored the concept pamphlet No, Robot, No! and her pamphlet, What To Do, was released in 2011 by Happenstance.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
“Don’t go over the hill, or look too long into the well, or go carousing with strangers, or you’ll never never never come back. With the haunting quality of nursery rhymes but the complexity of a dark and smoky wine, these poems brood on absence and abandonment, outcasts and anomalies, monstrosity and mistakes.
 
 
At the heart of the collection are a suite of tightly focused, often impressionistic character studies ranging from cannibals to schoolgirls, but Irving also finds space in the shadows for desperate love songs to pilots and robots, satiric odes to tyrants and deft engagements with popular and literary culture. Whether turning the features of a pinball table into an emotional debris field or recounting unnerving sexual encounters, these are rich and rangy poems of a defiantly unusual character that linger in the mind as much for their controlled dissoncances as their uncompromising subject matter.”
 
 
 

 
 
 
“Irving takes the familiar and introduces a rogue transformative element. These poems look you in the eye and won’t look away before you do.”

– Chris Emslie, Sabotage
 
 
 
“Lean, needle-sharp, questing, intelligent and tuned to human vulnerability. She can strip sexual longing down to its exposed nerves.”

– D.A. Prince, Sphinx
 
 
 
“She takes a surreal situation and uses it as a vehicle for exploring the ’embarrassment’ of adolescence and difference.”

Hypocrite Lecteur
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Hotel Midgard
 
 
Sometimes you won’t see him for months
and then a two day booking. He is either
shy, famous or masking an affair,
because the register is a devil’s own mess:

Spearman, Bear, Boomer
Frenzy, Hang-Jaw, Blusterer
Snatch, Horse-Wolf, Dangler
Eagle-Head, Truth, Shield Shaker

Some visits he strides into the lobby
full of piss and vinegar, yodelling.
Then there’s his spy mood:
quieter, eyes bright, nose in a paper.

On occasion he sends his secretary
to bagsy the room in his absence.
There are days when he turns up
soaked in sea water, incoherent.

You smell girl or dog. You think
he is ill, or that the eyepatch
is medical. On his next arrival
he whips it off as shed costume.

He laughs off the ruffled hair,
the occasional mark on his tie,
the torn, dragged fur coat that follows him
up the paisley stairs.

Hurt, the chef asks why he never eats in.
You say it doesn’t matter; he pays
enough that he can eat the rose bushes
should he wish to.

He blinks at each new Saturday girl
like a robin at a strawberry.
Later that evening, he’ll slump in
worse than drunk, limping,

demanding the master key
through a fat lip, in the greyscale voice
he’d use to announce his betrothal
or a snake tensing in his shoe.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Karaoke Man
 
 
He says he hires or bought the gear;
the rest is a question of keeping
his mobile switched on for bookings,
maintaining
working jacks and a sense of humour.

Don’t believe him.
He has spent his strong-kneed years
watching the mist clear
with his teacher, stroking wet ears
at the base of a mountain

called Sir Mountain. Knotted
at the ankle in damson gi,
he sat out two, maybe three
of those years in the company
of one man. Year Four, he carted

a black baton across the Himalayas.
The ebony could not stray more
than two inches from his lips; nor
could the screeching bird, whose claws
tore his shoulder, be spared.

The initial tests: the vine tied
to the mock-mic, that must remain
unkinked at all times; days of rain
and the shifting of moraine;
the smile that must reside

in state, on the external wall
of a scream-Bastille, despite
banshees and the half-light
obscuring track numbers. The kite,
says Inoue-sensei, is small

by the standards of a tiger,
but the end-of-worlds test
to an unlucky worm. Just
as the holder of lists
can be the slave or the master,

and the torturer,
whose howls knife
your ear, may be dying himself
or struggling to life,
like a fly after winter.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
To a Thin Man
 
 
Tonight the stars are pumpkin hearts for you, Jack,
a zillion chipper candles for your cause, Jack.

Which ghoul are you tonight? The merry scarecrow,
parading into town to fierce applause, Jack?

Perhaps the headless Hessian, your skull
tossed gaily from atop your bone-sewn horse, Jack?

Those knitting needle limbs, your tailoring
the work of imp or jinkininki claws, Jack,

you spider through my nights. I wake at dawn
and pull myself together for my chores, Jack,

but fall into the gully of your grin,
so easily. The jolts the mind endures, Jack,

beat any voltage, any cut-and-shut
remodelling and any phantom force, Jack.

Love must not come from hearts, for, stitched up tight,
my chest holds nothing but a nest of gorse, Jack,

and, teal and bloodless as I am, I know
you’re a humbug-suited humbug, and I’m yours, Jack.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
To a Crashed Pilot
 
 
It’s dark and you cannot patch up the wing
that way. Don’t take off in this piss-abysmal light
or else you will come down a fifteenth time

and I can’t keep on fixing you this way
when I know, biting my fist, that the light
will find you chalked-out for the fifteenth time.

It’s a knock-out age. I was fifteen
when you told me you’d show me the light
and fifteen when you fell the first time.

Undaunted, you lick tape around your goggles.
The engine lies and lies that it’ll make you light
like dust. You’ve fifteen millet seeds of time

before the moon appears to laugh at you again.
She waits until you’ve given up on light
and taken off, then springs. You’ve cried out fifteen times

that she is a monster. So why do you chase her?
Grass does not bother growing in this spot. There’s light
but little hope that you’ll not fall a fifteenth time.

“I got it! The variables were off – it’s so simple!”
you cry. I turn on my flash light
and hunt bandages for the fifteenth time

then leave them on the rough spot of the lawn,
saying, “I almost wish you’d die.” He makes light
of it. “Fifteen? Surely not. Well this time, this time.”

Tonight I’ll make no supper for you to throw
back up from your bloodied heap. There’s a light
dancing by the gate. I’m fifteen again. It’s time.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Straight to you
 
 
Winter is always Nick Cave
baying that he’ll come running.

So what now for the skaters?
Bent and brittle as cold wax,
splayed in low-scoring positions
on the ice. A crooked ankle here,
a dislocated shoulder,
points
fluttering from their wounds.

Winterbucks will see no more revenue,
no more couples gawky with nerves,
clinging to the side, or to hips.
The daffodil tape yarned round the rink
does not flutter.

Backup and the splatter team are foxed,
and have crunched off to get cocoa
and talk picks and drills.

The crowd is dense and fierce.
The kids can’t stop staring,
as if someone might pick up the strings
any second, dance the sequinned bodies
back to life. Maybe force out
a jerky triple salchow, their blades
carving white trails
across the moth of blood.

Nick Cave, I see your scarp forehead dip,
your chickenbone finger
tap the contract.
The policy only covers
thunderbolts, sparks
and colliding chariots.

Hang it, come running anyway.
Damn you, yes. Through the streets
in your liquorice suit
like a howling tar baby
and find the man brushing glitter
from his red right hand.
 
 
 
 
from Never Never Never Come Back (Salt Publishing, 2012).

Order Never Never Never Come Back.

Visit Kirsten’s website.

Visit Sidekick Books.
 
 
 
*

Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot — Part Three: Six Poems

 
 
 
 
Commentators Chewing Meat
Kirsten Irving
 
 
The excitement here is one fat comet – do the crowd
want to praise him or eat him alive? I’m joking of
course; we all adore him like the sort of uncle who
cuffs you for low grades but still brings you sweets –
say, would you carve me another sliver? This chorizo
is heaven’s lace – and at last here he comes, in his
golden mortar, punting along with a sapphired pestle –
is that mink or ermine lying dead on his shoulders?
Are those real dragon’s teeth around his neck? –and
the roars are so loud now you’d think – you’d think
he’d steered his gondola into Moscow Zoo at feeding
time – speaking of which, one more tongue’s worth
couldn’t hurt – and has he gotten more muscular? His
upper body seems bolstered with clay beneath that
cloak; he’s practically a hunchback. But let’s not forget
what we’re here for: this isn’t Milan, Paris, London.
History! A two-thirds majority and a few royal nods
have cleared the weeds from a long-dead job role –
now guys, while I’m forking up another doily of pig, I
want you to think on this: can men become gods these
days? Did the window close with the last Roman
emperor? Who gets to decide, if not other gods, who
drift uselessly by like silent ships, fading into the fog?
And if a god can die, what use is he anyway? Oh look!
A scuffle! I do love scuffles!
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
The Eye of the Needle
Aoife Mannix
 
 
I bet when Jesus went into the temple
and started knocking over stalls,
there were those who said this is just
some punk from Bethlehem pulling a PR stunt,
and it’s disrespectful and it’s disgusting
and he needs to get what he deserves
so we’ll pin him to a cross and won’t consider
that two thousand years later his words will rise up
in a prayer that says Putin with your 22m roubles
worth of white gold watches, and your flotilla of yachts,
and your 20 palaces and your flying toilet
that cost 75,000 dollars, you with your Mercedes,
helicopters, villas, aeroplanes, swimming pools,
you are just an echo of that other Pilate dictator
who also thought he could cling to power
by torturing those that seemed weak
but knew the strength of turning the other cheek.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Free Pussy
Sophie Robinson
 
 
I’ve got the vagina your mother told you about
& it’s coming for you so watch out –

couplet vagina, hairy scruff, parkland
butchery waiting for your tender hand

descending. Happy vaginas on TV
open and close like poetry.

