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@rebeccasowray
August
Here’s to the slow roll of the dice, a weight of clocks, the turning away of turning off. To dinner out of cans and shirts ironed where you can see them, if at all. Tea with three sugars ‘cos you can’t be bothered to eat. A cat on your knee or the silent, absent smile of an old friend. To the promise of autumn in the early windfalls and the stillness of empty shops. An indifferent sun on the same…
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This woman
Crossfire by The Reads, a review
Well then, The Reads; what’s new? An album, you say, “Crossfire” released next Friday?
And as you’ll not be going out, any of you really, then you can stop in and listen to new music?
It’s been a while; so take a sideways step first. Because with this album it’s the constants that strike.
For this, a third album, what endures? Pace, adventure and a sense of wonder. Making space to…
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Wine
The first of a series of ‘postcards’ – tiny, unconnected stories.
The edge of the table cloth moves under the breeze. Worn, white jacquard, soft on my hands, creases easily as my fingers undo its neatness.
Folds meet pattern; describing possibility. Dressing a table pleases me; a naked table’s as sad as a bare mattress.
I’ve read Neruda for the last five nights, my mind’s there still. Nights…
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legion a glass from the bar on the steps by the door a fractional measure of something you loved…
gate
This poem's about identity; where we find ourselves
gate you draw rust where heat’s been; some passage of time; life’s clouded outcomes; weather or not we care. you’re iron to me; blood strength. took years to find you; all: frame, hinge, key, arch; allowing passage back.
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Bananas - a conference
Bananas – a conference
“Unbridled creativity is a bit nuts” Why do we go on conferences? Because my boss said? But I’m self employed. Because my professional body says I must do some form of ongoing education? As a copywriter I have no professional body as such. Because it’s good for me? Well, now you come to mention it. Professional Copywriters Network run one conference, once a year, for one day. I am 8 hours…
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Dandelion
Dandelion - a poem from my walking
a poem from my walking … Dandelion Our moon fell hard to earth, soaked through night to soil. The shivering ground waited; swallowed silver gilded dust. For winter a formless heart; ice and rain raise no pity. The world holds on … for something better. An imperfect star orbits; reluctant saviour, pulling close. Warmth and a debt of heat; full completeness in time. Gaudy, childish; bright…
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Lily - a drawing
Lily – a drawing
Lily my dear father was long winter’s Equinox; he mixed into mother mine; last Moon of the Year. i remember this; their coupling made me. head in the sky and roots in the earth; i am Lily. my feet have not travelled but these toes, in the soil, challenge cold Death. at your ending i will be there. i keep faith with your truth; a bodied spell to cast your soul out to lover and enemy the same.…
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first draft - road home
first draft – road home
road home empty house, no-one’s calling dreams are maps; I am sleepless, drowning at the end of the world choking on strangers’ needs days inside the machine, nights in a foreign bed, looking for the road home seasons pass, rain grows cold, bricks and stone are prison, the moon cannot catch me, my fear poisons the black days inside the machine, nights in a foreign bed; looking for the road…
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Holly's punk
Holly’s punk
Not far from here there’s a managed woodland. There’s a careful, english, beauty about it. The right mix of ash and crab apple, sycamore at the margins, birch and beech; intentional mistletoe. And holly. In the body of the plantation there’s holly. Creamy, variegated holly. Gently kept in check to make a large shrub. Around her it’s autumn; the leaf fall is heavy. The day is dry and…
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All There Is
A poem, and it's not about singing...
A poem, and it’s not about singing … All There Is I wasn’t old. But enough; enough about years. They pass to silence. To sing. I knew; pitch, phrase, breath. All of it. That day. No more or less. A series of disasters. I was too small. So many other singers; loud, laughing. Ready. Better. To sing alone; the last. Skin cold, breath tight, failing heart shallow. Far easier to fall. Fear. Fear.…
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a draft thing
a draft thing - the beginning of something bigger, or an end in itself, i don't know
So here’s a thing, a draft thing. I’m not sure who the characters are; I can probably guess their ages, but not genders as yet, but I know they’re close to each other. It’s been a long time since I’ve written any long prose; it’s a bit like being drunk or lost; easy to fall into; harder to get out. Hearth The hearth is warm stone; made so by the passage of years, each autumn in its turn, every…
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Middle of Nowhere
My cat died. My cat that saw me into an empty house of an evening for ten years of workdays and sat with me on afternoon for eight years of children. I smashed some old teacups and it didn’t work, suspect you have to use the best ones. Middle of Nowhere Summer sky through green leaves suspended, hammock swinging, bare foot and shoulder; absent without leave from my own life. Smashed pots lie…
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Deja Vu and 1918.Une Montre
Deja Vu and 1918.Une Montre
So. I underwrite. Not a wasted word or overstated sentiment. Which is grand, except that sometimes it renders what I write incomprehensibly abstract, obscure, evasive. So here are two poems that centre round the same idea of emotional return. The shorter one I wrote first. And then a friend remarked upon the abstract nature of what I write and I saw that, for what it sometimes is, a kind of…
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tiny
a tiny lyrical thing ...
here’s a thing, a lyrical thing tiny broken clocks to break my fall; first place past, a losing second; rain drops river round me a dusty sailing back if time wrote our stories, we could never be late, only tied by fate to futures that drowned in debt walk home on tomorrow’s path; this housing’s empty, carry on, pack around you all you love, this strength beats weight i only know these words and…
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Five days holiday, five poems ...
Five days holiday, five poems …
I guess this is a kind of ‘what I did on my holidays’. Only not … One way or another all these connect with those five days. ROMANCE Tea bag, in a mug, times two, set by a kettle. Leaving the front light on for me coming in. Wildflowers, wilting, bruised, in a milk bottle. Voices round me as I fall asleep. Waking under canvas whilst the world turns. Knowing others read this book before…
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