Brodsky, who died aged 55 in 1996, it can hardly be denied is a major Russian American poet. He took exile in the US from Russia in 1972, also translating some of his own works into English. He won the Nobel in 1987, and was US poet laureate in 1991. It is worth noting also that he has been praised for his essays includingLess Than One(1986).
Preceded by such high praise it can be difficult to an extent to form one’s own view of the poetry. This new Penguin Classics selection arranges the chosen poems near enough chronologically, but does not foreground the original collections in which they appeared, except maybe forA Part of Speech, from which the title poem is featured.
I would tend to the view that Brodsky’s writing is both fierce and unassuming. Two key figures to whom he relates are Akhmatova, of…
This week something different again. I have asked Patricia M Osborne to talk about her poetry conversation, Sherry and Sparkly(Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2021), with fellow poet, Maureen Cullen.
Thank you, Nigel, for inviting me on your feature to talk about a poem from my co-authored pamphlet Sherry & Sparkly. It’s not often you’ll find me writing narrative poetry from life experiences; however, I made an exception when Maureen Cullen and I came together in poetry conversation for Sherry & Sparkly. Here we draw on memories from childhood to the millennium.
My chosen poem is ‘First Day at Junior School’.
. I chose this one because it shows what corporal punishment was like in schools during the early sixties. Even, as in my case, if a child hadn’t actually done anything wrong. The poem recalls my class teacher when first going up to Juniors. Miss Evans (that wasn’t…
he is coming my way his breath is a train whistling down the hills where the girls plough their fields and scatter their blood and recycle their peoples stockpiling their sheds with scythes and strong scissors stirring water with their hands producing no children for years I must disappear and find these girls with strong scissors for little hands he is lashing through the trees a small man but unaware of his size like a very small dog like a Punch puppeting me with a stick but today an angry horse my bruise-horse with whips when I ride him his flanks hum the hair on them stands up I know the power in him I breathe I breathe him in he shrinks when he shouts to the smallest fairyfly so small he lives in my skin his hooves are heartbeats his heart is a black mark I cannot cannot cross it out
-Natalie Crick
A LION OF A MAN
After visiting the zoo with Tony I found a reddish hair,
marking my white jumper. I knew the hair was his;
all of him was bound in it’s taught fibres,
the brittle splits of his manifestation,
the rouge kink of his manner when angered.
I did not disturb the hair for fear it would curl and snap.
It was like being alone in a room with the sleeping lion.
-Natalie Crick
Bruised
A broken heart is not always a thousand shards of shattered glass scattered across the floor. Sometimes it’s the stomach-clenching twist and wrench of a powerful fist squeezing, crushing, gripping tightly round in a choking caress; sometimes it’s gallons of warmth gushing past the twisted blade of a stealth assault. Sometimes it’s a shy blossoming beneath the skin, ripening gloriously in the tainted sunshine of another’s gaze: slowly, in the wrappings of intimacy cultivated, the full bloom lovingly perpetuated beyond itself, insinuated into memory that throbs in the darkness for relief – but only complete when the hand that soothingly strokes and traces each petal’s outline proudly defines with rigid, gouging fingers the signing of their autograph; like pressing into the softness of a bruise on a peach.
-Wendy Humphries
Never Again
You were my prince loving and kind you caressed my body also my mind
You were my lover soul mate and friend there when I hurt ready to mend
Suddenly one day a new you appeared no longer my shining knight but one to be feared
Hands no longer caressed instead rolled up tight my body your aim as I faced my plight
My skeletal framework left stained black and blue you promised – never again but that wasn’t true
You’d kneel on the floor and weep your sorrow I believed and trusted you then re-lived – tomorrow
My abdomen swollen your feet made their aim I was your target then you wept with shame
Scalding hot water as I was flung in the bath you said you were sorry but enough was enough
It couldn’t go on I couldn’t take any more at night whilst you slept I crept out of the door
Decades have past since you lashed out that pain I vowed then that night– Never again.
– Patricia M Osborne
Ink
Like a squid I squirt ink filigreed words on virgin paper the rhubarb lips that stained with blood, salted by tears as you peeled me layer by layer till nothing was left of my core controlled, loved, abused and shaken by last the vestiges of love that you promised that I hoped for as years left their bruises pomegranate to singed brown, patterns that laced my body caged like the slave girl who dared to fall in love with a prince Anar, the Persian fruit of love, transformed to the fruit of the dead of Hades, like Persephone, the underworld beckons me.
