—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
PRESERVED
I dusted coal soot from the sill
and came across the brittle bee,
stuck, desiccated, frosted pane.
And yet, with yoghurt, muesli dish,—
a bowl of porridge not amiss—
I plunged my fork deep in the pot
and spooned gold honey onto mix.
The jams and pickles, sloe gin jars—
ghoul specimens of organs, blood—
thank God for vinegar preserve,
a promise realised before.
Those languorous, drawn heady days
of elderflower, drone buzzy gnats,
will come gain, blaze summer tastes.
For now, past future on the shelves,
swelt sweating stove for spreading loaf,
float gherkins, onions, sweet with cheese,
a ploughman’s grubby hand from sheaves,
slow thaw, then other layered snow
cannot remove year’s heavy brew,
sure harvest cycle, budding soon.
I dusted coal soot from the sill
and came across the brittle bee,
stuck, desiccated, frosted pane.
And yet, with yoghurt, muesli dish,—
a bowl of porridge not amiss—
I plunged my fork deep in the pot
and spooned gold honey onto mix.
The jams and pickles, sloe gin jars—
ghoul specimens of organs, blood—
thank God for vinegar preserve,
a promise realised before.
Those languorous, drawn heady days
of elderflower, drone buzzy gnats,
will come gain, blaze summer tastes.
For now, past future on the shelves,
swelt sweating stove for spreading loaf,
float gherkins, onions, sweet with cheese,
a ploughman’s grubby hand from sheaves,
slow thaw, then other layered snow
cannot remove year’s heavy brew,
sure harvest cycle, budding soon.
THE HOUSE THAT MOVED
Told moving house a major stress,
but where the emphasis?
My relocation, focal site,
transferring home from house.
The change was of my fixed mind-set,
with salt drips reaching tongue,
half-empty cup now overflows,
I feel it in my bowels.
Never chessboard gambit, clever,
nor shift, a change of gear,
timely initiating—but
fresh rhyme, new paradigm.
Stone lintel long-divorced from wall,
each hang had its own song,
put-up-with hatch that I moaned, now
anointed without oil.
The tin bath is my jacuzzi,
gas ring my Aga range,
my outhouse mangle, laundromat,
sea shanties I sing there.
Before door shaped the bell lost flex—
but like the clapper swing;
beneath, the scraper where I tread,
soiled boots swop for my soul.
Still sat, I stare through the pained glass,
cracked, garden, easy whin,
built on dolerite foundation,
now this my box on sill.
Kites pennant, hawks stoop, thermals swoop,
vigilante cloud patrol,
while even storm petrel coastguards
serve lookout for my byer.
Told moving house a major stress,
but where the emphasis?
My relocation, focal site,
transferring home from house.
The change was of my fixed mind-set,
with salt drips reaching tongue,
half-empty cup now overflows,
I feel it in my bowels.
Never chessboard gambit, clever,
nor shift, a change of gear,
timely initiating—but
fresh rhyme, new paradigm.
Stone lintel long-divorced from wall,
each hang had its own song,
put-up-with hatch that I moaned, now
anointed without oil.
The tin bath is my jacuzzi,
gas ring my Aga range,
my outhouse mangle, laundromat,
sea shanties I sing there.
Before door shaped the bell lost flex—
but like the clapper swing;
beneath, the scraper where I tread,
soiled boots swop for my soul.
Still sat, I stare through the pained glass,
cracked, garden, easy whin,
built on dolerite foundation,
now this my box on sill.
Kites pennant, hawks stoop, thermals swoop,
vigilante cloud patrol,
while even storm petrel coastguards
serve lookout for my byer.
BIKE RIDE
I saw this bike, post-war, restored—
The Repair Shop, a TV show,
and suddenly I’m riding it.
A toddler, at my mother’s back,
the child-seat crude, black rods, red pad,
mudguard white striped, black-out required.
She told me, first air-raid she knew,
new dress, on slab, newspaper laid,
she lay, more fear newsprint transferred.
Handlebars battered, spinning wheels,
as lifted head, surveyed the screams—
and then this bike, her own, my ride.
