Much poetry

 

Poetry all from the library ... it's been a delight to find so many there when I search someone's name, mostly from reviews in the Grauniad. 'So Many Rooms' by Laura Scott is one I would buy. They are interesting, pithy poems, never wishy-washy. I liked all the first few with references to Russian literature. I like poets unafraid to be clever. A smattering of memories and observations, the little things you mostly pass over. Some are 'descriptive' but mostly they ask you to pause a moment and consider something. It is ok to use the word profound? 

Pigeon

The soft thud of it

as it hit the car,

feathers floating 

up like smoke

rising into the blue

on a packet of gitanes.

I've always thought

too much of death,

let it hang around

my ankles like a child

you drag across the floor.

I never found

the right broom

to shoo it away.

'All the Men I Never Married' by Kim Moore is a fabulous feminist rant of a book, venting the poet's frustration at the state of the world and the complexity of human relationships. They cover uncomfortable moments in taxis, and on trains, unsolicited opinions, ex boyfriends, deepfake porn and rape. Sometimes harrowing, but I don't mind being harrowed by poetry, it doesn't feel manipulative because it is honest.

38.

The night I left home, walked away even though

he told me to come back, I caught the night bus

into the city. Around me were young women

wearing the clothes I used to wear,

bra-straps showing, bare-legged, lounging like cats.

Their laughter washed over me as the bus

staggered and leaved itself around corners.

I didn't move as they swayed and fell into each other.

Through the window I watched a man

skirt a puddle, his briefcase against his chest,

a strange and solitary dancer.

He looked at me, then looked away.

I wish I could say I stayed out all night,

had a life-changing encounter with someone

homeless and lonely and worse off than me,

or even that I'd sat in McDonald's,

drank cup after cup of lukewarm tea,

vowed never to go back home again.

The truth: I was too afraid to stay out all night

because everything wild within me had gone.

I went to my sister's, though I knew

he would find me. The path in darkness

the crunching of snails underfoot.

The many small deaths of that night.

His fist on the door, again and again.

Realising he would not leave, pretending to her

that it would be ok, that this was an ordinary row.

Making myself go downstairs and get into his car.

And what happened next, and what came after,

I do not remember. I see the same things you do now.

Him walking down the path in his leather jacket.

Me following after. The back of my head. His smile

as he opens the car and mock bows me in.

My sister standing in the light of the porch,

her arms crossed, angry and silent.

I love Mary Oliver, I mean what kind of self respecting poetry reader doesn't love Mary Oliver, but I was underwhelmed by 'Why I Wake Early'. They are very descriptive, unprovocative, almost sentimental. Maybe I just wasn't in the mood for it. Several religious references put me off. I give you, unseasonably:

November

The snow

began slowly,

a soft and easy

sprinkling

of flakes, then clouds of flakes

in the baskets of the wind

and the branches

of the trees - 

oh, so pretty.

We walked

through the growing stillness,

as the flakes

pricked the path,

then covered it,

then deepened

as it curds and drifts,

as the wind grew stronger,

shaping its work

less delicately,

taking greater steps

over the hills

and through the trees

until, finally,

we were cold,

and far from home.

We turned

and followed our long shadows back

to the house,

stamping our feet,

went inside, and shut the door.

Through the window

we could see

how far away it was to the gates of April.

Let the fire now

put on its red hat

and sing to us.

Stay safe. Be kind. Take a moment.