Glossary: Anar is the Persian name for pomegranate.
-Leela Soma
Three Lions 11 July 2021
The first time in 55 years I keep the supply of beer coming cold, not cool, as he likes it
Losing puts him in a bad mood in the debris of my life sometimes I win, mostly I lose
From the kitchen, his reddening face the pile of cans, like a mini citadel grows on the coffee table
The pizza isn’t right Undercooked he says not enough pepperoni
After extra time it’s penalties he’s on the edge of his seat then it’s all over
The cans kicked off the table I hope you’re happy you Welsh bitch
The crunch of fist on cheekbone a penalty he doesn’t miss
Published in the September 2021 issue of Yggdrasill.
-Annest Gwilym
TRIGGER WARNING THIS WILL BE A DIFFICULT READ FOR SOME THAT MAY FIND THESE PIECES DISTURBING.
***** Tears Of A God
My son’s eyes are ice. I have seen this look before.
He lugs my dog Sheba by her mane, hauls her along the floor
a piece of meat, slopping over gunnels in an abattoir, blood down the drains.
Her paws scratch and scrape he dumps her at my feet.
Bite its ear! I shake my head.
If it’s done wrong, and it has bite its ear. I shake my head
mumble Done nothing wrong.
Eh! Speak up woman! It ‘aint done nothing wrong. Jack!
Fine rain falls through grey skies in the pub yard, and a yellow
fluid flows out from under the dog. Dirty bitch!
He kicks Sheba in her side. She whimpers, puts her head
pleadingly on the black shiny surface of my court shoes.
I‘ll do it then! Snatches her up
by the scruff Getting a dog
and not bringing it up right. Stupid cow!
He snaps at the silk of her ear. She yelps. I cry.
Stupid sodding cow! He slaps me hard
across my face. I feel his gold rings on my cheek.
Stop whimpering! Pushes me up against
the wet wall. His cold eyes up close make me shiver.
One hand on my throat, the other points at her. I mumble.
Not again Jack. Please. My legs have gone.
Treat the bitch right and it’ll treat you right.
Sheba inches against the wall, low and hung back like the grey clouds.
Jack lets me fall. The pub door slams Sheba, up on her legs again,
licks my face, lays down by my side puts her head on my black court shoes.
Her neck is warm. My back hurts. They call the rain the “Tears of a God”
First published in “Degenerates for Peace, Domestic Abuse edition, 2017”
Bios And Link
-Patricia M Osborne
is married with grown-up children and grandchildren. In 2019 she graduated with an MA in Creative Writing (University of Brighton).
Patricia is a published novelist, poet and short fiction writer. She has been published in various literary magazines and anthologies. Poetry pamphlets, Taxus Baccata and The Montefiore Bride were published by The Hedgehog Poetry Press in 2020 and co-authored poetry pamphlet Sherry & Sparkly to be published December 2021 by The Hedgehog Poetry Press.
She has a successful blog at Whitewingsbooks.com featuring other writers. When Patricia isn’t working on her own writing, she enjoys sharing her knowledge, acting as a mentor to fellow writers.
Author of two books of poetry: Surfacing (2018) and What the Owl Taught Me (2020), both published by Lapwing Poetry. What the Owl Taught Me was Poetry Kit’s Book of the Month in June 2020 and one of North of Oxford’s summer reading recommendations in 2020. Annest has been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies, both online and in print, and placed in several writing competitions, winning one. She was the editor of the webzine Nine Muses Poetry from 2018-2020. She is a nominee for Best of the Net 2021. Twitter: @AnnestGwilym
-Wendy Humphries
is a cat-loving wife, mother and English teacher who enjoys grappling with language and all of its glorious possibilities. She fiercely believes that words have power and should be used with care, always.
-Natalie Crick
has poems published in The Poetry Review,The Moth, New Welsh Review and elsewhere. She is studying for an MPhil in Creative Writing at Newcastle University. Last year one of Natalie’s poems was commended in the Verve Poetry Festival Competition 2020 on the theme of diversity and awarded second prize in the Newcastle Poetry Competition 2020.
