• Archive of all Poetry Space showcases
Jean Harrison
Guest editor- Jean Harrison
Poems by Andy Scotson, Dulen Gugoi, Neil Leadbeater, William Jones, Di Coffey, Kelsi Delaney, Marva Jackson Lord, Kathy Sharp and Rachael Clyne.
Photographs by Chris Sims and Ariba Ahmed.
It was an interesting experience to have such a range of work to choose from. I looked for poems that seemed earthed, to have genuine feeling, to be well-focussed and clear. I loved ‘Another land’ for its mass of clear detail, all of which built up into a portrait of the father. ‘After the funeral’ and Between cigarettes’ handled painful experiences with restraint and dignity, as did ‘Bed bath.’ ‘Sixties dreams’ had a strong sense of period; ‘The smile’ is playful and serious at the same time and shows an interesting use of repetition. ‘Deja vu’ is beautifully clear, as is ‘Gunnera’ which really caught the quality of the plant. ‘Perfect timing’ had roughness of expression that seemed to fit its subject. ‘Her clouds fill the sky’ has a delicacy of expression and rhythm that lifts it above the commonplace
A little about Jean in her own words:
I am retired but started writing early mornings and week-ends before retirement. I began with prose, switched to poetry, now have two poetry collections,’Terrain’ and ‘Junction Road’ from Cinnamon Press and a novel from the same publisher coming out next year. jeanharrisonpoetandnovelist.weebly.com
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Another Land
Turn right from the kitchen ,past the rickety old shoe cupboard and the downstairs loo.
Up the small stone step and through his solid green wooden door and into …
My dad’s old workshop
It was dominated by an old rusty chest freezer, we had had forever and looked like it contained a body that would sit up and leer at you if opened .
It generated more ice than the North pole and it was harder to shift the white crusts of ice that line the lid and the walls .
Dad would stand between this and his bench .
Equipped with his small metal vice , with his little pots of Umbro paint and his Airfix models.
He would be painting a plane,a boat or a tank in the most tiny detail , a jeweller with an exquisite gem in his white gloved hand .
Wearing his old green overalls and with a fixed concentrated look in his eye
Using Observer books and old war pictures for reference.
He would build German planes with their bright Swastikas , that slash of red and English bombers with their lovely round rainbow markings
Like a Peacock butterfly has its eye of blue and brown on each tiny wing so the planes got their markings.
He built the Victory and the Endeavour for me with its rigging and its tiny gun portals with a gunner for each ready for action .
He built a Sunderland flying boat with its huge belly that we had seen on a trip to Edinburgh sitting in the Forth.
A dock with little cranes,tugs and boats around it to feed the orange warehouses and to be loaded onto flat bed trucks queuing nearby.
And Canberass that he watched at Cottesmore near his beloved Rutland water with its nature reserve and walks .
He would not believe it now has Ospreys which we watched at Garten when only one pair had arrived .
Each was inscribed with a label on the base of the model with his lovely neat writing ,always black and always with an ink pen.
The same pen that taught Sociology all day was penning a summary of his works of art each night.
He had his equipment , his glue,his paint,fine brushes and his wood tools .
While we would sit in the lounge watching Morecambe and Wise and the Two Ronnies with mum.
Dad was in his kingdom creating his delicate scale models .
After he was gone the models live on
My Phantom from the RAF with its camouflage from a war we no longer fight lives with me still
The rigging is gone on James Cookes flagship , the gun shields have come loose
But the memory remains
The smells and the vision long lost in the mist but echoing now through my mind .
Andy Scotson
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Ariba Ahmed
Dark clouds fill the sky–
ashen wind brings
empty rain to my roof….
My fingers lay calm!
her fragrance floats
into nothingness…..,
The woodpecker takes
me deep to the forest,
her past year breeze
echoes gently in hills…
And like forgone waves on my shore,
her memories
strike gently on my feet….
Dulen Gogoi
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Chris Sims
Gunnera
Once it gets a roothold
it is thick-leaved
on growth,
thinks big,
is heavy-handed
and blunders into everything.
It lets the breeze
at no extra charge
wade through its foliage.
It does this
because it’s generous, keen,
extravagant
and likes to give
all that it’s got
for love.
