poems and stories
scroll down to read poems and stories in our
growing weekly from October to December 2019
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Our first poem for autumn is by Lesley Quayle
Now is the time for ripening plums and yellow grass,
maize shouldering the sky, hedgerows cut,
sharp and angular – the precise geometry of field edges.
I could lie down among vetch and rye-grass,
disturb tiny, starry moths, listen to the hungering
rooks and wait for the first leaf to fall.
I may squint at the low sun, hand-cast a shadow
over my brow, and watch the gauzy edge of autumn
fold over blackthorn, savour the chill of summer’s ghost,
let wilderness seep through veins, fill up the hollow heart,
a nest of root and twigs and stolen down, close my eyes
while drifting spiders weave their silk,
smirr my lashes to placate unfiltered light.
Stay there, ignoring tasks, the scratch and fret
of hour collapsing into hour, like scything nettles,
and maybe sleep, time marked by nothing more
than one leaf after another.
After ‘The Fall’, Hugo van de Goes, 1479
He was happy with my form
till he happened across yours.
Like any child the impulse is to play
not make; your limbs it seems
are more pliable and your hearts
So the fact that I could wind myself
into circles that inspired the sun,
tie myself into copulative knots,
make language in the sand,
meant nothing but more possibilities for you.
We lived together a good while – you wished
your tongue could read the air like mine,
I wished my eyes could talk.
We grew further apart.
Your hisses became syllabic,
you whispered to one another.
Tried to meet you in the middle:
hid in bushes growing legs
that lent no length, couldn’t bring me
any closer to your ear.
My face craved reflection,
stung with unread frowns and smiles.
I wish, I wish it were as simple
as a piece of fruit.
Truthfully, there was no taboo
hanging from that tree –
it was just where we played,
but your ideas grew quicker than trees
and you imagined fruits
that would never grow here
and they still won’t grow here
just as I don’t grow and everything
without you stays the same.
Previously published in The Learned Goose by Jo Brandon (Valley Press, 2015)
specifications for an orchard
an old brick wall
as tall as a giant
bearded with moss and buddleia
curved like a protecting arm
a wooden door
in a throttle of brambles
its purpose long lost to itself
grass, wherever it can get,
each chlorophyll pennant
jostling for sunlight
a gang of pollen-traffickers
bizz-buzzing and flitting
a chair with no sitter
listing to starboard
and four fruit trees,
pear and apples,
left to get on with it.
their crop is bountiful.
there’s no sign in the orchard
First published in OL’ CHANTY – Chanticleer Magazine Online.
I have developed a patience for preparing food,
scouring markets in the heat
for the reward of pungent apricots, peaches and nectarines,
plump cherries and dirt-covered potatoes.
I love adding ice to a glass of retsina as we watch the sea in the evenings,
away from the thoughts and madness of the world,
friends and family;
a place to live, and just be.
We have a nasty colony of black ants under our backyard table
and other small ants of amber;
I spend hours watching them wrestle, bite each other to the death,
as I sip cool mineral water in the shade.
I have the time to see it, and sometimes I interfere,
or ache as I watch one drag its injured body across the concrete.
I could be a black fruit poem:
richness of darkest choicest blackberry ripe,
juicy my tongue,
liquid Blueberry Delight with billberry.
A wilderness of bramble and thorn
a wicked thicket
enticing my wild dark words
with fleshy mellow flavour.
Rounding my mouth,
swelling my lips, staining
my fingers, my tongue,
announcing my appetite
for purple, for blue
and for you.
One word of me is not enough
you will want more
and more and one more
and just, perhaps,
You will come with fingers ready,
with buckets and with your children
and you will love me.
I will hide me in hedgerow,
and your children will find me
and eat me before I am ready to ripe me.
And many times you’ll walk right past me
because you’ve forgotten
I am free for the picking.
I could mango my words with exotic twist
and tang and peel and stone and sucking stone
and hair and watering tongue and lick and dissolve
to sugar your flesh.
