Art at the Woodhouse

These are a few of the poems in my collection, published 2006.

A Norfolk Station on a Winter Evening


It's a matter of absences.
No staff. No ticket machine. No
coffee vendor. No loo. She'll pee
herself in a minute. Come on,
train! No glass in the sides of the
shelter. Must have got smashed. They should
have thought of that. Should have made it
from something more durable. She'll
write a letter to someone. If
she remembers. Tomorrow. My
god, though, doesn't the wind cut to
the bone! No mercy. And what if
the train never comes? What if that
screen that says on-time-on-time-on-
time refers to yesterday? Or
the day before. Or no day in
particular. What if it's stuck,
like a needle in the groove of
an old cracked record? What if the
scattered people are just drifters?
Chanced upon this platform like lost
swallows, waiting for time and stars
to re-align. What if that young
woman in the skimpy dress and
strappy sandals has just blown in
from some city street, some hot dry
day? The coat she gathers round her,
a gift from a stranger. The bump
she cradles with her palms, just fruit
of an accidental union
in some half-remembered bed. And
what if the old man, bent and stained,
is dreaming of the smell of roast
chestnuts on a brazier? How he
held his sweetheart's hand. And how the
moment glowed. Warm and forever.


What if the train roars by, breathing
steam? Blind to this dereliction
and the figures of its landscape.

Portrait of an Unknown Woman


She paints
her face white,
her lips red.

She dresses with style:
a second-hand outfit
for every occasion.

She steps out briskly,
sometimes skipping
or dancing a bit
along the way.

She talks
to the people
in her head

while the people
in the street
fade to shadows.

She writes her own script.

She doesn't see our disbelief.

Elements


I would gaze at the night sky
waiting for a tiny star
to fall at my feet
in their sensible Startrite shoes.

I would scoop sand in my palms,
let it slide through my fingers.
Discover treasure:
scalloped, smooth, tinted or glistening.

I would watch as ripples of life
wakened a pond's still silence.
See magic forests
in the haphazard dance of flames.

Though people say differently,
we can go back. Find wonder
in small or big things.
Leave explanation to grown-ups.

Blow seed heads.
Send wishes.
Unlearn war games.
Imagine.

The Birds

A spider in the bath is one thing.
Bugs in the bed another. But birds,
two of them, flying all over the place,
is something scary. OK, God knows
those birds are more shit-scared than I am,
probably. But then, did I ask them to come
scuttering down the chimney? Like Santas,
out of season, scattering ancient soot.

Woken
by sounds that weren't the alarm, cat-flap,
footsteps, loo chain, etcetera, but had to be
inside, not out, I shouted What's that noise?
Refusing to get up before I knew. It's birds.
I felt like Tippi Hedren, the way those wings
can come at you. Even the cat fled. I froze.
Cataplexy.

Luckily, unlike wasps,
birds know an open window when they
see one. Rocket to safety of sky.
Leaving the house suddenly birdless,
and me up-ending vases, sponging
shit from cushions. Making things normal.

Night Road

I'm remembering how the women
marched with banners: Reclaim The Night.
I have the badge, still. It's purple
and shiny. And I have the road
to walk down. Dutch courage that warms
my blood. The stars, mysterious
as life. And the dark air, frosty
on skin. Night: simultaneously
intimate and vast. Reclaim me.