Sad vaginas on the streets stripped
of their rights, tight-lipped

& talkless in alleys always.
Awake & waiting, outer hallways

of a world full of those who know
it could be better & isn’t. Sad disco

where we can dance off our hurts
free pussy / lock hips / solidarity / stay alert.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Thirst
John Siddique
 
 
Imagine thirst without knowing water.
And you ask me what freedom means.
Imagine love without love.

Some things are unthinkable,
until one day the unthinkable is here.
Imagine thirst without knowing water.

Some things we assume just are as they are,
no action is taken to make or sustain them.
Imagine love without love.

It is fear that eats the heart: fear and
endless talk, and not risking a step.
Imagine thirst without knowing water.

Fold away your beautiful thoughts.
Talk away curiosity, chatter away truth.
Imagine love without love.

Imagine believing in the whispers,
the screams and the gossip. Dancing to a tune
with no song to sing inside you.
Imagine love without love.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Abridged and Complete Biography of Olympe de Gouges
Claire Trévien
 
 
You were born on a tongue of land
resting on a tit,
from which sprung willows that
made the slightest wind look like snow
no wonder you left
for the singeing gash of Paris where

they called you a he-woman at the slice
for daring to spunk for women’s rights. If

a woman can be brought to the scaffold,
you said, she should be allowed to fucking
shout! Thank fuck

you roar in the archives, slobbering over
the filing system! You’re an army of sixty kings
and no subject, you’re a butcher and his widow,
you’re every Mary I’ve watched
eat a tax collector for lunch
and still have room for a groom. Your plays
haven’t washed in two hundred years
and grow brown at the armpits. So what
if they stink and whistle at men in the street?
At least they don’t give a shit about our precious
feelings,

you’re a willow soaked in blood and set on fire
and when the wind gusts
you shit on it.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Our Glorious Leader Putin
Jack Underwood
 
 
Look! OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN has just shot a rare Siberian Tiger with a dart gun! Surely he is at one with/ connected to/ master of nature at its most fierce.

And look look! OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN has just spoken fluent goose to some rare migrating geese as he flies adjacently to them in a light aircraft, wearing a beak, leading them to safety, just as he metaphorically leads our nation with a cool, authoritative dignity.

Look now! OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN has just woken up and thumped out two hundred loaves of dough in a masculine and serious way, to be baked for the starving old people.

And look look! A crowd of beautiful women sing how they wish their boyfriends were as conscientious and as traditionally masculine as OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN as they shake their feminine behinds respectfully at his motorcade silly girls.

Ah wow look! OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN has been diving in the sea with his shirt off showcasing his masculine figure to his country and the World as he finds some ancient artefacts on the seabed again.

And bravo! OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN throws a lesser man in Judo!

Whoof! OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN rides a horse masterfully with his shirt off!

Listen! OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN is laughing at a joke, displaying to our country and the World that despite possessing a overall masculinity of impregnable steel, he is able to laugh at an authorised joke somebody has made in line with the concerns and beliefs of OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN.

And see OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN has just masturbated in the shower, in line with the recommendations of the Ministry of Healthcare of the Russian Federation. After all, he is nearly only a man, for which this is ordinary behaviour.

Observe now how OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN cleans his penis with a q-tip, so tidily and neatly, as if he were erasing a small secret from his past as a KGB hero/agent.

And now OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN is drinking a glass of his own delicious and superior vodka brand PUTINKA. Surely there is no other vodka brand currently available on the market that typifies the drinking requirements of an actual Russian man.

And imagine that as OUR GLORIOUS LEADER PUTIN swallows the cold-hot transparency of it, he opens his ears to himself and hears not one dissenting voice from within; thusly closing the wound of each of his thoughts with the same brute salve of his sure and right reflection.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
All profits from both the Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot e-book and print on demand copies will go to the Pussy Riot Legal fund and the English PEN Writers at Risk Programme.

Order Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot. Download the Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot e-book.

Visit English PEN’s website.

Visit English PEN’s Poems for Pussy Riot project page.

Read some of the Pussy Riot poems on English PEN’s website.

Visit EngPussyRiot’s live journal.
 
 
 
*

Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot — Part Two: Six Poems

 
  
 
 
A Mother Prays to Cipaltonal
Sirama Bajo
 
 
do not go out, daughter
they do not like your flesh, here

they seek to harm it, here
cover yourself, for you will be seen

do not go out, daughter, be still
you will not be sacrificed today

not in the darkness, never in the dark
for how will they see it?

daughter, your flesh has grown
how, so much of it, will we hide?

darkness’ shawl is not enough
daughter, your flesh is glowing in the dark

I will sing a very old song
thick like war, like grief

from our dead, this gift
a song to cover up the sun

birds will think it is always night
we will have the stars in cactus blooms

always safe your female flesh
which used to darkness, has begun to glow
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
‘Here, my love, listen.’
Karen Connelly
 
 
1.
 
Here, my love, listen.
The sculpted dish of the human ear
still fills with cries
from a road where the blood
stayed for many days.
The people come slowly out
of their hiding places to collect
the scarves, the purses,
the hand-painted signs,
so many voices broken away
from frozen-open mouths.
 
 
2.
 
Here where all the doors are closed
the woman turns herself
sideways to slide through the slit
of hope, the woman strips off
her shadow and stands perfectly
naked
before the crowd.
Then she begins to sing.
 
 
3.
 
Here where the spirit
becomes flesh and a million
dead sweat beside you,
the borders dissolve
with the bruised skin.
Here there is no separation.
Entering the new age
of murder,
you forsake
every weapon but the hand
thrashing a guitar.
And the voice, the unruly voice,
raising its riot
of song.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Perpetual
Sasha Dugdale
 
 
When all the passions are at last spent
They lead out the mother martyrs
Who honestly have the most to lose
Having regurgitated soul, heart and brains
At some earlier stage, having sent a pigeon-chested
Yellow parcel of skin forth into the dung.
They are more parts water than anyone else:
Tears rush to blur their eyes at the smells of
Jasmine, milk, meadowsweet, bread.
Every night they fight a constricting doubt
Winding itself about their neck, chewing, pawing
Severing important arteries and nervous structures:
Every night in their sleep they are closer to dying
Than the rest, because with one act they have become two
And they perceive their own death always from outside
As a halving, a terrible halving, with a sharpened sword.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
The Cage
Katy Evans-Bush
 
 
Inside it are the most beautiful animals of all.
The most dangerous animals.
The most vulnerable animals.
The ones with the most coloured plumage.
The ones with stripes.
The ones with the loudest songs.

Outside it are the ones who might be hurt.
Our eyes are burned by colour.
Our flesh is torn by claws.
Our ears are troubled by the untrammelled
cacophony of nature.
Our cameras –

In the dust of the enclosure, in the pen,
the caged cat paces, darkly miraculous
inside her suit of cat skin.
The squid-woman swims oblivious in light and water.
Behind the wall, the rhino nurses her infant,
innocent even of her horn.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Avoid Using the Word ‘Pussy’
Charlotte Geater
 
 
feminists it’s time to become angry
again! gingerbread women break your
fists when they say

the punk rock girl band / stop bitching
whose name we can’t say / i call them bitches
on morning television / because they are bitches

three strumpets who will / holy mary mother of god
be pardoned soon

the girls are sinners, they’ve made their
choice against christ & real madonna
what pussies, when riots?

but which of you weren’t always angry –
who listened / stop bitching
little heart elbow patches

are used only because
they’re hard to take seriously.
everyone can be pussy riot?

but why presume / stop bitching

but the struggle as its own apart
but the struggles together.

the trampled tents laughing
i hate i despise / the empty church
& do not respect

your festivals / what if we had two
hundred thousand years more of this

& if you are not angry from before
these times / what riots

will you have had enough / stop
will you stop? pussy like most slang terms
(see also: cunt) an endearing name

for a girl / do not endear
when riots are / which anger is this
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Pomegranates
Kiran Millwood Hargrave

 
for Lady Macbeth
 
 
I wish that children came
easy as a lie.

