Archive of all previous showcases
Edited by Susan Jane Sims
Photograph by Susan Jane Sims
Putting Things Back Together Again
All the bits and pieces came in a box,
some in better shape than others.
They had next-to-no value except
for sentiment. Each chipped dish,
broken vase, had meant something
to you. I remembered them whole,
gracing a sideboard, a window sill.
I took the Chinese plate to a man
in antiques at the end of the road;
he thought he could save it with
a light touch and glue. It now has
pride of place on my dining table
hosting a jug of daffodils. If only
my cracks could be mended too.
Sue Wallace-Shaddad
Rest
Hair spread over the pillow
so soft and full of shine
a greying brown
with strands of white.
You always look younger
than your years
four score and fifteen
Your hands hold mine
in their warm embrace
as you negotiate your way
from restless motion
to peace
Sue Wallace-Shaddad
Wensleydale
See how wensleydale crumbles
the limestone, dry old moss
breaking drystone walls,
sun beating, pale yellow hillside
bumblebees working with the monks.
Picnics: the sweet and salty.
Spiked waterfalls, the nettles, buttercups
my mouth filled with wensleydale cheese
the smoky taste, acidic flavour
touch the drystone walls.
Johanna Boal
Magician’s Gloves
I wear magician’s gloves
they move so speedily as they lay stone upon stone
rabbits run in the fields, secret doors
the gaps in the walls, my gloves a strong fabric:
canvas paints a wall of limestones
five foot high, edged with moss,
blades of grass at the foundations
walls run into walls, cows, hawthorn
fingers smoothing the creases in the corners.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ my sledgehammer and mallet
a magic wand, abracadabra – poof.
Top stones, slick and shiny like top hats.
Johanna Boal
A Letter Addressed to the Wind
I love you,
I love you as a friend
and as my sister.
And though no human
eye might ever with
empathy’s nuance
alight upon these penned
tear-blotted lines
as this paper, crinkled and tossed
to the winds, is torn
and drenched by storm,
lost and trodden down
on sodden soil –
these written words still
carry significance today and
through as yet
uncounted years.
I love you,
I love you as once my
childhood delighted in its mother.
And though no human
ear may ever hearken
to the cry of this sad
separated self,
though grey cold ocean
deeps or dusty scorching
desert sands as shrouded
abysses lie
between
those winding wayward
paths our lives have stepped
since we met and with a
last pained wincing
glance parted those many,
many moons ago –
my words silently
spoken into the breeze
bear meaning this
moment and for seasons
still to be.
I love you –
though decades have whitened
waves of flowing hair,
dimmed those luminous
so expressive eyes,
though time has etched
crevices in that facial
glow and flesh sags
on once lithe and vital limbs,
though bones be boxed and buried
or cremated cinders strewn
in an unknown grave,
though starry heavens’ darkest
frosty night or secluded
forests’ scented
sun-illumined day
alone
listen to my voice –
I love you,
I love you as my friend
and as a sister,
I love you as my daughter
and my mother,
now
and in vales hidden
in the eternal
I love you
as my beloved.
Keith Harris
The Brook, the Artist and the Poet
I swell with pride today
as they gather on my banks.
They belong to me,
hope with me,
travel with me,
the artist with a black hat
the poet with blue shoes.
They hope with me,
travel with me,
indulge my journey;
yes, even carry my soul
away to their town,
They draw my flowers,
turn mayfly to pink glass.
They
hang my portrait in galleries,
read my stories in schools.
They are part of my flow,
indulging my journey. They
mourn when my water is foul,
when the sun robs me of life.
I blush at the honour;
I flow faster,
bubble and swirl.
I travel on
beneath their bridges,
round the oak tree,
past stores and clinics.
And still
they sing with me
dance with me
travel with me
paint and frame me,
shout for me and
campaign for my rights.
Judy Dinnen
See, the sun is out.
~a cult show~
Ninety percent chance of rain,
predicted the experts.
Nonsense,said the leader,
The sun will shine.
They arrived in shorts and T shirts, No rain jackets, no brollies.
They listened to his words,
Enthralled! Reason was lost.
Rain came; a sudden downpour,
Blinding eyes, soaking bodies.
Arms stretched out in renewal
of a forgotten sacrament, they felt sanctified.
He stood under an awning,
A divine presence untouched by nature.
As they walked away, glorifying their leader,
Rain was not mentioned.
Someone looked up and pointed,
See the sun is out,
He said it would shine,
It has.
Leela Gautam
Inheritance
In New York my nephew Rob writes plays, and acts.
His wife’s an actor too.
I never knew Rachel as a child but Rob
I remember at three
wearing a series of different hats
and rushing in and out to us, in the kitchen
totally absorbed in being someone else.
Later when Rob had careers interviews at school
and had suggestions made like traffic warden
or Sainsbury’s, he said I want to act.
Their little son
just three and a half goes to pre-school
in character. I’m Simon he’ll say
to his teacher and she’ll play along
and let him be Simon all day.
He’s Reggie in real life, and if anyone asks
they never get a short answer.
He’ll say I’m Reggie and sometimes Reggie Roo.
I’m also Reggie Mark Benson but today I’m Spider man.
Yesterday he said he’s writing a movie in his head.
He wants his dad to film it. It’s about a skeleton chef who sings.
I know exactly where he gets it from.
Susan Jane Sims
The Mill
In the beginning, we plucked grain
and ate it raw or roasted in the fire.
Then we ground grain in family querns,
for many hours, to make our daily bread.
Then we paid the miller who paid monks
who had built the mill, until
the mill was taken to make gunpowder
and then taken over to grind grain again
but to convert to alcohol for gin palaces
to transport the London poor into oblivion.
The mill’s darkened frame stands still,
awaiting restoration, as swans glide by,
glancing, turning, shaking their heads,
as if wondering how long a species
that evolves this weirdly can last.
M. Anne Alexander
Travelling light
The sun slouched
among passengers, dazzled
by the wintry light,
shuffling as they sat cocooned
within snaking concertina carriages
singing along frosted tracks,
flitting through shimmering
white-lit clouds and starched fields
and twinkling trees.
As if barely aware, chattering children
and couples with cases were setting out
for airports and fresh worlds, while
Welcome signs flashed at passing stations
and tumbling ivy hinted of green
shoots to come.
Then, the sun smiled, sharing
bright gilding strings of light
as our stops came into sight.
M. Anne Alexander
