• Archive of all Poetry Space showcases
Photograph – Lizzie Ballagher
Editor- Susan Jane Sims
I am a little late publishing this quarterly showcase as I have recently had a major operation and did not get a chance to select a guest editor. However I have enjoyed reading through all the wonderful entries and have made my selection.
Do you now See, Etna, how seasons communicate?
You, too, wait for me when fall arrives.
Winter, afterwards, is how you treat it:
it may numb your limbs to the bone,
same as it may be that uninvited guest,
who knocks on the door one snow stormy night,
and is seated by the hearth, where firewood is cracking,
while he starts pulling out oven-hot stories,
about true or made-up stuff,
leaving the curious kids dumbstruck.
Don’t wait for fall to come to your doorstep.
Seasons have their own events,
same as people do.
It may happen that it shows by surprise,
it may flash by your home,
while in a hurry to elsewhere.
It might have come forth from inside your being,
while you were busy watering the lilies,
white like the steamy breath in a winter day.
Do you now see, Etna, how seasons communicate?
Alisa Velaj
Translated from Albanian by Arben P. Latifi
Contrastive Duality
Birds they are,
even when visiting
from ice.
A broken love
amid ghosts of leaves
they are.
Alisa Velaj
Translated from Albanian by Arben P. Latifi
Questions of Life
The love of a child, all-absorbing
catches you unawares.
You didn’t realise another being
so small, so mysterious
could have such power,
would transform your life.
There is no going back –
she cannot be repackaged, returned.
One day she will ask
How did I get here?
When was I born?
Did you expect me?
Was I a surprise?
as if you had a choice.
Sue Wallace-Shaddad
Lovestone
The unyielding strength of two p.m.
September sun keeps my bones warm.
You now asleep inside the building
not more than four arm lengths away;
alone, this place would not be home.
I’m moving carefully here, all’s so still.
Under bare feet I feel the daisy-rich
lawn root through me. And the dark
green ivy, fast to the wall, seems to grip
all my hazy past and future tight with her
elegant tendrils. But allows the wren, hidden
beneath its trailing veil, to begin to sing.
Playing their own version of intimacy,
open gate’s shimmering shadow falls
upon the stones. Together they form an
unclosed path to the overgrown yard
where fuchsia drips, her moody flowers
aching to touch the shaded ground.
The worn, flagstone steps shine deeply
with unknown years of past generations’
clog/boot fall. Those gone, still speak
along with the birdsong, in a proud, strong
vocabulary that reminds and reassures me…
Ian Huckson
And the Company
And the company
Was brilliant people living
Their cracked lives
In spite of each other
With children like
Shards of light
Refracted through
The brittle glass of schools.
And the company had dreams
Once; like adulterers
Some tried them years ago
In cities far from here;
They don’t see them anymore.
Weeks slam into weeks
Against the year’s fag-end.
The city cracks; its streets,
Its words, its festivals
Like old pavement
Tip, spill, spoil,
And the company
Knows it’s no use
Among the old words
For festivals but
Hasn’t space – new words
Find places of their own,
Children will discover
Them in cities far from here.
Michael Docker
Tate Modern
Shell-shocked,
mesmerised, kids
trail behind their parents.
But why? they ask,
eyeing the pink lobster
phone, faces out of kilter,
the urinal in a glass case.
They grumble, peer
at their mobiles, drag
their feet, hugely bored.
Upstairs, in a room filled
with giant chess pieces,
a girl, four or five years old,
sprawls at ease on the floor.
Pencil in hand, a box
of crayons open beside her,
she’s totally involved,
drawing her version
of the King, complete
with coloured crown.
I’m Tennessee, she confides.
She’s the only person
actually taking part in
what the Tate is all about.
Here, she says, for you,
and gives me her picture,
a hands-on reminder of
our Sunday visit to the
famous London gallery.
Moira Andrew
I Told My Son To Look For Helicopters In The Maple Seed
I did not hear the whirring sounds
when a helicopter crashed
the garden table and flipped over on to the patio,
it didn’t break the sturdy plastic furniture
pancakes still intact on plates
Landing skids snapped, fuel now sludge
engines in shreds. Its pale green rotor blades
like stag’s antlers with stumps,
a cockpit attached the Maple
the salvaged wreck now a Hornby model
Once carefully wrapped – Maple leaf
texture like birthday paper.
In a tray, little pot of glue, hopes of sticking together
navigated by birds, insects, human contact
dragging it up to a landing of soil, plants itself.
How grows sweet Maple; tapped for sugar, syrup, patio table.
Johanna Boal
rosebay willow herb
too slender for a poem
far too tall for a
haiku
rosy pink flowers
with leaves in willow pattern
bend to the water
overlap
four-petal rosettes
fade, froth up with autumn’s fleece
push out long seed-pods
split—more
rosebay willow herbs
Lizzie Ballagher
Cerulean
My heart fluttered; all was serene
The skies above an ocean blue and an emerald green
Small hands began to jab at my knees
Peering from behind my book of magic, and fantasy was the creature poking me
Spikey locks that resembled molasses and chocolate drop eyes
Crawling onto my lap I cradled him
His curious face against mine
Pink lips smeared with cookie crumbs
Tanned skin smooth and reflecting the sun
His smile was just like his father’s
Mischievous and silly with kindness underneath
And when I held my baby boy
I knew that our love would always be as wide as the ocean and as deep as the sea.
Kirsten Monro
Rehab
I was sick,
Sick for an idea I had built myself
Of course, it was a beautiful idea,
All glittering, lovely blues, decadent white and gold,
Rose and coral, amber and green like the earth
But underneath,
Oh, underneath it all was
Raw, hollow, and black
I can’t regret it though,
Because although it beat me blind,
Drawing on the walls with my red paint,
It also dug its nails into my face
And twisted my head so I could see
It made me look at that nightmare
Until I was no longer scared
Of who I was
Beautiful Again
The growing pains are fading faster than they came,
My words are sweet again, something like honey
And like the lapping of waves on the shore,
Life feels beautiful in an inexplicable certainty
Sophie Zhu
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Editor’s notes
Do you now see, Etna, how seasons communicate?
I am not sure I really understand this poem and yet it made a big impression on me for it’s beautiful imagery. I think it is about the rhythm of the seasons and how each has an impact on the next.
Contrastive Duality
A tiny poem with a haunting quality.
Questions of Life
Yesterday, I met two young babies, the children of friends of my own children and the promise in their eyes has stayed with me so much so that when I made my selection this morning I knew this one had to go in. I love the ending: the imagined questions followed by the line ‘as if you had a choice’.
Lovestone
This is an atmospheric poem with some beautiful lines. I particularly like: Those gone, still speak,/along with the birdsong,… The poem reminds us of comfort found in nature when we have experienced loss.
And the Company
This is an intriguing poem with the feel of science fiction. I love the idea of dreams tried out in another place, (or time) being like adultery.
Tate Modern
I love this art gallery and I love this poem about a young child making the experience of visiting, her very own. The concrete detail really makes this poem.
I Told My Son To Look For Helicopters In The Maple Seed
Another intriguing poem about nature and how something can be something else.
rosebay willow herb
It seemed apt to follow a maple seed poem poem, with one about herbs. A beautifully simple yet evocative poem.
Cerulean
A beautiful moment between a mother and her baby boy, captured in this poem. This could do with a little editing but I chose it for the emotion behind it and the concrete detail.
Rehab
I am not totally sure if this poem is about rehab from drugs or simply about transition, growing up, moving from childhood phase to adulthood. It is certainly about finding out who you are and learning to be at peace with that. I chose it for its powerful imagery.