I saw this bike, post-war, restored—
The Repair Shop, a TV show,
and suddenly I’m riding it.
A toddler, at my mother’s back,
the child-seat crude, black rods, red pad,
mudguard white striped, black-out required.
She told me, first air-raid she knew,
new dress, on slab, newspaper laid,
she lay, more fear newsprint transferred.
Handlebars battered, spinning wheels,
as lifted head, surveyed the screams—
and then this bike, her own, my ride.
URBAN SCAPE
I loved old metal fire escapes,
black clatter steps, scaled back entrance,
back passage airy filigree,
exoskeletal buttress place.
They enforced snickets, garage kerbs,
detritus bins kept out of sight,
room space preventing tenements,
the crowded High Street free to live.
These alimentary canals,
deliveries, smell, scrap compact,
of grease, car parts, tired tread remoulds,
white van man, packing, in a rush,
well hidden from commercial front,
where pristine counter customers
meet patter, sleek, sales talk let loose,
free coffee, clip board, x tick box.
I loved old metal fire escapes,
black clatter steps, scaled back entrance,
back passage airy filigree,
exoskeletal buttress place.
They enforced snickets, garage kerbs,
detritus bins kept out of sight,
room space preventing tenements,
the crowded High Street free to live.
These alimentary canals,
deliveries, smell, scrap compact,
of grease, car parts, tired tread remoulds,
white van man, packing, in a rush,
well hidden from commercial front,
where pristine counter customers
meet patter, sleek, sales talk let loose,
free coffee, clip board, x tick box.
SPLASHERS
The hug of clothes that want to be
my shadow bones, while I tense stiff,
try to shrink small within the mess,
straitjacket, rigid, colds my roots,
exoskeletal mummy trim.
Why then do I more long for room,
skin steamy shower, pores over me?
And why suit swim, delighting fall
ghyll, fountain, installation art,
or watching children muck about?
When, H2O ingredient,
why Gran swearing homeopath—
though malaprop names osteo,
because she thinks it’s preferences—
shows no support for water-sports?
No calories or nutrients,
though always making presence felt,
adapting shape to what without;
dihydrogen monoxide tap—
killer, best-model, car exhaust?
I wade lands, curlew, snipe, redshank,
lug shovels sieving wormy tripe,
sea lunar drag on glisten flats,
silt bays, a haemorrhage of waves,
while soles know creep of seeping boots.
The second day, creation’s map,
then floods before Mount Ararat;
whatever myths, curl hieroglyphs,
this damp course stalking every step,
for we are splashers, wet, drip, wet.
TREE
Lichen to a north face trunk,
so similar to old man’s beard
in grizzled clumps curled about bole,
knee bowed,
gnarled knurl thrown prone in gales.
Lopped to side despite the bark,
rings bitten, chewed to oval shape.
through high flow low tight isobars,
as though new highlight paradigm.
I know that wizened moorland scrag,
two more on either side of tump,
a tumulus of ancient land;
the grouse where skylarks fear ascent,
where Sycorax trapped Ariel,
thin xylem as capillaries,
grey cambium,
cork overcoat.
A landing sight for sparrowhawk—
trail worthless spadgers brought to naught—
a gulp of magpies, every side,
for all the world, these mocking birds
with trifles snapped, Autolycus,
those shiny, silver coin bits.
This whisked, abused as whipping post,
where sleeting spears pierced between ribs,
as spokeshaves, floored by carpenter,
taut calloused derm drawn over bone,
the cage protecting growth in phloem.
Another tree that bore the weight
of all the world could throw at it—
though jessie bells rang over stump
where stooping,
preying wings found flight.
Lichen to a north face trunk,
so similar to old man’s beard
in grizzled clumps curled about bole,
knee bowed,
gnarled knurl thrown prone in gales.
Lopped to side despite the bark,
rings bitten, chewed to oval shape.
through high flow low tight isobars,
as though new highlight paradigm.
