• Archive of all Poetry Space showcases
Editor – Susan Jane Sims
Poems by Rachael Clyne, Claire Coleman, Moira Andrew, Carolyn O’Connell, Moira Andrew, Ndaba Sibanda, Maureen Weldon, Andy Scotson, Aldrin Aditya and Kevan Taplin
Photographs by Chris Sims
When faced with over forty poems it is always hard to choose.The poems that have made it into my top ten all spoke to me in some way. They created vivid images that I could imagine in my mind as I entered the world of the poem.
Dear Doe by Rachael Clyne I love for its beautiful natural imagery. Inside her bedroom, the poet looks out on a deer mothering her fawn and finds a connection, both enjoying the calm of the evening as the sun goes down.
In Carolyn O’Connell’s poem Nest I liked the sense of drama and intrigue created and the idea of longing for something you cannot have.
I have featured two poems from Claire Coleman. One that explores the heartbreak of a parent going into a nursing home (Packing for the Nursing Home) and the other that tackles the aftermath of the parent’s death (Saturday’s Clearance). At the heart of each are the subject’s belongings and the deep reverence the poet has for these things and for their owner. The second poem highlights the stark differences in how two siblings handle a death.
Winter – watercolours by Moira Andrew is another poem that uses natural imagery to good effect.In fact this vivid poem is full of sounds, sights and smells which infuse colour into the poet’s drab grey day.
In Missing, the poet uses a mixture of the ordinary and the extraordinary to convey desire in an amusing way.
Of Heaven and a Million Flowers is breathtakingly economical; heartbreaking yet comforting. It needs no more to covey its meaning.
Andy Scotson’s On New York Days is another economic poem that hits the jugular. Andy quickly takes us from that ordinary sunny morning with its promise of bagels to horror and tragedy.
The man who paints a yellow flower and a starry night is a story we are all familiar with. The poet Aldrin Aditya shows compassion and empathy for the subject.
Finally Billy doesn’t do, is a portrait of a dysfunctional lifestyle. The repetition of the phrase Billy doesn’t do adds to its sense of hopelessness.
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Dear Doe
Can’t stop thinking about you
me in my bedroom
looking out
you in the far field
your russet gleam
in a buttercup sea
where my gaze
won’t disturb you.
Lazy from mothering
your fawn now grazing
we both savour
the evening
the swallows
cool air, pink sky-glow
spring light’s slow fade
to monochrome.
Rachael Clyne
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Packing for the Nursing Home
She has no need for all these shoes.
I will keep the clothes that are too small
in a suitcase. I know
how the last part of this
journey may shrink her
down to hatchling fragility;
how bones reveal themselves.
I am her shadow
whatever the weather,
however rough the terrain.
The conditions haphazard,
fluctuating, rocky, lead
prevailingly downhill,
with glimpses of strange, brief
beauty.
Claire Coleman
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Nest
She has flown to the cliff of his
shadow, selected a ledge
from cliffs of tulle falling
from dark arms.
Fate unknown, she’s pinned
her future to his phantom
his unique song.
Silver bird, theatre pin
reality or prop, only
when the curtain’s dark
will we know his aria.
Transit tulle air your
domain, the phantom’s
partner in this waltz
silver bird spellbound
you’re pinned upon
by fate’s caprice
to watch his arias.
Carolyn O’Connell
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Winter water-colours
I do my best
on this day
of thin grey rain,
buy two bunches
of tight-fisted buds
from the daffodil man,
scarlet tulips from M&S.
I chop onions
skin tomatoes
squeeze an orange
add pepper, stock, rice.
The red-rich smell
of simmering soup
fills the kitchen.
I try Radio 4
its earnest discussions
its wars – switch off,
listen to Brubeck
to Sachmo’s blues
willing jazz notes
to do the trick.
Rain rattles
against the window
rinses birds
and restless branches
in grizzled grey. It takes
a voice on the phone
to colour-wash the day.
Moira Andrew
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Saturday’s clearance
The day after she died he travels up,
not to see our mother dead, but to clear
her room of clothes. He was not there
to weep as I wept yesterday. We meet
in a rare hug; a small mending.
He is methodical. Far too soon
big black bags eat up loss.
It is one thing he can do
to save me from myself; he knows
how, alone, I would draw out each unfolding
memory; I gave her this V neck
turquoise top, that soft pink cardigan, gone.
Gone the blue Velcro fastened slippers, gone
the Bon Marche cotton nightgowns easy
to slip on or off. It is his small act
of mercy to be so coldly practical.
Her death has not yet got its certificate
but all is emptied. I save for her final clothing
one last, lace trimmed button-up dress.
Claire Coleman
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Missing
She said
it loudly and
proudly:
I miss you like
bees miss
their honey
Want to take
to you like
duck to water
You draw me
to you like
moth to light
You are my cake
my cup of tea
my hot ice-cream
At night my moon
daytime my sun
your love my light
Take a seat
I sold that heater
for your heat
You bathe in milk
just your presence
a sublime quench
Ndaba Sibanda
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Of Heaven and a Million Flowers
She asked me,
‘Will there be flowers in heaven,
beautiful flowers?’
Tonight I see
the clear Winter sky
with ten million, million stars.
Yes, there are flowers
in heaven.
Maureen Weldon
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On New York Days 
Sunny day
towers tall, facile monuments
blue Simpsons skies, city draws breath
bagel from a vendor
suit clutches paper and bites deep.
From above a jet so low, so fast
all heads tilt
shattering, staggering impact
thud that shakes the feet of the nation.
High aloft smoke leaks from an open wound
sirens scream alarum
his throat dries, bagel drops to sidewalk
mouth agape, spittle string glistens on shiny teeth
unhungered.
Andy Scotson
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The Man Who Paints A Yellow Flower And A Starry Night
It is never before
The beauty of flower is like this
The crown is a little sun
He puts it just like that, his loneliness is its loneliness too
Their loneliness is so deathly, but also so beautiful
It is never before
The beauty of night is like this
The sky is pouring stars
He catch them just like that, his loneliness is its loneliness too
Their loneliness is so mislead, but also so beautiful
Loneliness screams loudly on his ears
He did not need his ears, right?
He is loneliness’s magnum opus
Aldrin Aditya
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Billy doesn’t do…
(The song of: acceptance of the socially unacceptable)
Sitting, slouching shoulders.
Never talks just sits and smoulders.
Billy doesn’t do talking.
‘HATE’ encircles glass
Sipping, then gulping pint
Billy doesn’t do, polite.
Then moving through the estate
as if in some computer game.
A game where the outcome is always the same.
Always frowning , always short.
From the flat-screen he had brought.
Now there’s nothing coming in,
and she gets nothing for the tin
…Yet the food is still expected
Billy doesn’t do, reason
He rolls away relived
She lies in the dark awake
Staring as her body aches
Tomorrow she must hide the bruises
On the body that he uses
Billy doesn’t do, love
And so the cycle limps round again
“Billy has a temper see…
and sometimes he takes it on me”
Billy doesn’t do, control
Tomorrow, life goes on
Back to normal.
Whatever that maybe
“If anyone comes they mustn’t see
Billy says. They’]] take the kids away from me…”
Billy does do. Emotional blackmail.
Kevan Taplin
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