Perceptions are very clear in these poems full of light. Neil Leadbeater concentrates on the foxgloves. Tony Lewis-Jones and Jennifer A. McGowan deal with personal relationships against well defined backgrounds, while in Geraldine Green’s poem the writer simply sits and meditates. Prayer, rosaries, religious feelings enter some of these poems but they are all, it seems to me, about perception. Our thanks to all these poets.
Keep on sending, readers who are poets. How? email sally evans 35 at gmail dot com with your poem or poems and details of first publication, which should be at least three years ago. If you have a photo you can send that too, otherwise I will match one to your poem.
There’ll be some more reviews on the review site soon. Promise
These garden escapes, hardy stalwarts,
have legged it from the border —
they have said goodbye to the shade-loving ferns
and broken free from the boundary wall
to seed in chippings, chesil slack,
a no-man’s land by the standing trucks
blushing like children at the station box
who trespass for kicks in forbidden plots,
the place more beautiful than ever before
because of their bright bravado.
first appeared in Poetry Cornwall in 2011.
Let Us Not Think Of It Now
It’s Easter. We are going
To your sister’s in the country
Being driven by a friend
Through lanes which whisper
With both our pasts,
Which we have known
For almost all our lives.
Love, there has been blood
Spilled on this grass,
Beneath these trees.
Let us not think of it now,
The centuries of passion and despair
Arching to the firmament
Shrouded today in God’s
When we get to the house
All is ready
And the meal we eat
Is edifying, heartening, good.
I bathe in the love
Of our family, am risen.
first published at Writers Cafe USA in 2012.
Jennifer A. McGowan
I carry you with me
like a bruise:
dark, tender, incompletely hidden.
Loneliness is a secretive art.
It can be flaunted,
but in the open, discussed calmly
over tea, it becomes
something other than itself—
a badge of pride, a medal
cast from the pain
that bore it.
The hat you left,
a tatty bookmark, an umbrella
rattling in its stand.
These are my manuals
for remembering your touch,
your voice, the way
you giggled at mirrors,
how you liked music loud.
With each passing day
I sing your name more slowly,
a hesitant litany, a half-remembered prayer,
like a rosary dropped at the station
waiting for the final tread.
First published in the author’s chapbook, Life In Captivity (Finishing Line Press, 2011).
Early morning prayer
This is the quiet indulgence, sitting here, these keys clicking together like rosary
beads, or the soft click of amber against amber
the rain’s incessant window-tapping making a music, me space-filled, the wind
I’m listening to entering me like silk blowing
or spider’s threads coming together to weave some sound from nothing, thinking
back to conversations and dreams, the sweet insistence of diastole systole diastole,
the movement of breath among mountains, a Ghazal woven into a carpet, or the
soft click of raindrop’s ambered against a window.
It is almost a prayer this time of morning, that I may never know certainties,
it is almost a litany of outside coming in, an opening of blood and sinews and
bones, the interstices of my body allowing the universe to enter in all its tattered glory.
This is a prayer I am praying in the quiet, wild hours of morning.
First published in ‘Passio’ Flarestack Pubs. 2006