Now and then, I am tempted to write poetry. Sometimes, it goes like this…

 

Now and Then

A time of nuzzling and groaning,

a rocking and rolling of limbs, hours that

knocked this abacus mind out of sorts,

and with the same punch, rang

a long-expected submarine bell,

swelled the heart to the shimmering surface.

Soul-tongue suffused all. Smell of salt,

cry of gull, frankincense is near it,

wood-deep earth is. The smell of pencil-shavings

lingers now, reminds me, now,

that breath is life. Heart-thumping effort

burning out words, short-circuiting choice,

and then heavy-lidded love, sleeping.

And we were such good company too,

in the pub, on Friday afternoons. Now, just

days and days of doing, knowing what was.

© Kay Green, first published in Iota magazine.

 

Things to Believe Before Breakfast

Last night I heard a fluttering, opened my eyes,

and saw a pigeon take off, from not there to not there –

but it skimmed the midnight carpet for a moment in between.

Once I saw a sky-wide spear of lightning

roll itself into a spiral, then a ball, then disappear.

Once I saw you crouching by my bed,

looking into my eyes, trying to be there.

Once I heard my name, when no one was there.

Once, twelve sticks of rhubarb disappeared overnight

from the vegetable rack in my kitchen.

Once I heard galloping hooves ripping clods of earth

from the ground above my head,

and once I heard someone shout “Spirit!”

I once saw the smile drain out of an electrician’s face

when the flick of a switch flooded the room with light,

after we’d all seen him turn the mains off.

People don’t know how to stop driving cars,

and they work, all unknowing, for weapons companies.

They put their faith in profit, and economic growth,

and carry dog-shit around in little plastic bags.

We’re really all going to die.

True love will win through.

The gods are on our side.

You and I are the ones being greedy and slow.

The beauty of the world can be saved.

© Kay Green, first published in Iota magazine.

 

Patchwork Guilt

Here’s a piece of last year’s fashion.

Of course, I wouldn’t be seen dead…

but be honest, I still love that colour.

Here’s a dress I made for little Em.

She really looked a doll in it –

looked just how I wanted to see her.

This silver silk is what I wore

that turned him into a proposer…

Enough said. Now,

look at these deckchair stripes

of sunshine yellow and rust.

It was a dress I clung to the hem of.

Mum wore it that time in Dartmouth.

Oh, but I was an angry and miserable thing,

the last time I saw it on her.

Obviously I wasn’t looking

the way she wanted me to.

Here’s Gran’s famous blue

with the strident white polka dots.

“Giles’ granny” we called her, fearfully funny,

till we forgot her own true name.

And this scratchy stuff with the fig motif

is a piece of what we wore

after I tried to tell him the truth,

and something got stuck in our throats.

© Kay Green, first published in Envoi magazine.

 

Poesy

poesy – the sound of flowing water

purity – the sound in silence

sound – the silence of tranquillity

known – if you know it, say so

tell me – without breaking the silence

talking in tranquillity

which words, spoken soft and clear,

made from silence,

known on the either –

so kno ta po

poesy poesy, water teasing words form me

© Kay Green, first published in Inclement magazine.

 

 

Footpad

The sun is blue, the sky is yellow,

and I’m pounding up the street,

driven to distraction by the sound

of following feet.

The sky is blue, the sun is yellow,

and I’m dashing up the street,

driven by breathless terror –

I know I’ll die if we don’t meet.

 

Pass the butchers, pass the cleaners,

pass the bookshop, pass the church.

Pass some blokes and children,

and some cars that stink and lurch –

but as the shops stack greyly,

all the length of this long hill,

so the days stretch out before me

that I’ve laboured into darkness

driven to distraction by the sound

of pursuing feet –

Stop!

 

Pass the bakers – smell of heaven!

Pass the bookshop – magic worlds!

Pass some lost souls and some heroes,

and some weeds the council missed –

but as the string of wonders stretches

all the length of the sweeping rise,

so my pain extends to violence,

and my patience pricks my eyes,

and depression heats to passion,

and I know why lovers kill –

Stop!

