Tag Archives: Caroline Carver poems

Caroline Carver’s Tikki Tikki Man

 

© Image by Lyn Moir

 
 
Caroline Carver began writing poetry in the mid-1990s, and won the National Poetry Prize with a poem about killing a shark in 1998. Since then she has won or been placed in many competitions, winning the prestigious Silver Wyvern Award from Poetry-on-the-Lake in Orta, Italy, and the first Guernsey ‘Poems On the Buses’ competition. She was commended in the 2010 National Poetry competition.
 
Caroline was born in England, brought up in Bermuda and Jamaica, finished her education in England, Switzerland and France, and then emigrated to Canada for 30 years. Since she returned to England she’s travelled widely with her poetry. She’s a Hawthornden Fellow, resident poet at Trebah Gardens and very active in poetry affairs in Cornwall. 
 
 
 

 
 
 
Tikki Tikki Man (Ward Wood Publishing, 2012) is Caroline Carver’s fourth collection and the first to be published by Ward Wood. It tells the story of how two children deal with the after effects of child abuse, as their lives take them from Jamaica to Paris, to Scotland and eventually the Canadian wilderness.
 
 
being Bluebeard
 
means submarines     doors clanging shut
sonic booms     furtive night messengers
 
means sealing of fire   water     wind
reduction by earth and its dark shovels
 
watch out man     I see you slipping in and out
of corridors     look like rats got your face”
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
“The vivid landscapes, real and imaginary, that these poems economically evoke, are never simply an exotic backdrop. Rather, their beauty and their ambiguities weave the reader into an unsettling, unsentimental vision of how childhood can be damaged, exiled from itself and finally, cautiously, returned to its place in the world. This is difficult material, delicately done, all the more powerful for its sure and subtle touch.”
 
– Philip Gross
 
 
 
“The poetry of Caroline Carver’s Tikki Tikki Man is spacious and at home in many landscapes. Its content is troubling, its beauty redemptive. It leaves the reader with a sense of the world as a larger, and warmer, place.”
 
– Alison Brackenbury
 
 
 
“… a stunning collection. I completely lost myself in the world you have created.”
 
– Dr Catherine Walters
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Maia holds to everything she knows
like a suit of armour
 
her world’s made of granite
there’s nothing else to learn
she’s lost her curiosity
 
if I wonder why flowers open in the morning
and shut again at night
 
or ask why some burst out with great breaths of joy
filling us with the scent of mangoes and wild honey
and then hold it in again for weeks
 
she looks at her fingers
as if they’ve only just grown on her hands this morning
 
she turns her eyes away as she talks
 
– perhaps when I’m grown up
I’ll stop remembering –   she says
 
we no longer climb trees
to spy on the world from our leafy hideaways
 
peep through half-open bedroom doors
stand on the beach wondering why the horizon
is always the same distance away
whether we are rowing our boat out to the reef
or standing on the ferry as it heads out to sea
 
when I persuade her to start riding again
she’s like a sleep-walker
a stone-like calm on her face
 
– even weeds are stronger than I am –
she says   – I’m not like them
I don’t want to push through concrete
I don’t want to find the light –
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
sometimes we go to the kitchens
where we’re not supposed to go
but everyone else is out
and today Maia cut herself when she fell off the donkey
 
the cook has also cut his arm
he picks her up
presses his dark skin against her freckles
 
– see   we’re blood brother and sister –   he says
– we’re the same under the skin –
 
we both love him as deeply
as we’ve ever loved anyone
 
but this was before the Tikki Tikki Man
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
we’re playing at her house
when there’s a knock on the door
 
it’s the Tikki Tikki Man
but her father’s not here
 
when he comes in
the scent of roses is replaced
by the prickle of Old Spice aftershave
 
we run into the garden
climb the mango tree
 
he’s too fat to come after us
 
prowls around the base
like an angry wolf
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
we’re shipwrecked
on this outcrop of seashell and reef
only aurelia aurita
the slow white jellyfish
doesn’t seem to mind
 
her pale calm reminds us
she’s named for the moon
 
but I’m afraid for her
there’s no food
and it’s six hours till the tide comes back
 
like a woman with a bucket
daylight draws water from her shallow pool
 
          the sun moves slowly
 
aurelia’s pale blue orifices
open and shut   open and shut
 
like the questing mouths of new babies
not sure which way to turn
in their self-contained worlds
 
