A sense of place

A question I often get asked – as I’m sure most poets do – is who do enjoy reading. I have a small bookcase crammed with around one hundred poetry books. I am an eclectic reader! However, I do have certain ‘go to’ poets depending on mood and circumstances.

At the moment, I’m plugged into August Kleinzahler. One of my favourites.

Born in New York, having lived most of his life in San Francisco, his work largely vacillates between these two great cities. But what I like most about his writing is his fine observation of the minute details around where he lives. His sense of and rooting in place.

And this is especially important for me just now. Having moved from Devon, where I effectively grew up as a poet with the help of a wonderful and wide-ranging group of friends, I am now settled into the most delightful of English towns, Shrewsbury.

Already I have been welcomed into a buzzing poetry community and making new friends. Only last week we had the excellent John Hegley as guest at Shrewsbury Poetry and the place was rammed. Followed up by a late-night session with eight of us, including John, back at a friend’s apartment.

But, of course, gelling into your new world takes a lot more than that. And August is helping me down that road.

Polarised

At dverse this week the prompt from Dora is to write a poem using an animal as a metaphor to break through on a blank page

His eyes are a wasteland mirrored
by the arctic paper
lying in front of me.

This hunter of seals through
pack ice and
snowed shores.

Eventually blood will write
of the kill in this
clean wilderness

And so now
my page
finally bleeds

Wild Horses

At dverse tonight the prompt from Mish is to write a Quadrille (a poem of 44 words) including the word shift or a derivative of that.

When wind reaches a certain velocity
it shape-shifts into wild horses
that charge ahead.

Flaming hoofs,
manes of streaming water,
eyes rolling,
not in fear
but for the joy
of being unleashed.

You ask me
about my emotions.
What more can I tell you.

Stealing the moon and dreams

At dverse tonight the prompt from Frank is to write a Haibun (short prose with a haiku). Today is Mezza Luna, or half moon and that is our subject.

That’s it. Another day put to the sword. I watched it drown in an indigo sky,
thinly slashed by a burnt orange sunset, which bled out under stars, Venus,
Jupiter, the half moon. Now a frostbitten night is closing down, will put us
to bed in a deep freeze. Swallow our dreams. The only sounds: a river
chattering in the cold as it slides over a double weir, the faint rocking of
traffic on the bypass.

Silky black river
captures a bright half moon and
drags it out to sea

Are you allowed to kiss me in a bookshop

Tonight at dverse Kim charges us with writing a poem about kissing!

I bought a coffee,
settled back in a wicker chair
between the book isles,
started reading Desolation Angels.

Late February threaded light through,
shelves, books, air dust.
Painted shadows on the wood floor.
After several false alarms

a tiny bell announced your entrance.
You busily chatted to staff,
I looked on.
Then you walked up to my table,

and lent forward,

closing the gap of light between us.

Never-ending journey

At dverse Sarah has us revisiting the wonderful work of artist Fay Collins who sadly passed away recently. We are writing ekphrastic poetry inspired by one of her paintings. This was my choice.

There is that moment when solid ground is

no longer.

And you are free to
drift and roll with tides,
undercurrents, ride
waves violent or gentle.

This shape shifting world
at the end of the road is

fathomless.

A place where your mind can

roam
as you are buoyed in
unending free fall.