Mango with southern scent of Mexico, India, Africa
so sweet within one skin
to outwit your blue blackberry dark forest competition.
I will win with mango slow go,
just wait for me to ripen, wait
for my words to arrive and surprise
and startle your eyes awide
and awaken your mind with tease and touch
and soft and silken sticky my caress.
Hold you my heaviness,
heavy my juice and catch me peel me
catch my liquid juicy in your cup,
slice me through or suck me whole,
but unpeel me first,
pierce me through my leather my skin my leathery skin
but wait for me first for my ripen
or I will not surprise and pleasure you.
for my ripening
to drop from branch
onto your sunlit sill.
I met her in the early morning,
muttering through a whitewash of mist,
each footprint a wet hollow of silver
leading from mushroom rings
which nudged the leaf mould
like a clutch of bantam eggs.
Old eyes, their spawn of cataracts
scavenging light in dismal pools,
and words, more incantations,
spooling from her lips like broken
threads. She hastened by
with her cloth full of mushrooms.
She eats with the seasons,
gathers and garners as her folk did,
holds ancestors round her like a shawl.
She’s always known weather ways,
crush of snow on the blunt hills,
the tug and snatch of westerlies,
and spring igniting cold valleys.
Now she lives away from
the mother eye of the village,
with its carnival of light and noise.
Estranged by dogged pride,
deciphered like a seldom spoken tongue,
she clenches her world in a horned hand,
tight as the mushroom cloth.
we climb the path, uneven stone,
reach the small wooden church on the hill;
we sit in the cool,
watch Bulgarian saints
eye us from ancient walls,
and small candles flicker
for those who have passed; I light one
for my mother,
and when I step outside, an old woman
plucks a plum from a nearby tree,
and gives it to me.
we travel on, over the railway track,
where a gypsy in a sparkling shawl waves to us
from a horse and cart,
a homeless kitten accepts my pat,
and horses, untethered, eat wildflowers.
outside our apartment, there is music in the air,
sirtaki, the sounds of Greece;
outside, a stranger collects me in the rain,
and I am not scared;
a little boy talks to me at the bus stop,
waits by my side
until his mother calls him home;
the taverna owner rescues a stray dog,
washes it, indifferent
to his customers who leave at the sight
of fleas drowned in poisoned rivers;
and at our small room, the owner’s son
cleans our clothes for free,
hangs bags of lemons from our door.
Fruit in the 60s
The grapes languished in a bowl in my nan’s living room,
losing their lustre as they dulled under dust.
They might have been ornamental, the stuff of still life.
Eating them felt like an afterthought.
Dinner was there to fill you up and puddings were entertainment.
But fresh fruit lacked all purpose except, it seemed, to keep teeth clean.
Hence that chimp on the TV screen, brandishing a toothsome
apple as the plummy voice-over lauded its evident dental hygiene.
Fruit could come out of a tin, of course, a totally different matter
as we gathered round the table to look on with drooling anticipation
as the sweet syrup supplied the required lubricity and
our afters slithered slurpingly into the waiting bowl.
There they lay, expectant, those halved pears
made in a place called Bartlett. Ice cream from
Naples slipped in beside them in a scandalously
calorific act of consummation. It was only natural!
From the cupboard under your stairs
you pick one from its tray.
A sort of apple, open-ended,
on the turn.
Try, you urge, a spoon waved
like a hypnotist’s chain. Reluctantly,
a child braced for medicine I open up
to be fed a scoop of decay.
Good ? You ask, moist rot melting
to the cusp of sweetness. I tremble a nod
as you slough off your snakeskin boots;
coil yourself into a chair.
First published in The Interpreter’s House
Soon it will be time again to prepare our offering in thanks for the fruit harvest. Many belief systems teach that life is a recurring cycle and our abundant continuum of planting, reaping and celebrating through sacrifice would seem to confirm this.