That blood came, dropped like
so many seeds

thoughtlessly.

It’s as if someone has
sewn me up.

So I took the handle of a knife
and split a slit.

Finally blood, for all the
months I missed.

Imagined a pomegranate
spilling red-bruised-black.

Imagined a girl her flesh
was blue and sad

imagined a boy his hair
was black like mine

imagined myself stretched
scream-open and alive.

It took five hours to
stitch me up.

They left my hands red
so as not to forget.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
All profits from both the Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot e-book and print on demand copies will go to the Pussy Riot Legal fund and the English PEN Writers at Risk Programme.

Order Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot.
 
Download the Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot e-book.
 
Visit English PEN’s website.

Visit English PEN’s Poems for Pussy Riot project page.

Read some of the Pussy Riot poems on English PEN’s website.

Visit EngPussyRiot’s live journal.
 
 
 
*

Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot — Part One: Editors’ Foreword and Introduction by George Szirtes

 
 
 
 
Contributors
are Sascha Aurora Akhtar, Sandra Alland, David Ashford, Tim Atkins, Andrew Bailey, Sirama Bajo, Richard Barrett, Susan Birchenough, Mark Burnhope, Wayne Burrows, David Caddy, John Calvert, Jen Campbell, Theodoros Chiotis, Karen Connelly, Jennifer Cooke, Rebecca Cremin & Ryan Ormonde, Sarah Crewe, Sarah Crewe & Jo Langton, Alison Croggon, Tim Dooley, Betty Doyle, Sasha Dugdale, Laurence Ebersole, Amy Etkins, Chris Emslie, John Ennis, Amy Evans, Gareth Evans, Katy Evans-Bush, SJ Fowler, Kit Fryatt, Lucy Furlong, Charlotte Geater, The Gingerbread Tree, Jay Griffiths, Hel Gurney, Kiran Millwood Hargrave, Steven Heighton, Sophie Herxheimer & Alison Winch, Sarah Hesketh, Jeff Hilson, Adam Horovitz, Ray Hsu, Peter Hughes, Philo Ikonya & Helmuth Niederle, Kirsten Irving, Genowefa Jakubowska-Fijalkowska, Maria Jastrzebska, Tom Jenks, Antony John, Phill Jupitus, Amy Key, John Kinsella, Melissa Lee-Houghton, Deborah Levy, Ira Lightman, Francesca Lisette, M Ly-Eliot, Alex MacDonald, Melissa Mack, Christodoulos Makris, Aoife Mannix, Barbara Marsh, Agnes Marton, Sophie Mayer, Sally McAlister, Michelle McGrane, Michael McKimm, Drew Milne, Helen Moore, AF Moritz, Barbara Norden, Redell Olsen, Sandeep Parmar, Anna Percy, Jody Porter, Frances Presley, Karen Press, Katy Price, Ana Pulteney, Chella Quint, Red of The Vaginellas, Selina Robertson, Sophie Robinson, Shelagh M Rowan-Legg, Fathieh Saudi, John Siddique, Adrian Slatcher, Daniel Sluman, Ali Smith, Barbara Smith, Tom Spencer, John Stone, Andrew Taylor, Philip Terry, Sarah Thomasin, Claire Trevien, George Ttoouli, Gareth Twose, Jack Underwood, Steve Waling, Tony Walsh, Michael Weller, Tim Wells, JT Welsch, Ginna Wilkerson, Alison Winch, Andrea Luka Zimmerman and Veronica Zundel.
 
 
 
Translators into Russian are Andrei Aliaksandru, Vladimir Andreev, Marina Brodskaya, Chicago Translation Workshop, Elena Edwards, Tatiana Filimonova, Sophie Gug, Mary Harrah, Masha Karp, Svitlana Kobets, Sergei Korenevskiy, Nokolai Kozin, Maria ozlovskaya, Dasha McLeish, Cat Paronjan, Tatiana Samsonova, Maria Shukurova, Dmitry Simanovsky, James Taylor, Jennifer Wilson and John Wright.
 
 
 
*
   
    
 
Editors’ Foreword
 
Red Letter Day: Poetry and Protest for Pussy Riot
 
  
Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot is a communion of the visual and lyrical; rhymed, satirical and experimental poetry in tribute to political prisoners of conscience, Maria Alyokhina, Yekaterina Samutsevich, and Nadezhda Tolokonnikova. It contains a cornucopia of approaches to freedom and to feminism, from opposing patriarchy to reclaiming pussy from a book of dirty words. It is an offertory for three women whose actions have woken up the need for change, in not just their own authoritarian state, but also in how we address gender politics and all forms of oppression in our own society. Featured poets include Alison Croggon, Amy Evans, Jeff Hilson, Tom Jenks, Amy Key, Agnes Marton, Michelle McGrane, Sophie Robinson, Andrew Taylor and 100 more.
 
 
Summing up the work of 110 poets in 110 words is never easy – especially when the poets in question have donated their work rapidly and generously. Our anthology, which includes nearly 100 poems written especially for the band, has come together in under three weeks. What started as a conversation among four friends on Facebook, sparked by a post from EngPussyRiot that provided instructions on how to send letters to the band, has become a transnational conversation of hundreds powered by social media but driven by the same community and generosity among writers that informed the foundation of English PEN, who have supported this project practically and imaginatively from the beginning.
 
 
Both the example set by Pussy Riot – fierce, feminist champions of freedom – and the example being made of them by the Russian judiciary has fired something in writers around the world. The band’s punk prayer uses language precisely and powerfully – and it’s inspired the poets who’ve contributed to do the same. They’ve taken risks in recognition of the real legal and physical dangers facing the Writers at Risk supported by PEN internationally.
 
 
We have been overwhelmed by the wit, passion, elegance and variety of the poetic protests we’ve received. Some are funny, like Phill Jupitus’ puntastic ‘Girl Banned’ and Sophie Herxeimer’s short and sharp ‘Trollops’ Cathedral’. Others are bold and angry, like Sophie Robinson’s vivid ‘Free Pussy’ and Tim Atkin’s extraordinary ‘I Love the Rich’, which adapts a poem by Maria Tsvetaeva. Many poets, including Sirama Bajo, Steve Waling, JT Welsch and Veronica Zundel, have responded to the band’s Punk Prayer with their own new invocations. Sasha Dugdale wrote from Russia, Sally McAlister from France, and John Kinsella from Australia. Philo Ikonya, International PEN member, has been reading his roll call of unriotous dictators at events in Norway.
 
 
The PEN blog, where around 45 of the poems have been posted, along with images of their poets in balaclavas, carried the message further than we could ever have imagined: offers of poems poured in, from poets such as seventeen year old activist Betty Doyle, and feminist performance poets Anna Percy, Ana Pulteney, Barbara Smith, and Sarah Thomasin – often with videos, such as Pulteney’s performance in her church in Totnes, Devon. Twenty-two poets who took part in SJ Fowler’s and Richard Barrett’s Poems for Pussy Riot in London and Manchester shared their poems.
 
 
The book, as you’ll see, even includes cut-out-and-wear poem-balaclava masks created by Mark Burnhope, and a stencil by Chella Quint so you can create your own Pussy Riot protest wherever you are. Please read, share, tweet, translate, remix, and keep our prayers for Pussy Riot’s freedom alive.
 
 
Mark Burnhope, Sarah Crewe and Sophie Mayer
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Introduction
by George Szirtes
 
 
An anthology of poems dedicated to a political purpose is not so much an anthology of poems as a political act in poetic form.
 
 
There is a long history of such anthologies including 100 Poems Against the War, edited by Todd Swift at the time of the Iraq War in 2003, and, about ten years before that, Klaonica: Poems for Bosnia, edited by Ken Smith and Judy Benson. The two were different in that 100 Poems was an act of protest about a war in which the UK and US were the initiators and actors, whereas the second was to raise money for victims of a war faced by others, the contributing poets being helpless observers. The poets in Klaonica were not taking the Serbian or Bosnian or, for that matter, the Croatian side, but donating work to relieve suffering, much as they might donate money.
 
 
There are many other causes in which poets might do the same – hospitals, libraries, celebrations, childhood and so forth – but from the political point of view 100 Poems and Klaonica represent the two main kinds.
 