– I’ll never have children –   says Maia
as we wait for the lifeboat
nudging its way in among sharp rocks
so it can throw a line to us
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
we buy tamarind balls in the market
before we go to the beach
 
but we’re not comfortable with the sight of men
in bulging bathing-suits
 
one of them scratches himself
and dark hairs creep into the sunlight
 
 
everything to do with men’s bodies
has a bad feeling to it
 
the sweet sour taste of the tamarind balls
prickles our mouths
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
– if you wear your hair like that –
says her neighbour
– someone’s going to rape you –
 
Maia goes home and looks at herself in the mirror
 
she takes the kitchen scissors
hacks at the hair which reaches to her waist
tears it from her head till her scalp’s bleeding
cuts the great swag away from herself
like a scythe of late summer wheat
trims   more slowly now
back to the fluff of childhood
 
then… gathering every last strand into a bag
she takes it out into the garden   sets fire to it
 
 
she’d thanked him for his thoughtfulness
now   she sees
he was warning her against himself
 
 
for the next seven weeks
the smell of burning hair stays with her
 
she never goes out
 
each night she dreams of a forest in flames
animals running into the desert
bodies singed with pain
radiating a terrible light
 
 
 
 
from Tikki Tikki Man (Ward Wood Publishing, 2012).
 
Order Tikki Tikki Man.
 
Read more of Caroline’s work at poetry p f.
 
 
 
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Caroline Carver: Six Poems

Caroline Carver

  
Caroline Carver lives in Cornwall, after alternative lives in the West Indies and in Canada. She is a National Poetry Prize winner and has published three collections: Jigharzi an Me in West Indian dialect (Semicolon Press), Bone-Fishing (Peterloo Poets), and most recently Three Hares (Oversteps Books). A number of her poems have been translated into Romanian and Italian. Caroline is a Hawthornden Fellow and currently poet-in-residence at Trebah Gardens in Cornwall, and revels in living in a place where there are so many poet friends.
  
  
 
   
    
Cloudscape
 
Unpredictable as my sister’s shadowed face
the clouds are playing house again
building castles for giants;
there’s a beach framed by mansions
of extraordinary beauty      the sun plays hide and seek
among Roman villas in terminal decline
 
and the giants are planning a ball –
soon the great yachts and cruise-ships will come
dispense their passengers at the doors
of these dream palaces
 
although the coastline has already moved crab-ways
into new countries   new continents;
 
oceans puff and fill
perhaps dragons are stirring underneath
 
as we enter a world wrapped by Christo,
(to this day I have a small fragment of cloth
clipped from the Pont Neuf)      But look!
The cloudsea is no longer calm
 
the tumbler of gin in my sister’s hand
clicks its castanets of ice;
our pilot acknowledges turbulence;
the plane begins its slow   measured descent
 
 
Previously published in Artemis 4 (May, 2010).
 
 
 
The Empress stops at the Crescent Moon spring of Dunhuang
 
She settles her head carefully onto the stone pillow
which will give her the last dreams of childhood
before she takes the western route to a new life
 
Outside
              the Silk Road waits in the evening sun
 
She has left her camels with their heads down
drinking as if they would like to drain the oasis
their babies with soul brown eyes and soft muzzles
 
already nestled into the cupped palm of the desert
waiting for the latest fall of sand
to fly back to the Mingsha Mountains
 
The Empress lies in her silken tent
surrounded by treasures
placed there by her ladies each night –
 
a trunk filled with gold and silver
a glass jug engraved with flutes
a delicate ivory comb for her long black hair
 
She fingers the red dress embroidered with a thousand butterflies
sings to the caged canaries   twelve, for each of her twelve years
strokes the statue of the flying horse
      which will one day carry her to heaven
 
but best she loves the moths of the second moult
      in their large wicker basket
she likes to stir the tiny black hairs on their backs
with her polished forefinger
 
She doesn’t dream of the coltish young camels
the gold and silver and glass and ivory
not even the shimmering red dress or the twelve canaries
 
but mounts the flying horse, beautiful as a God
clutching his mane, whispering into his soft ears
turned back to catch her voice
 
When she wakes and tiptoes out into the cool desert night
to dip her hands into the magic spring,
      curved like a crescent moon
 
she is surrounded by moths
 
 
Previously published in Agenda and Three Hares.
 