We have asked that our religious practices be properly recognised through official channels. The probing, the gawking, the constant trolling and threats of interference have to stop.
Her lips this year shall be a bright cherry. Just a hint of a pout. Straw and trimmed vines for her hair. In keeping with tradition, pears and certain varieties of apple have been used to give feminine curvature to her body. I have chosen strawberries for her eyes, complete with the small crown of leafage retained so as to give an open, honest expression to the face. The verisimilitude of this year’s golem is both striking and convincing.
Which brings its own problems. You may remember the court case where our village was accused of murdering one of our earlier creations. The judge rightly ruled that: as she was not human there was no case to answer. But the stigma stuck. A pungent, fermenting stain like mouldering grapes or cider spilled on woollen clothing.
The following year we made a boy. Nature did not approve and we half-starved due to a resultant paltry harvest.
It’s a truism that even those who are spiritually unaware would still acknowledge: for things to live, other things must die. Move over Granddad and let me have the keys to your house, your job, your bank account… For everything that glitters something else must suffer in dullness.
The strawberry girl lives for a week. She moves but doesn’t speak. She smells divine and many become light-headed in her company. She seems to see, to gaze… but can she really be thinking? She has no brain. She is all pith, water, citric acid, seeds… and flesh.
She brings colour and vivacity to the swiftly shortening and darkening days.
She dances with the corn dollies, stands face to face with the scarecrows. She is a country tradition that some in our country would seek to dispense with.
They are narrow-minded, urban consumer-guts who have no knowledge of and who can make no link between their fortune at endless choice and availability and the sacrifices and privations necessary to achieve such a cornucopia. I tell myself this and I share it with you now: the pulping is necessary. The few – the one – must fall so that the many survive and thrive.
She’s not real.
She’s not human.
She’s as alive as you and me.
There will be another year, another harvest. Another strawberry girl.
(In memory of Ursula K. Le Guin, 1929-2018.)
At my childhood home in Somerset, we had an acre and a half of old orchard, bound on the west side by the churchyard, on the north by a brook. In the spring, snowdrops and daffodils grew under the trees and when the weather got warmer, I took root there too, back against the bark, book in hand, dreaming beneath the leaves.
I read of saints and soldiers, wolves and witches, lost worlds, golden days. Those stories are bound in my memory with lichen growing on gnarly branches, the smell of wood and grass, earth and apple.
The harvest brought us all together. When it was fine, from the youngest to the oldest, we went out from the house in the morning with ladders, chattering and picking, gathering up windfalls, loading the trailer and hauling it back, calling across the field and bagging the yield into hessian sacks. We sorted the good fruit from the bruised, the eaters from the cookers, the bittersharps from the bittersweets. We ate bread and cheese on plastic plates without napkins at a trestle table in our wellingtons, normal rules suspended for one day, for just this one shining day in the orchard.
Afterwards, good apples were wrapped in paper and spread out in rows in the loft in the barn, gifts for the year long. The cinnamon scent of apples simmering on the stove filled the house, as my mother in her apron stewed fruit for the larder. My father made cider from the imperfect apples, the disappointing ones, with a press he built from a landrover jack just before he chopped the end off his finger splitting logs. I remember his shout and searching in the rough grass by the wood shed for a bit of flesh with the nail still attached. We never found it.
Some of the apples went to a big cider-maker at Burrow Hill. The man gave us a pound a sack and said they weren’t worth any more, apples were two a penny in Somerset. Any dreams we had of making our fortune quickly faded. He has gone now and the cider press closed and they built over our orchard, the people that came afterwards. But the apples stay ever sweet in the memory and their names remain, wonderful strange, like an old incantation – Beauty of Bath, Dunnings Russet, Curry Codlin, Fairmaid, Hangdown, Hoary Morning, Slack Me Girdle, Tom Putt, Sack and Sugar, Kingston Black, Rough Pippin, Whittles Dumpling, Green Pearmain, Mealy Late Blossom, Burrow Hill Early, Sheep’s Nose.