 
Catechism
is of the second kind. It has been rapidly compiled by its editors to protest – from the outside, as it were – against the two-year sentence imposed on Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, Maria Alyokhina and Yekaterina Samutsevich, three members of a much larger (twelve to fifteen members) punk band known  as Pussy Riot, for staging a brief masked performance in the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in Moscow. The performance, by five members of the band was quickly put up on YouTube and within eleven days, two of the band, Tolokonnikova and Alyokhina, were under arrest. Thirteen days later Samutsevich was also arrested. The two remaining members of the performing band have, it is presumed, gone abroad to avoid arrest. The song the band was singing at the time was a raucous prayer asking the Mother of God to chase away President Putin. The two-year sentence is due to be appealed on 1 October, 2012.
 
 
These are the bare facts but the cause of Pussy Riot is more complex than that.
 
 
In the first place the performance was about President Putin personally, and articulated a desire to see him leave the political stage.
 
 
Who is Putin? Russians in general have mixed feelings about him. The period straight after the fall of the Soviet Union in President Gorbachev’s time, was followed by a few chaotic years under President Yeltsin. Those years were wounding and humiliating for a people that had felt stable and, in many respects, proud of their role in the Second World War as well as on the international stage afterwards. The Soviet Union with its Warsaw Pact was an equal and opposite force to the United States and NATO.
 
 
A good part of those who remembered the pre-Gorbachev era, before the dismemberment of the Soviet empire, looked back to those times with a certain nostalgia, because, despite the gulags, despite the secret arrests, despite the censorship, despite the increasing corruption, they felt safe. Given Russia’s history, their feelings about authoritarianism were and remain very different from our feelings about individual freedoms in Europe and the West. The ‘strong hand’ – inevitably a patriarchal hand – was something many trusted. When Putin came along offering just that in a new form in a world of oil and oligarchs, he seemed to them welcome. Anything but the madness under Yeltsin!
 
 
But that opinion is clearly not universal in Russia. A good many people have strong fears of the establishing of a new, more corrupt, one-party state in which the state itself is the largest oligarch, a state in which notions of ‘tradition’ are imposed on those who, for very good reason, wish to free themselves from it.
 
 
Putin is an individual, the most powerful individual in the state, but Pussy Riot’s performance, as I read it, was not only about Putin – it was also a protest against the kind of power Putin symbolises.
 
 
This includes the Russian Orthodox church. The church has an important role in maintaining Putin’s power since it represents a very large conservative constituency in Russia, one that somehow survived the officially atheist Soviet period to prosper after it. The church is an alternative embodiment of the ‘strong hand’ Putin can employ to influence and control the Russian electorate, which is why the performance, including the reference to the Mother of God, took place in a major Moscow church closely associated with Putin. The church is, necessarily, patriarchal.
 
 
And the patriarchy – both formal and informal in terms of the family and society generally – is clearly important to a band calling itself Pussy Riot. The performance was, in those terms, a call for female solidarity and rebellion against a state of affairs where Putin’s masculinity is a highly constructed point of appeal. Jack Underwood has a poem in this anthology that comically highlights precisely this aspect of Putin’s power: Putin the macho man, Putin who offers or denies you the power because he not only knows best, but has the means to effect his will. Pussy Riot is a highly intelligent form of resistence to such will: it is a call to disobedience.
 
 
Since Putin seems assured of the power, it is rather surprising that the courts should have decided to act as severely as they did. Intended primarily for home consumption, as a warning, the charge and sentence, has been entirely counter-productive in international terms. The charge of ‘hooliganism’ is rather like the one of ‘parasitism’ that was directed at the Nobel Prize winning poet, Josef Brodsky in 1964. It is broadly seen as a charge of convenience. In that sense Pussy Riot has grown from a minor nuisance to a global cause. They are up there with Brodsky. A crushing and oppressive two-year sentence becomes very big news. The result is that Pussy Riot look, as they actually are, highly intelligent while Russia looks cruel and stupid.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
For people on this side of the equation the issue is not so much with Putin as with what Putin represents and what Pussy Riot represent. The meaning of Pussy Riot, for many, is as evidenced in the poems published here, less a political incident, more a cross-section of contemporary concerns and passions symbolised by the three young women. The meanings of Pussy Riot in this context begin with what the name suggests, that’s to say feminism in its various forms and moods, from assertion of rights, through core issues of identity, down to protest at an inimical, oppressive male world. This meaning – probably the most intense meaning – involves a conception of the world that is the polar opposite of Putin’s.
 
 
Then again, since Pussy Riot calls itself, and performs as, a punk band, the meaning of the group is derived from and invites a punk aesthetic that is partly tribal, partly anarchic, looking to be disruptive of conservative views and manners, in exactly the same way as Pussy Riot were disruptive in the church.
 
 
Beyond that, the band is young: there is also the invitation to youth. It is not precisely an old-versus-young battle but, in this case, it is the young, masked and loud, who are in the vanguard. For many they represent the potential for a new and different model of Russia.
 
 
Each of these models and antitheses is crude in itself – life, we know, is more subtle than that – but the antitheses remain. Most importantly, trumping all other concerns, is a conception of justice. It is simply wrong to jail people for that length of time for the minor office of disruption. Three unjustly accused individuals stand against a state led by a former operative of the KGB, a state that has seen the arrest and assassination of vocal opponents. In many ways it is like the old days: the repressive state against its dissidents. The corrupt system against those who protest its corruption.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
The anthology contains a variety of poems, some, like Andrew Bailey’s, the second of Mark Burnhope’s, Rebecca Cremin and Ryan Ormonde’s, Tim Dooley’s, John Ennis’s, Charlotte Geater’s, Jay Griffith’s and others (the list is too long and I am going alphabetically) address the case directly or refer to it obliquely. More numerous are poems that are born out of a sympathetic feeling, identifying something in Pussy Riot that corresponds with the feeling of the poet in respect of feminism or authority or sheer voice quality. There may be earlier poems now grown particularly relevant. There are poems that appear on a larger map of concerns that happen to find themselves here.
 
 
There are poems of various styles including Alison Croggon’s ‘Dance of the Seven Veils’, Sasha Dugdale’s ‘Perpetual’, SJ Fowler’s ‘They’, Kit Fryatt’s ‘Sounds Like Sense’, Sarah Hesketh’s sharp ‘Some Protest Stones’, Philo Ikonya and Helmuth A. Niederle’s ‘Pussy Riot For Ever: The Body’, Amy Key’s ‘Cat Power’, John Kinsella’s ‘Penillion for Pussy Riot’, Aoife Mannix’s ‘The Eye of the Needle’, and so on. I don’t pick these out because I think they are the best poems, only because they are broadly different. I could pick many others.
 
 
Like any contributor to such anthologies, I am fully aware that it is unlikely to affect the course of events in any measurable way, though it may perhaps add to the weight of protest that hopes, at some stage, on some level, to influence the Russian court and indeed that part of the Russian people who support the sentence. It might be a consolation to Pussy Riot, and to those for whom they speak, that there are many people – including poets – who listen to them and talk back in support. A book of poems in a foreign language published in a foreign place is rarely a factor in the decisions of a hostile administration, but this is downloadable. It may be a factor somewhere, somehow. Who can tell? One has hope or one has nothing.
 
 
Speaking personally it is quite odd for me as an almost sixty-four year old male poet to be writing this introduction. It was odd, but rather nice to be asked on the spur of the moment and to say: yes. Of course I wondered if I was out of place. I am not looking to be cool with those younger than me or of a different gender. I have been on a few demonstrations but never felt it to be my natural place.
 
 
I ask myself this: if the world were arrayed into forces represented by President Putin on the one side and Pussy Riot on the other I know which side I’d be on and it wouldn’t be Putin’s. That’s where we are, and that’s where this is. And that is why it is a privilege to write this introduction.
 
 
– George Szirtes
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
All profits from both the Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot e-book and print on demand copies will go to the Pussy Riot Legal fund and the English PEN Writers at Risk Programme.
 

Order Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot.
 
Download the Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot e-book

Visit English PEN’s website.

Visit English PEN’s Poems for Pussy Riot project page.

Read some of the Pussy Riot poems on English PEN’s website.

Visit EngPussyRiot’s live journal.

Visit George Szirte’s website and blog.
 