 

This street’s a daily treadmill,

but sparks of gold fleck today’s rain

I see weary spots of blindness set in gold

as I spin on my heel as I skid to a halt

I see the morning walk in evening light

I see your face by daylight

as I gaze back downup this hill,

as the view explodes in a blindingblackflash,

I feel the relief of despair as we meet!

I feel the terror of imminent judgement

as your evil arms flail around me

as you cannon into my chest.

And in the breathing aftermath

I am at last alone, and whole.

© Kay Green, first published in Legend magazine.

 

Skyward Will

I want to be a falconer,

to lure wildness to my fist.

I want to keep a bird of prey,

release freedom from my hand.

I want to be a part of this,

the colour, the texture, the taste:

Spirit on the wing, I will

make flesh and blood soar,

see him seeing from the sky,

see him dive, see him kill.

I want him to choose my fist,

to see wildness in my hand, to understand

me, here, with my feet in the wood.

Or here, or should I stand

thus, or thus?……………..

…….I came to be a part of him,

returned my wildness to his fist.

I came to feed my freedom

from his hand, to understand

him down there, with his handful of blood

I’ll return freely to this, my fist.

I want to, and yet…

 

© Kay Green First Published by Poetry Monthly

 

Thinking of You, I Walked

Meadow grass, high-time hay,

feathertops tingling ripples in the heat:

Born of black earth and cold spring rain,

whispering seed-heads touch sun-warmed ankles lightly,

tickling, teasing, almost promising pain,

like your fingers, lightly whispering a tingle-hot ripple.

Voice of the river, song of bees,

suddenly ducks, children nearby shouting, laughing.

Whose children doesn’t matter: Love.

Cry of rooks in applauding trees,

under high clouds, with heaven’s blue beyond,

like your lips, laughing the cry of celestial love.

Baked field-margin, chamomile-sweet tyre marks

crushed to fragrance by the passing of my boots,

heady pine-resin, startled pheasants, cool tree-shadows ahead…

What lies within that darkness

is what I yearn for, I expect

you’re at home, making tea for yourself.

© Kay Green First Published by Envoi

 

In Law

They split up. He kept the house.

The kids kept his name.

They never had hers. Nor did he.

He married again, had more kids.

The new wife is step-mother to the original kids,

and the new kids half-brother and -sister to them.

The new wife has two kids, two steps and a house.

The old wife has two kids, sometimes.

He is all of a father to all of them,

but his brother’s in-lawness moved on.

The new wife is stepmother to the original kids.

The old wife is nothing to the new kids, in law.

And doesn’t know where to spend Christmas.

© Kay Green First Published by Envoi

 

This House is Quiet

For thousands of years,
men have built with stone.
Stone never forgets. Don’t forget
menhirs reach down
at least as far as they stand up.
Stones, circles, cathedral walls,
foundations of cities and cotts,
with stentorian silence, proclaim
the lofty laws of the spirit.
Their vocabulary is a silence much loftier,
and infinitely better organised
than that of chaotic, multi-tongued trees.
Even a humble artisan’s gravestone,
clinging drunkenly to its place in the churchyard,
shouting a dead man’s name with stiff-necked pride,
can deafen your eyes to the smiles in the grass.

But this house is quiet.
Neither old nor new,
it’s innocent of thumping stone.
No compacted centuries groan in its foundations.
Just useful bricks, chippys’ bargains,
and 1960s picture-glass.
It won’t last forever. It lets in the sun.
Its concrete raft lets history breathe out.
No pressures build up, so when nothing is said,
it’s quiet enough here
that an untroubled mind
can hear itself fall silent
when a person tries to think
about cathedrals, about trees.

© Kay Green First Published by Envoi

 

 

 

Vicarious Daffodils

My sister wandered like a lonely cloud

With corsets, cumb’ring veils and heels

When all at once she had a crowd

Of lucid, tingling new ideas.

Sister dearest, write them down for me.

Alchemy incarnate! – A poet, we!

© Kay Green First Published by Earlyworks Press

in ‘Porkies – Pigtales of the Unexpected’’