Neil Leadbeater
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Chris Sims
Perfect Timing
Your timing was perfection
My da was dying
I’d just completed my pint in a record time
And then in waltzed you
You gave me my marching orders
So I fell to pieces
That I never really picked up
While you got a new boyfriend
That you had hardly even met
And moved to Norwich for fucks sake
Your timing was perfect
And my life has never been the same
So I look back at you now down the years
And say
… Ah well never you mind ….
William Jones
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Chris Sims
The Bed Bath
I squeeze the blue flannel,
it’s warm, no drips.
I wipe your face,
tilt your chin,
wash your neck,
drop a kiss on your head
to reassure you.
I refresh the flannel,
wash your chest,
lift your dead-weight arms,
rinse away suds,
cover you with a blanket.
The brown flannel
bathes your loins.
I joke about your willy,
pretend I can rouse him
but he’s beyond help
and so are you.
You lie there,
my friend, lover, husband,
and say Thanks darling.
But you turn your head
towards the window,
your eyes as bleak
as the frozen garden.
Di Coffey
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Chris Sims
Between Cigarettes
A milky cloud ran liquid from your lip,
your nails were dry. And in your yellowed grip
you held a cigarette. Preoccupied
you glanced around, while with an even stride
you marked a minute more outdoors, before
returning to her quiet ward once more.
It reeked of sweat and mildew, scrubbed and bleached,
and from the starched synthetic sheets she reached
towards you, purple bruising on her hand,
a silent ache extended. A demand
for recognition after years unchanged,
of awkward phone calls, visits rearranged
for later. Now, with no more time to wait
she reaches, tries to bridge the gap. Too late.
Your hand is in your pocket and your face
It’s turned away, you’re staring into space.
She went unnoticed, gazing past her bed
your eyes are filled with amber light instead,
reflecting fields of ‘Golden Virginia’;
the heady scent a bitter severer,
a shelterer, from thoughts too stark to think.
A Rizla pressed against your palm, you shrink
away. Your heart too full to feel regrets
your mother lies between two cigarettes.
Kelsi Delaney
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Chris Sims
After the funeral
An undertaker
leads us in slow procession
out to the car park.
Our shoes drum on the pavement
out of time, our shoulders hunch.
The plain wooden box
sat in the back of the hearse
seems far too small and
looks faded, it is the same
colour as the upholstery.
We breathe more deeply,
feeling guilty as we do.
Trying not to stare
too much, we fumble blindly
for the doors of our taxis.
My father lingers
as a man closes the boot.
Eyes up to the sky,
shining, stung by the cold wind.
He must be searching for you.
Kelsi Delaney
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Chris Sims
The smile
The trouble with smiling
began
when she was a child
Her teeth
were never
quite right he said
Skinning her teeth, she stood accused
(with no idea what that meant)
So, she tried to
unskin her teeth
Hence always
the uncertain smile
When she left
home
Her teeth
a little older
Rotten, from never brushing quite enough
never quite right
Dazzling her teeth, hidden from the world
(with no idea what that meant)
So, she tried to
fix her teeth
Hence always
a hesitant smile
Half a century
gone
Her teeth
fixed
Almost right
with care
A smile bright
Marva Jackson Lord
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Chris Sims
Déjà Vu
She stood in the solar, uncertain.
The old house spoke, and said,
“You have been here before, you know.”
Drawn to the window, she looked out
To the lawns, to the little river,
And saw herself standing on the grass,
Looking up to the window.
“I have been here before,” she said.
But she hadn’t.
Kathy Sharp
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Chris Sims
Sixties Dreams
Fog-filled evening, echo of dog bark.
Scrape of shovel and clinker
to signal the gathering of coal.
Inside, the Home Service broadcasts
with received pronunciation
while Mum darns socks
by curling flames. A boy sits
at the kitchen table
poring over sums, the family’s
future in his inky hands. Tomorrow
she will donkey the front step
its chalk line marking the
threshold of respectable folk.
Upstairs, the acetone stench of
Cutex and hairspray as Linda
plans to sneak out the back
along the snicket where she will
meet Tom, share a Woodie
behind the corner shop.
Instead of grinding shift-work
at the biscuit factory she dreams
of uplift bras and bright lights.
Tom says he knows someone
in a band, so she’ll take her
chances. Any day soon
she’ll be on that Salford bus
head up the motorway.
She feels its dangerous pull.
Rachael Clyne
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