 
 
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Cherry Smyth’s Test, Orange

 
 
 
Cherry Smyth is an Irish writer, living in London. Her debut poetry collection, When the Lights Go Up, was published by Lagan Press in 2001. A second collection, One Wanted Thing (Lagan Press), appeared in 2006. The Irish Times wrote of this collection: “Here is clarity and realism, couched in language that is accessible and inventive. The title poem, nominated for the Forward Best Poem of the Year 2004, carries all Smyth’s hallmarks: precision, linguistic inventiveness and joy”.

Cherry’s work was selected for Best of Irish Poetry, 2008, (Southword Editions) and The Watchful Heart: A New Generation of Irish Poets (Salmon Press, 2009).

Her third collection, Test, Orange, 2012, is published by Pindrop Press.

She also writes for visual art magazines: Modern Painters, Art Monthly, Art Review and Circa. She is the former Poetry Editor of Brand Literary Magazine and current Guest Editor of Magma.
 
 
 
 
 
 
“Cherry Smyth’s third collection of poetry confirms her as one of Ireland’s new generation of poets. The poems in Test, Orange are intelligent, passionate and lyrical. They move with ease from the tarantella dance of southern Italy to the bombing of Gaza in 2008 to an exploration of the mother/daughter bond in the prize-winning sequence ‘Wishbone’. The poet’s relationship with the female body – how it desires, how it changes – is also examined in the exceptional sequences ‘Six Given Fields’ and ‘Now You’re a Woman’. This exhilarating collection is a tour de force.”
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
“Cherry Smyth’s poems are precise, tough and full of passion. Whether writing about visual art, war, desire or aging, Smyth doesn’t shy from the world, but embraces it in all its brokenness, confused beauty and pain. Test, Orange continues the poet’s dream to convey the truth at all costs, to take risks, break rules, run red lights. Her poems leave us breathless, at times bruised, but more alive, in the centre of her, our own, lives. Smyth’s work fulfills her own credo: to have the strength to do the heart justice.”
 
– Ellen Hinsey
 
 
 
“These distinctive poems speak with great clarity about things which are often hard to say. Compassionate, self-questioning, sometimes shocking, Cherry Smyth’s work pays the world close attention, exploring the varied connections between human beings, both those that enrich and those that damage. With their vivid locations, the poems are alive with film, food, love, politics and fable. They are never less than fully committed, unafraid of acknowledging the joy or injury involvement might bring.”
 
– Judy Brown
 
 
 
“Cherry Smyth’s poetry not only values the abstract but often contemplates the valuing of self. She is uncompromising in her use of her chosen subject matter, often unflinching in her language. Smyth brings her experience as art critic to her work as a poet where serious subjects are given serious attention. Throughout the book, Cherry Smyth reminds us of the ‘bright anomaly’ that is poetry. How it makes us present, informs a life. Many of these poems are rigorously disciplined, concentrated, and use description with both delight and a depth of understanding.”
 
– Angela Gardner
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Reading the Cup
 
 
In the cup of fresh verbena leaves
Michal says she can see the sea at Cuas Pier,
the floating, sun-filtered green we dived into.
To me it’s the Chivers jelly shade the green blinds
cast in summer afternoons in Portstewart Primary,
swimming the room in broken rivulets of light,
anointing us with sleepy calm, as if this degree
of blurred daylight was hallowed and our behaviour
had to correspond, like visitors to the continent
who mightn’t be allowed back if we didn’t show respect.

I remember glancing up from my jotter, the trail of wet
ink, like a seal above the sealed swell, to breathe from
the focused hush, before being drawn back down into
its one complete body, and the open-necked indulgence
of Mr Morrison, who would rather have been up the strand
on such a glorious day, getting his lamb-head tanned.

The rare heat, the gentle knock of the blinds against
the windowsill, subdued us in a soft erotic stupor,
like being here, dazzled by the sea, glittering in inlets,
warming on the rocks, hazy with clean air, tongues of sea mist,
the absence of man-made sound. So I stay at my desk,
hot sun sprinkling through a cotton gauze, thinking
of what Louise Bourgeois said – art is made of all
the things you desire that you say no to.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
According to Patti Smith
 
 
I tugged at a dead rose branch.
It snagged and snapped a healthy one.
I left them to their mess of thorns,
the spread of wither, a dried winter’s red.

A friend carried in a crown of violet,
performed with scissors and vases about the room.
I breathed the squeeze of women’s kisses,
the expensive mist of a small woven lung.

‘When my husband left,’ she began,
‘he shook me free of explanation.
I fell from summit’s air. Then where he saw
merely hurt, I saw his beauty. Everywhere.’

I’d never seen the faces of this coin,
but I could see she kept it in her eyes.
The shine of knowing from unknowing,
the freak ransom in what had come to war.

When Patti Smith lost her husband,
then her dearest brother, pain’s crack
almost broke her until she sensed
their best selves recur through her.

She said that on seeing Guernica, Jackson
Pollock took the drips, just the drips
from the horse’s mouth, flung them out – the blood,
the tears – stood rampant in the joyful scatter.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Rushes
 
(for Jacqui Duckworth)
 
 
1

That you could handle film was like touching God. That you could lift a spool in your white cotton fingers from its can, from the tower of cans, and thread it onto the Steenbeck, was like showing how God moves. I watched you in the dark make thousands of tiny decisions of light.
 
 
2

From spool to empty spool, the images clattered, a baggy ribbon of blurred flickers that you paused, lifting the hood and lining the strip with china marker. You pulled the film out of the gate towards you like two elastic arms and settled it on the metal cutting block. You spliced and taped and fed the scene back, a minute shorter. You numbered the end, fastened it to a bull-clip and hung it on a hook on the wall, or slid it into a suspended cloth bag for trims. Then you clicked down the hood and made the movie move again.
 
 
3

We’d flirted at a feminist film group. I’d noticed your walk – a loping swagger on long legs in tight jeans. The static between us made me giggle so much I had to leave the room. You didn’t want a relationship. I made you have one.

You’d sit at the edge of your seat. You couldn’t hear anything else when you were editing. The images were sound that needed an exact rhythm, a melody only you could detect. You knew to cut just before it seemed to need it, your attention surgical. Thelma Schoonmaker sat at your right shoulder. When we watched La Regle du Jeu, I didn’t flinch as the dozen rabbits and birds were shot. You’d taught me to go inside the cuts – 102 in 4 minutes – counting Renoir’s rhythm, defined by Marguerite Houlet, his editor and lover at the time.
 
 
4

We met in unadorned rooms in Soho, in basements, or at the end of a grey corridor where daylight never arrived. The sun burnt a bar of gold on the ceiling or the wall where the blackout curtain didn’t quite close. In these dark and smoky places, you showed me what made you, making sense of every film I’d ever liked, teaching me why, giving my passion a possible world. We never had sex there. You were paying by the hour.
 
 
5

Film buffs were men. With beards and BO. We were cinema fiends. There were no videos or DVDs. There was the ceremony of cinema. A von Trotta Double Bill at the Academy; a Bergman Triple at the Electric; midnight cults at the Scala; Monday nights at the Everyman. We travelled, stayed awake, skived off work because there were films to be seen. I’d smuggle in a bowl of finely chopped, dressed salad, fresh bagels and two forks, and we’d sit silently nourishing ourselves for hours. You never stood up until the last credit, as if by reading each name, honouring each member of the crew, you could absorb their skill, their magic.
 
 
6

You were in love with many women. You appreciated them like a connoisseur of fine liquors with a longing roll of the eyes and a small gasp: Gina Rowlands in Woman Under the Influence, Bernadette Lafont in La Fiancé du Pirate, Giulietta Masina in Nights of Cabiria, Sophia Loren and Catherine Deneuve in anything. You were a big flirt and a big fan and I didn’t realise then how much humility and forgiveness that required.

You forgave Deneuve her bad plots and her love affairs with ugly, much older men; you forgave me my younger women. You were capable of devotion. You new the difference a 25th of a second could make to a glance across a crowded bar.
 
 
7

You were a celluloid master. I bowed at your feet. Once you rescued a bored porn star from another bad movie, devising a way she could cut herself free from the film strip and escape on the back of your motorbike. No one believed it would work. Or the 16mm feature you made of the threesome you were living in, in a flat in Warren Street in the early 80s. You ate only toast and tepid tea. But women always fed you more.
 