One of her poems received a special mention by judge Ilya Kaminsky in the Poetry London Prize 2020. This year a poem was highly commended in the Folklore Poetry Prize, highly commended in the Wales Poetry Award and she received a nomination for The Forward Prize for Best Single Poem. Natalie is co-founder / poetry editor of a small literary press based in Newcastle and Prague, Fragmented Voices.
is a Cornish poet, painter, writer, and performer. She graduated in 2020 with a first in Creative Writing from Falmouth University, winning a prize for her dissertation. In 2018 she won the Cornwall Contemporary Poetry Festival,Shorelines competition. Her pamphlet, Spoil, was published by Broken Sleep Books in October 2021. Her poetry is published in various literary journals including International Times, as well as the eco-anthology, Warming! As a New Traveller she brought her children up close to nature, in trucks, caravans, and houses. She writes about her experiences, about our ravaged landscape, and bears witness to the poverty of British people. At the moment she is publishing a book of poetry about plastic pollution in our oceans, a collaboration with artist Jasmine Davies, and the Clean Ocean Sailing charity.
The Interview
Q:2. How important is geology to your writing?
Geology is structure. To see myself as separate from the earth is delusional. The rock of Cornwall, rich in minerals, is a geology exploited. The lines of quartz insulated in granite communicate. I write into the stone, histories and herstories.
The mesmerising rhythm and sense of longing of Fiona Benson’s most recent collection accompany the reader in the world of arthropods. This elegant edition published by Guillemot Press includes woodcut illustrations by Anupa Gardner that counterbalance in an essential style the rich and sensual poems. The physical description of the insects and the parallel exploration of the potentials of language offer a transcendent quality that characterises the collection in a cycle of life and death that passes through mating. As Benson remarks in the acknowledgements, the poems were commissioned by Arts and Culture at the University of Exeter for 2019–2020’s Project Urgency. The poems are also part of sound piece collaborations with sound artists Mair Bosworth and Eliza Lomas.
Compared to her previous collections,Bright Travellers(Cape Poetry 2014) andVertigo and Ghost(Cape Poetry 2019),Bioluminescent Babystill lingers on the topic of love and procreation but does not…
In Mélisande Fitzsimons’ latest publication, thirty-nine characters give us brief, tantalising glimpses into their lives through the cryptic messages they write on the back of postcards. The voices are of different ages, social backgrounds and ethnicities, from people holidaying in Britain and overseas. Each text is paired with an image of the front of the card, witty juxtapositions which are very much part of the work’s appeal.
The vagaries of British weather feature in a number of the messages: pouring rain, wind, freezing temperatures, a few days of sunshine celebrated as a rare treat. One writer, staying in Torbay, records ‘happily watching people’s tents blow away…it’s great fun’. Another, writing from Ironbridge, complains of having to buy a hot water bottle and about the lack of tea cosies at the guest house. This message is matched with an image of a satirical nineteenth-century cartoon depicting the hazards of rail travel.
Trigger WarningPEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUESZero Gravity
Excerpt for 23 November, 2021
<chapter> Twocontinued
“That’s enough,” Ryan said crossly. I didn’t come here to measure our dicks.”
“Not what it looked like when I walked in,” Owen shook his head with a lopsided grin and took an appreciative sip from his glass. So why did you come?” Owen asked. “And I use that verb in the most generic sense. At least I hope I do.”
Ignoring the remark, Ryan resettled himself into the leather chair and looked up at Owen. “Because I fucked up. And I need your help. You know Hilary better than anyone.”
-Gayle J. Greenlea.
YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME
Fourth week -A Waning –
Day Two
Rode Tom Treddlehoyle’s
donkey backwards, spoke Sam Barn’s
lingo. Call me Kes.
-Paul Brookes
Bios And Links
-Gayle J. Greenlea
is an American-Australian poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel, Zero Gravity, at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.
Trigger WarningPEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUESZero Gravity
Excerpt for 22 November, 2021
<chapter> Twocontinued
“Why now? Feeling a sudden urge for repentance? Or perhaps you’ve come to pay back the money you owe me?”
Ryan had the grace to cringe at that. “You know how it is, the music industry.” He shrugged as if everyone understood how untenable the career of a musician was – at least from an economic perspective.
“Thought you were a computer wizard now, graphic designer or some such.” Owen reached into the freezer and withdrew a handful of ice.
“Yeah, well, freelancing’s not that different from gigging. It’s still the music industry. The clients are slow in coming.”
“That’s because you have to go out and get them, Ryan. Or haven’t you mastered getting out of bed before noon, yet?” Owen took the few steps necessary to cross the room and dropped the ice into the two glasses.
-Gayle J. Greenlea.
YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME
Fourth week -A Waning –
Day One
Slept in Joe Edwards
cup and saucer. Fought brigands
atop our black rock.
-Paul Brookes
Bios And Links
-Gayle J. Greenlea
is an American-Australian poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel, Zero Gravity, at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.
has been published in a number of leading journals and magazines. His latest work is Like This from 4Word Press. His first pamphlet Codes of Conduct (Cinnamon Press) was shortlisted for a Saboteur Award, his debut collection won the Cinnamon Press Debut Prize. He explores the gaps between what we think we know about ourselves and others, and what we really know. He occasionlally blogs athttps://neilelderpoetry.wordpress.com/
The Interview
Q:1: How did you decide on the order of the poems in your book?
The first two poems might serve to set the tone of the book – and so I went for a couple that I am particularly confident of, and that establish a couple of the themes that might crop up in the collection. Equally I want the last poem to feel like a satisfactory and strong finish. I then look for poems that chime with one another, but also try to vary the short with the longer poems. Essentially I want to move seamlessly through the work – no great lurches in style or pitch, and yet managing to keep things moving along. I think one can over-think it, and unless the poems have a particular narrative arc then I am not sure what odds it makes. I have published work where the sequence of the poems is vital, but in Like This the poems can stand alone. And I think Paul Farley is right in ‘Phone Books’ when he compares the phone book to a book of poetry, “A book you can open somewhere in the middle / like cities themselves, like books of poetry.”. How many people read a collection of poems in chronological order?
grew up in north Devon and lives on the edge of London. Her first pamphlet, Inklings, was a Poetry Book Society pamphlet choice and Slant Light (Pavilion Poetry, 2016), was highly commended in the Forward Prize. Her second collection, Bloom, also with Pavilion Poetry, was published this year. Sarah was a news journalist for twenty years and now works as a freelance tutor and writer. Work has appeared on beermats, billboards and buses, baked into sourdough bread and installed in a nature reserve, triggered by footsteps.
Q:2. How important is nature in your poetry??
Nature is around and within us; language is nature too. The poem is a kind of sensory organ that noses about, a tool to filter the non-human world through language; a way of reaching or rooting into that vexed space between human and non-human that we innately recognise as part of us.
There is a beautiful quote from John Clare in which he says ‘I found the poems in the fields, and only wrote them down’. I don’t mean to say I wander around in fields collecting poems like butterflies (although that does sound quite idyllic) but I find inspiration where we live on the edge of London. It is quite a traffic-heavy environment but it is also where the city begins to unravel into something less tightly packed and built-upon. I can look out of the window and see the Dartford Crossing and also the office blocks of London. I went purposefully and a bit self-consciously to encounter Nature in the North Kent marshes and was amazed to hear nightingales singing in the middle of the day. But in the poems, as in my own experience, the beyond-human comes in as a protagonist itself, more than a setting.I think it has seeped into me and is the poem as much as I am, if that makes sense.
Our garden, the skies over it, and the small river that runs near, the patch of ancient woodland, Greenwich Park, the roadside verges with lizards and vetch, all these places are in me, and in the poems. A lot of the time, in the first lockdown last Spring, I looked out of the window at the beauty of the world, especially in the early evening. I was behind glass but I could feel and smell the intensity, the conditional fragility of the trees, pear blossom, bird song, sirens.
*******
The best place to buy a signed copy is to contact her directly (send a DM on twitter) or email Sarah.westcott@tiscali.co.uk
Trigger Warning
PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUES
Zero Gravity
Excerpt for 23 November, 2021
<chapter> Two continued
“That’s enough,” Ryan said crossly. I didn’t come here to measure our dicks.”
“Not what it looked like when I walked in,” Owen shook his head with a lopsided grin and took an appreciative sip from his glass. So why did you come?” Owen asked. “And I use that verb in the most generic sense. At least I hope I do.”
Ignoring the remark, Ryan resettled himself into the leather chair and looked up at Owen. “Because I fucked up. And I need your help. You know Hilary better than anyone.”
-Gayle J. Greenlea.
YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME
Fourth week -A Waning –
Day Two
Rode Tom Treddlehoyle’s
donkey backwards, spoke Sam Barn’s
lingo. Call me Kes.
-Paul Brookes
Bios And Links
-Gayle J. Greenlea
is an American-Australian poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel, Zero Gravity, at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.
The Wombwell Rainbow 