After the snow was cleared, a new drift,
silent and silver, a spell in street light.
In crisp and cold, Christmas lights sparkle and through
doors, a stove is warm. In the dark of a room,
the halo-flame lights a face, the hunched figure
before a bright hearth. In crackle and smoke
images are kindled: the winter king’s burning ship;
the infant Christ, star-cradled; wild-eyed Saturn
and his stumbling train and deeper, an older time:
a forest in bitter mid-winter, where drums beat and
shadows rush and run. A heavy bough of holly prickles
and berries, sweet and bloody, are trampled underfoot .

A second poem from Matthew M C Smith. Matthew is a writer for Swansea. He loves winter Christmas and wants to write more festive poetry. Matthew has just edited Black Bough poetry’s Christmas and Winter edition, available on Amazon.

Matthew is also the driving force behind #TopTweetTuesday…

We fidget on settled sofas / tired of our tissue
blankets beckon in the hot-press
but we’re not cold enough / not yet compressed
the season’s turned / though not quite enough

A man in shorts / yesterday / in the graveyard
not even shivering on the freshly turned / since repressed earth

We talk of fairy lights / smaller tables
less chairs needed / more lights / candle light
lights that need batteries / lights that will never light
again / we fidget on the sofa / push hands down the sides
looking for all the things / we can no longer find

Mum hasn’t seen Frozen yet / maybe this year
to feel numb / conceal / for a time / to not feel
to let it go / let it melt away
as we fidget on the sofa / with our tissue

Next year / we’ll build…

Slippered feet on the stone hearth,
feeling the glow. Across our street,
the sky rested on rooftops, heavy,
full of a solstice harvest, hanging.
I was drowning in heat, like a Christmas
pudding drenched in brandy. Then I heard
a sizzle, a crunch, felt fire
licking my hair, hugging my back.
Before I was engulfed by fear
and flames, she threw me on the floor,
rolled me in the mat,
brandy-snapped and smoke-smothered.
Christmas morning, the clouds were bright and empty.
Among the presents was a dressing gown
as white as snow, folded neatly, ribbon-bowed, and labelled
one hundred percent brushed cotton.

Gaynor Kane lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland. She came to writing late in life, after finishing her
Open University BA(Hons) degree with a creative writing module in 2015. Mainly a writer of poetry,
she has had work published in journals and anthologies in the UK, Ireland and America…

Our Spired Unicorn

is a place of worship.
A moveable feast beast.

Offer it fruits and flowers
at harvest, Easter and Christmas.

Baptise bairns, get married,
celebrate the dead in its presence.

Pray before its hooves and flanks,
comb its hair, feed it oats.

Don’t try to ride it, or steal its horn.
It is sacred and full of light.

Go where it goes, a disciple.
Some may say you believe in a myth.

Your faith keeps it alive. You
know it as a companion, a friend.

Though it has a life of its own
is nothing but itself.

behind our eyes we are all
mythical beasts to others

Bio: Paul Brookes is a shop asst. His chapbooks includeThe Headpoke and Firewedding(Alien Buddha Press, 2017),She Needs That Edge(Nixes Mate Press, 2017 2018)The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017),Please Take Change(Cyberwit.net, 2018),As Folk Over…

I have always enjoyed poetry that explores the workplace and have spent many happy hours with the work of Fred Voss at the aircraft factory, with Martin Hayes at the courier service and with Philip Levine on the assembly lines. Niall Oliver’s My Boss is another to add to that section on the bookshelf. His pamphlet was judged to be runner-up in Hedgehog Poetry’s Baker’s Dozen competition for pamphlets of thirteen poems, but I can see why editor, Mark Davidson, couldn’t resist the urge to publish it.

My Boss is an unusual, quirky pamphlet. All poems share the same title and first line, My Boss, and collectively build a picture of the sort of manager that is instantly recognisable as the boss we love to hate. This the narcissistic boss who believes the world revolves around him; the boss who believes he is always right (‘a businessgod’); the…

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The first instalment of the Winter 2020 issueof The High Window is now available. The following new material is available via the top menu:

1. A new selection of homegrown and international poetry from 36 poets
2. The American Poet is Ken Craft
   
3. A multimedia essay in which Dino Mahoney explores the work of Cavafy
4. A valedictory art feature from Penny Sharman, our resident artist.
5. There are also several new supplementary posts which have appeared since the autumn issue issue.
6. Finally, there are also four new poems in the Editor’s Spot

Enjoy!

David

The High Window‘s resident artist for 2020 has been Penny Sharman and I would like to express my deepest thanks to Penny, not only for the quality of the artwork and poems which she has supplied, but also for her unfailing enthusiasm and professionalism and hyper-efficiency.

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Penny was born in Oxford and brought up in Burford in the Cotswolds. She ventured north in the late 1960’s and has remained in love with the Pennines where she lives. As a poet, artist, photographer and complimentary therapist she seeks new ways of being creative. She is inspired by art and natural landscapes and has a surreal approach to her work. She has an MA in Creative writing from Edge Hill University and has been published in many magazines and anthologies. Her pamphlet Fair Ground (Yaffle Press) and her collection Swim With Me In Deep Water (Cerasus) are available from her…