 
 
Sedna the Sea Goddess
 
The bird turned into a man
so beautiful
snow lay on his shoulders
like ermine
 
was he petrel or fulmar?
he didn’t say
 
At first he came
only in dreams
one summer night
lay with her
 
at dawn she left her house
to marry him
 
Who could explain
her father’s rage?
The storms of Anguta
reached across oceans
 
she knew full joy
only six days   before
 
he killed her husband
threw her in his umiak –
pushed her overboard
when winds frightened him
 
she wouldn’t give in
gripped the boat so hard
 
he had to chop her fingers off
one by one
did not know
that in her new Kingdom
 
they would transform
into narwhals   seals   walruses
singing humpback whales
 
sailors who hear them
believe in mermaids
 
 
Previously published in Acumen and Three Hares.
 
 
 
Secrets
 
“long-eared owls roost secretively in willow thickets”
RSPB diary
 
  
They hide their secrets
in willow baskets
which my grandmother has woven for them
 
I saw her down by the river
picking withies and long reeds
to be bleached by an autumn moon
 
her fingers curved
by the slow separation
of knuckle and joint
 
and spindled, like the twiggy legs of owls
under their brushed fur feathers.
 
Orange and yellow eyes catch light
as they fall from the branches
into a long slow arc of flight
 
oo – ooh – ooh they say to my grandmother
and she smiles to herself
 
unlike her they do not show their age
and she is not telling oo – ooh – ooh
as their wings beat deep and slow in the slow night.
 
 
Previously published in Bone-Fishing.
 
 
 
Leaving the Ice House World
 
Like preCambrian rocks
which have finally mastered the art of standing still
Gaia turns quietly on her axis
 
continents stirring contentedly at speeds perceptible only to her
the fires in her belly feeding fantasies of a domestic hearth
where she’ll sit with her feet up
 
flicking the channel switch of her Big Brother creator
watching herself in all his mirrors at once
   sometimes wearing dust-brown rags of famine
 
sometimes her favourite Snow Queen outfit
with icing borrowed from Neptune
 
but the devil’s in the detail   she likes to make herself invisible
 
listens eagerly as poets struggle to describe love
scientists talk through the night in space laboratories
measuring differences in ice
 
Wait!   another space ship has just gone up
carrying items of immense importance –
 
radio recordings of 21st century music
a speech from the greatest of all presidents
sealed canisters filled from Pandora’s box
 
Gaia shrugs       tectonic plates grind their teeth
as always in times of doubt
she reaches for her pack of Tarot cards
 
 
Previously published in The Wolf magazine and Three Hares.
 
 
 
Song of the Ash Tree
 
like Yggdrasil the great ash
with her snake coiled at the root
we are bound by water and hope
 
roots reaching deep into that kingdom
of ferns and wet darkness
where past   present   and future
 
water each life from the sacred well
Did you know – in those high days of summer
when shadows retreat into the forest –
 
and the wind rustles our leaves
till we burst with love
male   female   or androgynous
 
we are always the wild ones of woodland
wrapped in ivy   dancing with Satyrs
 
Seize the day     pretty child     Seize the day
 
when you are matronly
bunched keys at your thickening waist
every leaf you grow
 
every kindness  every point of suffering
will be carved into your face
unless you have gazed nightly through shy leaves
 
dreaming of both water and fire
the milk soft bloom of stars
lambs in their brief dance of spring
 
 
 
Visit Caroline’s Oversteps Books author page.
 
Order Three Hares (Oversteps Books, 2009).
 
Read more of Caroline’s poems at poetry pf.