I know that wizened moorland scrag,
two more on either side of tump,
a tumulus of ancient land;
the grouse where skylarks fear ascent,
where Sycorax trapped Ariel,
thin xylem as capillaries,
grey cambium,
cork overcoat.
A landing sight for sparrowhawk—
trail worthless spadgers brought to naught—
a gulp of magpies, every side,
for all the world, these mocking birds
with trifles snapped, Autolycus,
those shiny, silver coin bits.
This whisked, abused as whipping post,
where sleeting spears pierced between ribs,
as spokeshaves, floored by carpenter,
taut calloused derm drawn over bone,
the cage protecting growth in phloem.
Another tree that bore the weight
of all the world could throw at it—
though jessie bells rang over stump
where stooping,
preying wings found flight.
BOOT CAMP
Is this staged placement, or a sign,
fixed gravure set up, come on scene,
pig iron, wrought, or park art scheme,
where auxin scattered leaves before,
a resting place, or slat-stirred quirk?
Brass plaque records some passing gift,
where ash leaf dust, die-back has blown,
though tarnished plate will dye the script,
will widow, tramps wrest waiting place,
a cue for queue at check-out time?
Fresh concrete layby, parking space
for picnic tea or bottle feed,
some thermos flask, more warming proof,
sans serif curvature in place,
these black lace bootstraps only blue?
‘Bury me in my boots’ read, youth,
homeless; me sheets, quilted bed.
Those bars that blocked paths, or held up,
is this grave site where souls laid down,
sole trader, angels fear to tread?
Is this staged placement, or a sign,
fixed gravure set up, come on scene,
pig iron, wrought, or park art scheme,
where auxin scattered leaves before,
a resting place, or slat-stirred quirk?
Brass plaque records some passing gift,
where ash leaf dust, die-back has blown,
though tarnished plate will dye the script,
will widow, tramps wrest waiting place,
a cue for queue at check-out time?
Fresh concrete layby, parking space
for picnic tea or bottle feed,
some thermos flask, more warming proof,
sans serif curvature in place,
these black lace bootstraps only blue?
‘Bury me in my boots’ read, youth,
homeless; me sheets, quilted bed.
Those bars that blocked paths, or held up,
is this grave site where souls laid down,
sole trader, angels fear to tread?
DERAILED
The rail, the train, the radio—
unless she’s chill, having a ball—
cross-leggèd girl, holds Apple stock,
for blaster from the ghetto, tracks
to wake the sleepers bedded down,
as those on board, but dozing off,
through rhythmic rock and rolling stock.
Seen gleaming teeth, I hear the crunch—
but not, one hopes, on the downline—
while black and white suggest the past,
a vanished age beyond the point,
when all seemed well with peace not war,
angled, parallel universe.
Energy buttressed, poles apart,
white posts, receding memories—
a graveyard, naïve innocents,
like Woodstock on an urban set,
transported here through time and space,
belief suspended overhead.
Well dressed, is she a modelled snap,
her carriage frozen, train set, same,
maybe from right side of the tracks?
This spin, not counter-culture stuff—
not flower-power, or hippie trail,
nor Hendrix stars and strafe, guitar.
I’m derailed by nostalgia trap.
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Life is a long lesson in humility.
—James M. Barrie
________________________
Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poetry today, and a reminder that there are three events this afternoon and this evening on the NorCal poetry scene: a workshop this afternoon in Modesto; a reading later this afternoon by Stan Zumbiel and Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas; and a reading this evening by Patrice Hill at The Brickhouse in Sacramento. Click the UPCOMING POETRY EVENTS at the top of this column for all the information!
Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poetry today, and a reminder that there are three events this afternoon and this evening on the NorCal poetry scene: a workshop this afternoon in Modesto; a reading later this afternoon by Stan Zumbiel and Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas; and a reading this evening by Patrice Hill at The Brickhouse in Sacramento. Click the UPCOMING POETRY EVENTS at the top of this column for all the information!
The latest issue of Sisyphus magazine (The Hope Issue) is out now at sisyphuslitmag.org/.
_________________________
—Medusa
of elderflower…”
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