 
8

You gave me a Super 8 to take to Russia, showed me how to use it. I carried it like a baby. I shot blossoms falling in a Moscow park, a gigantic mural on the dull outskirts, a sudden heap of tomatoes for sale on the roadside. I couldn’t film people. The camera was a gun I couldn’t point. I couldn’t see a whole from parts, came home with short unfinished poems. I don’t know where that footage is. In a grey can somewhere, held closed with white tape with my name on it, on a dusty shelf in some cutting room.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Six Given Fields

What will you do when it’s your turn in the field with the god?
 – Louise Glück
 
 
 
Lust
 
 
When he rushed me off the road to the field,
I forgot clothes, food, all kindness, lies
grew out of me, cover-ups, alibis.
We tore through the crops, insensate to harm,
terrorised by scent, flat-out in mudsheets;
limbs of leaves, glazed, we bent down the cob
to enter us better. We furrowed each other
with the vision of Futurists, desecrated
chapels, blown-off family; taut with return
to our random start, where cells clarify,
float in a cry and the soft-boned body splits
into memory, giving birth to first form,
all the white walls of time collapsing,
left interspatial on a serac of this.
 
 
 
Love
 
 
‘Forget the field’, he said. ‘Empty your pockets,
throw away everything with your name on it.’
My heart ran faster after colour and taste.
‘See that wall,’ he said. I did. It was beautiful.
A painting on water, it moved and stayed still.
It reflected me as I’d never appeared.
He taught me to worship it, then he said,
‘Go up and stand with your face against it.’
I did. The nearer I got, the longer I stood,
the duller it grew. I flamed and dropped.
Dust, peeling skin, stains of human and dog.
I wept for our wall – that’s what he was after –
said, in tears, we are strongest, purest matter.
I licked my cheeks, purchased binoculars.
 
 
 
Art
 
 
He whistled Telemann below my veranda,
waved a flag of hay to spend in the wind,
drew how rain fell among camels of straw,
dreamt a caravanserai to vanquish my airspace.
Crouching like nudes in a closet-free circus,
we wrestled the light into bone and sepulchre,
made Vorticist love in trains across country,
singing Brecht from windows of Yves Klein blue.
He slowed down the speed and thickness of sight
till holes in the head were slashes in canvas
and the glad of the glade rivered thirty-nine greens.
I was arable in his white, framing hand.
Those scorched by too much of the real would pass
their burning air by the field to be cooled.
 
 
 
Patriarchy
 
 
He holds my elbow still, trying to usher me
up the aisles of his fields. He grips my wrist
when I speak with too much vigour at dinner.
He thinks I’ve done nothing, been no-one.
He’s surrounded by statues, can’t be budged.
If only I’d take his name, keep to home
and heels. He has names for women like me,
uses them in the bar then in my face.
He paid me to take care of his children
so he could fuck me at the end of his garden.
I followed the red of his cigarette,
wore his wife’s dress. First it smelt of sugar
being baked, then it blackened to smoke. My hair
never grew back. I hide it. He prefers that.
 
 
 
Money
 
 
In that field I rarely had to turn up.
I was video-phoned in my court-shoe neckline,
my quirkless beads, as I unfolded my desk,
lit up my terminal and my fingers bled
so I could be human, life expectancy
whizzed in a file to the Head of Risk,
who used two replies – OK or stop!
I ate my lips in alien buffets, fell
under his table of mortality, slipped in
trips to Hong Kong in over-chaired meetings.
He rode his limo, I took the dawn train
among a world of fish I’d never known.
I emerged with a wallet full of new teeth,
powder traces of avarice under my nails.
 
 
 
Age
 
 
When he called from the field I pretended I couldn’t hear,
straightened up, widened my eyes,
ignored his Prosecco, his dark walnut liqueur.
He read me Jack Gilbert, Wislawa Szymborska,
said why not go down to the Rhône, swim in its water,
so milk green you’d think it was ice-melted glass.
He led me into the purple vibration
cicadas make in the dark, said hear as one
the rush of the river, the rustle of leaves,
lie down in the stubble and be entered by sky.
He sat still with me till I knew that this body
is it – is not it – is all – is nothing,
that the field will change its colour and texture
and we’ll see clear to Mont Blanc once the leaves fall.
 
 
 
 
from Test, Orange (Pindrop Press, 2012).

Order Test, Orange.

Test, Orange reviewed at Polari Magazine.

Visit Cherry’s website.
 
 
 
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National Poetry Competition blog tour

 
 
 
 
Welcome to the National Poetry Competition blog tour where selected poets associated with the competition have been invited to submit contributions to various poetry blogs. If you’ve missed any of the previous posts you can catch up with the tour here.
 
 
Philip Gross is featured at Jo Bell’s The Bell Jar; Matthew Caley discusses competition tactics at the Writers’ Hub; E-Verse Radio features Jon Stone; Stephen Knight, Julia Copus, Paul Adrian and Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch appear at Best American Poetry, and New Zealand poet, Rhian Gallagher, looks back on her success at Rob Mackenzie’s Surroundings.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Peony Moon is delighted to host Zaffar Kunial who won third prize in the 2011 National Poetry Competition with ‘Hill Speak’. Born in Birmingham, Zaffar now lives near Leeds and works as a full-time writer for Hallmark. He is working towards a first collection.
  
  
 
Hill Speak
 
 
There is no dictionary for my father’s language.
His dialect, for a start, is difficult to name.
Even this taxi driver, who talks it, lacks the knowledge.
Some say it’s Pahari – ‘hill speak’ –
others, Potwari, or Pahari-Potwari –
too earthy and scriptless to find a home in books.
This mountain speech is a low language. Ours. “No good.
You should learn speak Urdu.” I’m getting the runaround.
 
Whatever it is, this talk, going back, did once have a script:
Landa, in the reign of the Buddhists.
… So was Dad’s speech some kind of Dogri?
Is it Kashmiri? Mirpuri? The differences are lost on me.
I’m told it’s part way towards Punjabi,
but what that tongue would call tuvarda,
Dad would agree was tusaana
‘yours’ –
 
truly, though there are many dictionaries for the tongue I speak,
it’s the close-by things I’m lost to say;
things as pulsed and present as the back of this hand,
never mind stumbling towards some higher plane.
And, either way, even at the rare moment I get towards –
or, thank God, even getting to –
my point, I can’t put into words
where I’ve arrived.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Getting There
 
 
I’d stayed late after work that evening, trying to get my entry together, thinking it would take an hour or so. By the time I relented and clicked send, the cleaners had long left the building, and the lights had automatically gone out. I’d been checking (and re-checking) my poems in the dark.
 
 
‘Hill Speak’ started out in 2011, within a few months of the NPC closing date. For most of that time, the poem-in-progress was called ‘Getting There’. It stayed true to its original name. Right up until three hours before the midnight deadline – when I changed the final stanza – I’d never had the feeling it was finished. And even then …
 
 
Anyway, it went off at 9.30 pm, along with other poems I thought stood a better chance.
 
 
Sending those poems would have been a significant step for me even if I’d never received that surreal phone call – at that same desk, at work, three months later (“Hello, Zaffar? … Did you write a poem called ‘Hill Speak’? … Well, I’m pleased to say …”).
 
 
Entering the competition was going to be a first, tentative move towards sending poems out in 2012. That was the plan. For the last few years I had decided I was writing towards a collection, despite not submitting anything to magazines. I’d had some really encouraging feedback from poets I respected enormously, but I was still very slow to think a poem might be ready or finished.
 
 
I’m not even sure I knew what I might have meant by this peak state of ‘finished’ or ‘ready’.
 
 
By the time I climbed the steps onto the (rather high) platform to receive the award in a very posh room in Mayfair – my first-ever public reading – I was realising ‘Hill Speak’ was now that elusive thing: a finished poem. It almost happened as I spoke the last lines. Reciting, “I can’t put into words…”, I found myself pausing to extend the moment, looking up at the elaborately painted ceiling, before continuing, “… where I’ve arrived”.
 
 
I felt the poem speak for itself in those last two words. It was there. Wherever there was.
 
 
Ten minutes later, when Carol Ann Duffy came over and said very unexpected, generous things, I ended up bursting into tears, hiding my head on her shoulder. I was blubbing again moments later when Jackie Kay gave me a hug.
 
 
I didn’t expect any of this … least of all, when I pressed send that night at the end of October.
 
 
And now?
 
 
Other poems are starting to seem more finished now, too. I’ve had generous and unexpected responses to them at readings I’ve given at Ledbury – and at Cheltenham a couple of weeks ago – and as a guest reader recently at an Arvon course with Ian Duhig and Julia Copus.
 
 
… I still haven’t submitted any poems anywhere since the prize. But I will.
 
 
Any tips?
 
 
Send your entry from Leeds.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
About the National Poetry Competition
 
 
Established in 1978, the Poetry Society’s National Poetry Competition is one of the world’s biggest and most prestigious poetry contests. Winners include both established and emerging poets, and for many the prize has proved an important career milestone. Win, and add your name to a roll-call that includes the current UK Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy, Tony Harrison, Ruth Padel, Philip Gross and Jo Shapcott.
 
Read poems by previous winners of the National Poetry Competition here.
 
 
The National Poetry Competition is organised by the Poetry Society, one of Britain’s most dynamic arts organisations, representing poetry both nationally and internationally. Find out more about the Poetry Society here.

The National Poetry Competition closes on the 31st of October. There’s still time to enter.
 
 
 
*
 
 

Selina Tusitala Marsh’s Fast Talking PI

 
 
 
Selina Tusitala Marsh is of Samoan, Tuvalu, English and French descent. She was the first Pacific Islander to graduate with a PhD in English from the University of Auckland and is now a lecturer in the English Department, specialising in Pacific literature. Marsh is the co-ordinator of Pasifika Poetry, a sister site of the New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre. She was involved in, and wrote the Afterword for, Niu Voices: Contemporary Pacific Fiction 1 (2006) and is currently working on a critical anthology of first-wave Pacific women poets writing in English. Her academic and creative writing deals with issues that affect Pasifika communities in Aotearoa New Zealand and indigenous peoples elsewhere. She lives on Waiheke Island with her family. Fast Talking PI is published by Arc Publications.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Fast Talking PI (pronounced pee-eye) reflects the poet’s focus on issues affecting Pacific communities in New Zealand, and indigenous peoples around the world including the challenges and triumphs of being afakasi (mixed race). The book is structured in three sections, ‘Tusitala’ (personal), ‘Talkback’ (political and historical) and ‘Fast Talking PIs’ (dialogue). She writes as a calabash breaker, smashing stereotypes and challenging historic injustices; also exploring the idea of the calabash as the honoured vessel for identity and story. Her aesthetics and indigenous politics meld marvellously together.”
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Afakasi
 
 
Half moons ago
people were hollowed-out tablets of stone
spaces were given them
according to spaces they left

some of these spaces were filled with pages
ink leaching out great deeds done
marginalia filled with greater ones

other spaces were filled with fe’e
sliding on story after story
older ones wrapped in thundering fagogo
younger ones rapping ill semantics

other spaces were filled with carved blocks of wood
cocooned in tissue-thin mulberry
these long hollow spaces echoed the beat
of years heavy with folded legs
and the thump thump of old women beating

some spaces were filled with darkness
no light would shine there

other spaces weren’t spaces at all
but blistering mirages
no wind would blow there

other spaces were filled with va
these were warmed with the breath of others
the thrum of matua tausi
even if she was just another mirage

other spaces were hard
suffocating stone eyes
calcifying

in other spaces hovered pouliuli
te kore, a nothingness, a yawning galaxy
into these spaces the young would dip their forefingers
rubbing the blackness on their lips
a moko mapping where they had been
and where they were to go

some spaces have pink retro bean-bags in the corner
cups of gumboot tea on the floor
upturned books in punched-out hollows

some spaces are filled
with the music of hands
fa’ataupati, not theatre applause
eyes open, mouths clapped shut
but open-mouthed choo-choo! malie!

some spaces are filled with no dancing
no flying fingers soaring wind
no shuffling of hips
no siva
no tau’olunga
no light in the body

some spaces are tied with rubber bands
trying to render control over
black unruly spaces
a parting and a plaiting of space
a twisting of space into a bun

some spaces are filled with sunlight soap
from the kagamea
laughing over rocks into the ocean
where a dead Alsatian floats under a net of flies
caught underneath the makeke pier

some spaces are brown
some are blue
o lo’u igoa Tusitala
je m’appelle Marchant

flow in and out
turning space sinopia
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Calabash Breakers
 
 
we all know
the calabash breakers
the hinemoas
the mauis
the risk takers
the younger brother
the only sister
the orphan
the bastard child
with rebellious blood

we all know
the hierarchies
the tapu
the boundaries
always crossed
by someone
petulant

we all know
the unsettled
the trouble makers
the calabash breakers
they sail the notes of our songs
stroke the lines of our stories
and reign in the dark hour

we should know them
we now need them
to catch bigger suns
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Things on Thursdays
 
 
If Updike could do it
why couldn’t she?

Surely the forest of books
the cropped rows of frames
lining his house
shouldn’t make that much difference?

Surely if he can rent a one bedroomer in Paris
clear his schedule
six mornings a week
and write
publish a novel
five days after each child’s birth
be inspired by his wife’s art
and write
travel to Rio de Janeiro one week
Geneva the next
and write
pick up a baby
smell her neck
and write
feed the rabbit
watch it jump and run
and write
teach and read
prop up solid oak lecterns
argue with publishers
move house four times
and write
be acclaimed
and famed
and write
wipe the literary slate clean
and write
drop off famous writers
pick up famous painters
add an extension to the house
to write
and write
do parent-father things on Thursdays
and write
speak for money
write for money at The New Yorker
and write
enthuse over critical reviews
and Burt Britton’s drawings
and write
why couldn’t she?

She just needed to
clear the sink
wipe the bench
and write
be inspired by encrusted cups
and write
travel with the vacuum down the hall
into four bedrooms
and write
pick up the kids from school
and write
publish school walking bus committee notices
and write
be inspired by an overgrown lawn
and write
teach and read
to the kids
pick up a baby
smell her neck
and write
change the baby
feed the baby
watch him jump and run
and write
prop up the finances
argue with the parking warden
move house four times
and write
exclaim and rage
and write
wipe the baby tip to toe
and write
drop off the DVDs
drop off the school-age kids
pick up groceries
add a second washing line
and write
be parent-helper on Thursdays
and write
work for money twice a week
6 am to 9 pm
and write
enthuse over her son’s stories
the other son’s drawings
and write
wash bath and feed
and write
clean out the fridge
in the closet
behind the couch
and write
disinfect the toilet
find the missing rolls
get the rego and WoF
and write
read for work
and write
write for work
and write
work to write

yeah right
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Guys like Gauguin
 
 
     I
 
 
thanks Bougainville
for desiring ’em young
so guys like Gauguin could dream
and dream
then take his syphilitic body
downstream to the tropics
to test his artistic hypothesis
about how the uncivilised
ripen like pawpaw
are best slightly raw
delectably firm
dangling like golden prepubescent buds
seeding nymphomania
for guys like Gauguin
 
 
 
     II
 
 
thanks Balboa
for crossing the Isthmus
of Panama
in 1513
and pronouncing our ocean
the South Seas
hey thanks, Vasco
for making us
your underbelly
the occidental opposite of all
your nightmares
your waking dreams
inversion of all your laws
your darkest fantasies

thanks for seeing the earth as a body
the North, its head
full of rationality
reasoned seasons
of meaning
cultivated gardens
of consciousness
sown in masculine
orderly fashion
a high evolution
toward the light

thanks for making the South
an erogenous zone
corporeal and sexual
emotive and natural
waiting in the shadows
of dark feminine instinct
populated by the Africas
the Orient, the Americas
and now us
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Two Nudes on a Tahitian Beach, 1894
 
 
Gauguin,
you piss me
off.

You strip me bare
assed, turn me on my side
shove a fan in my hand
smearing fingers on thigh
pout my lips below an
almond eye and silhouette me
in smouldering ochre.

I move
just a little
in this putrid breeze
hair heavy to
fuscous knees, still
I’m the pulse
on the arm of this wall
and I’ve drawn her to me again.

Here she comes.

Not liking that she likes me
not liking you, but knowing that she
likes me, not liking you
liking me, but she
likes me and sees me,
but not you,
because you
Gauguin,
piss us
off.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Hawai’i: Prelude to a Journey
 
     for Haunani-Kay
 
 
you go then
poppin’ in bubble-gum jeans
you, wrapped bubble-gum teen
knowin’ nothin’
’bout no Hawaiians
not living
in Waikiki
no more

you go then
floating on two-buck sunshine
courtesy of Longs
one of a dozen stores stacked
against a postcard beach
within reach of King Kamehameha’s
you surface from under the slick of tourist

you go then
buy five key rings for ten
two hibiscus singlets for one
free Hershey bars softening in the sun of
Aloha Stadium fermenting
red-tipped toes in jandals
pale chests in floral shirts
necks noosed in fluorescent lei
wrists handcuffed in gold, etched with black enamel
detained by Reebok and Nike

you go then
to finish in Hale Manoa
where student voices
rise above smoking black bean stir-fry
fa’alifu fa’i, tofu and udon noodles
breezing open pavilions
you go then
to class to find friends
kama’aina who surf and protest
he is writing on Hawaiian land rights and kalo
sings at the Royal Hawaiian
for his fees
she is writing on post-’80s sovereignty
like waves lapping a broken shore
we are one we
are more she writes
he is writing on wipe-outs of Kamehameha Schools
surfs Sunset
always goes for the barrel
no matter how he gets worked

you go then
and meet
Pele’s pen
her black ink lava
ever pricking the night

you go then
to hula halau to
the picket sign to the
angry line outside parliament to
Greevy’s photo exhibition to the
kalo plantation to
the valley of stolen waters to the
valley of ground bones and mortar to
the majesty of Kilauea
you go then
smell embered Lincolns
wrapped in kalo leaves
wedged in creases
of Pele-‘ai-honua
eater of the land
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Outcast
 
     for Alice
 
 
I’m a darling in the margins
but you said

be nobody’s darling / be an outcast
take the contradictions of your life
and wrap around / you like a shawl
to parry the stones / to keep you warm

I keep what you said
pinned by brass tacks
against every wall ‘cos

I’m a darling by nature

traitor to the rebel
show me a mould
I’ll fill it, an unmade bed
I’ve already made it

draw me a paper road I’ll sign it
over to whoever says
they need it diverted for a better cause
but you said

be nobody’s darling

and that which casts me out
is cast about me
that which warms my flesh
guards my bones

and when I found
it to be true

the part about freedom
your shawl

became a fall of Huka curls
plunging black through suburban streets

a grey beach cottage firing
paua spirals under its eaves

his hand pressing want under
the wake table

a cocooning quilt pulled back under
the slim promise of sun

a brown woman walking
genealogy swimming her calves

a green dress worn on a blue blue day
because she can

it’s become a map
to get us beyond the line
the justified edge
that breaking page

it’s become a map in my arms
to get us beyond the reef
 
 
 
 
from Fast Talking PI (Arc Publications, 2012).
 
Order Fast Talking PI.

Visit Pasifika Poetry.
 
 
 
*

Lindsey Holland’s Particle Soup

 
 
  
Lindsey Holland grew up in Aughton, on the Lancashire border with Merseyside. She studied at the University of Warwick for several years, gaining an MA in Writing, a daughter and a sideline in photography before moving back to her hometown. She teaches poetry on the Creative Writing programme at Edge Hill University, where she is also working towards a Creative Writing PhD. Her poetry and reviews have appeared in various magazines and anthologies including Tears in the Fence, The New Writer, B O D Y, Ink Sweat & Tears, Sabotage Reviews, Penning Perfumes, and Lung Jazz: Young British Poets for Oxfam. She is currently co-editing the anthology Sculpted: Poetry of the North West, and she is the leader and founder member of North West Poets, a collective of over a hundred published poets who live in, or have connections to, the English region. Her debut collection, Particle Soup, is available from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press and will be launched in Blackwell’s bookshop in Manchester at 19h30 on November 7th (where she will be reading with Angela Topping and JT Welsch). She tweets at @LindseyHolland.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
“This is a highly recommended volume by a strong new writer.”

– David Morley
 
 
 
“In this intelligently designed collection Holland plucks patterns from random debris, mapping meaning out of scattered experiences of eros, of the polis. Hers is a delightful poetic science, locating vibrant creatures among the ruins. Particle Soup is a discovery in more ways than one – in the smart poems themselves, and in the way it brings us to the recognition that Holland is among the best young poets now writing in the UK.”

– Todd Swift
 
 
 
“Lindsey Holland writes hauntingly beautiful poems of love and fear and the non-existent space in between. To read her is to be startled by sudden eye-contact from a passerby – a glance that contains a whole alternative reality. Her imagery and rhythms engage and delight and her form thrills in both its mastery and innovation. You feel like you’ve returned from a long journey to find your home transfigured in an eternal twilight – a sense of loss, but of essential gain.”

– Luke Kennard
 
 
 
“Lindsey Holland’s assured debut invites the reader on a mythic and mysterious journey in which past and present are explored. Reading this collection is a compelling adventure: discoveries are made and epiphanies relished. The poems are lush and tactile, inventive yet rooted, spare but with all the right detail.”

– Angela Topping
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
from In Biopoeisis
 
 
i
 
 
Meet the most castle of castles. A marrowbone
frame, all knuckles, cantilever sockets,
a buried skull. I am beetling small and scuttle up
the spirals of the inner ear. At the gatehouse
they sell books about the Count. Rumour says
he breathes through the walls. His purple skin
records footstep itches. He’s been seen
in the window of the Great Hall: an iris
or a smear of DNA. They inherit him here.
And I swallow both pills: the Brufen
dirt they sweep at sunrise
and the herbal fix, a recipe honed
by a line of dead hands. It’s warm
and makes me think of alchemy.
Rooks overhead enjoy the stones’ thermal
or circle the spot where a demon lives.
I pin myself here, pluck a hair and let it drop.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
vii
 
 
I go to the countryside city
and walk through sandstone streets.

A woman in a blue dress chews her lip
and shop glass catches her

in hard liquid. She folds her arms across
her ribs, and I wonder if she knows

the kind of love that touches without asking,
I turn to see her pass the bus stop

where a network advert – young woman, bright mouth –
connects you everywhere. There are scratches

in the plastic, scuffs, indelible initials,
hearts. Hands have moved across here

and in a room above I note the curtain’s V,
a face pale in between. He sees me and slips

away to someone or something, a table
perhaps, a mug washed and rewashed,

a blonde head, laughter lines, I don’t know.
If I were him I’d do the same.
 
Some years ago they planted trees and now
parakeets have come like chameleons. 
 
I pull my hair into a new brown band and run.
I run. And this is everything.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
from The Engaging
 
 
iv.  Voice in My Head
 
 
They completely misunderstood. I know
you recoiled at his whisper, the warm
uninvited breath. Maybe

it would have been better if you’d pushed away,
fixed that skirt, kept your eyes pressed
to the disco ball but really you shouldn’t

have to anticipate. On another night
no one would twitch
and sitting on a bar stool, legs uncrossed

would be less divergent
than a third and final beer. There are people
who do this, have to put

lemons on squeezers; you need
to give them the finger, think of how
you felt his words like sharks.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
from Chronomentrophobia
 
 
i.
  The Mourning Before
 
 
He creeps through the Raval,
keeps to the edges, stops in a doorway,
flips the cap on and off a water bottle.

Four years and those jeans are a pinch,
his T-shirt’s scuffed with black
across the shoulder blades. It’d all be fine

but we’ve been here before and then
he chatted in the Boqueria, gave me
bath salts. They smell so good.

On humid nights, we’d get drunk on Leffe
until the cockroaches’ speed seemed ridiculous
but not enough to beat him.

I don’t ask what happened. Instead
I sip my filter coffee. The grounds
are ash on my tongue.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
from The Warring
 
 
vi.
  Lie Back, Keep Moving
 
 
But realistically
you need
to map

new glass routes
and guide
yourself

through ghost reflections
of fleur
de lys

and the shadows you carry
inside
your chest.

You can lie by the fountain
in the new
old square

and hit the alarm
quite simply
with a howl.

The pigeons will scare
the patterns
away

while aeroplanes
keep on
stretching, or

you can tomb like a queen
with your palms
in a temple,

feel yourself doubling,
splitting,
quadrupling

and think about how
in black spaces
grow

countless bright
but similar
scenes.
 
 
 
from Particle Soup (The Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2012).
 
Order Particle Soup.
 
 
 
*

Pipistrelle

 

 
 
 
Pipistrelle
Michelle McGrane
 
 
He had forgotten how to walk,
the child they found roosting
upside down in the cave depths,
cauled in silence and darkness,
arms folded across his chest.
 
For years he had gleaned beetles
from the chamber floor, snaffled
moths and mosquitoes in mid-air,
lapped from the silted pool at twilight.
 
Startled by halogen beams,
spelunkers’ thudding boots,
his family, roused from torpor,
had abandoned its crevices, swarmed
above the harnessed men,
through the hibernaculum mouth
and disappeared into the woods.
 
Now, monitored by behaviourists
behind an observation pane,
the boy huddles on a cot, his head
against his knees, eyes closed,
squeaking as if echolocation
might guide him home.
 
 
 
 
Shortlisted for the Sol Plaatjie European Union Poetry Award 2012.
 
 
 
*