When I read ‘Morning Song’ by Sylvia Plath, I thought I would never again read a poem that so vividly and movingly captures motherhood. That was until I read Zoë Siobhan Howarth-Lowe’s second pamphlet, ‘I Have Grown Two Hearts’ from Hedgehog Poetry Press. There are so many poems here to match Plath’s classic.

In her collection Howarth-Lowe reflects upon her experiences of motherhood and parenting. She explores both the joys and the difficulties. In ‘Ultrasound’ we share with her the sense of wonder at new life: in ‘Hearing the Unheard’ and ‘Guilt and Longing’ the irresistibility of the maternal instinct; and in ‘Going Back’ and the title poem, ‘I have Grown Two Hearts’, the fulfilment of parenting. Readers will be struck by the honesty of Howarth’s writing: whilst she captures these positives, she also deals with the daily challenges: such as…

Thanks to everyone who checked out Damien Donnelly’s ‘Drop in‘ and my review of his ‘Eat the Storms‘. The second in the series is novelist and poet, Patricia Osborne. Here’s Tricia talking about ‘Soulmates‘ from her debut collection, ‘Taxus Baccata‘.

Soulmates  Last survivors, Gog and Magog lean side by side on Tor Hill’s dry plain.   Gnarled trunks, stretched girths, cracks and circles.   Branches creak, royal-yellow catkins kiss, caress.   Magog, shrunk with age, hunches, an old woman.   Gog taller, majestic, sways sideways, brushes Magog’s bough.   Sun burns strong, branches              wilt, scallop-leaves scorch, earth                splits.   A feral flame guzzles Gog’s bark. Skeletal, blistered, bare, he’s grown his last flower.   Magog stoops lower, her branches languish,   crevices become cavities,   she wills her earthly trunk to die   so her                           spirit  …

This is the first in a planned series of ‘drop-ins’: opportunities to meet the poets whose collections will be reviewed in subsequent posts. I have some wonderful poets lined up and hope you’ll enjoy their reflections on their writing. They have been asked to choose a poem and reflect upon its conception.

The first of our poets is the wonderful Irish writer, Damien B. Donnelly.

Grains of Sand Beneath Cerulean Skies Faith is fragile, courage is not always conclusive, we don’t command the waves or comprehend the clouds. I tell you this sand will be swept into the sea by nightfall, this baying breath of cyan beneath the stretch of those cerulean skies. This smooth, salt-licked land was forged from fire before you were born, when vultures had feathers instead of hands and knives, when volcanos were all there was to fear. Faith is fragile, we can’t see what once…

For the third ‘Drop in‘ in the series we welcome Zoë Howarth-Lowe who talks about ‘You Don’t Fit the Way You Used To‘ from her latest pamphlet, ‘I Have Grown Two Hearts‘, published by Hedgehog Poetry Press in September 2020.

You Don’t Fit The Way You Used To

I am unable to explain my inadequacies
to your nearly five year old stamping foot.
How you have grown too heavy for my weak hip.
You were too heavy in my womb, your growing body
creating a weak spot in mine.
A hinge that crumples under the weight of you.

I cannot carry you home

When I was pregnant with my second child I experienced a problem with my pelvis that made it very painful and difficult to walk. It was a scary time as my first child was still under a year old and I ended…

For the third ‘Drop in‘ in the series we welcome Zoë Howarth-Lowe who talks about ‘You Don’t Fit the Way You Used To‘ from her latest pamphlet, ‘I Have Grown Two Hearts‘, published by Hedgehog Poetry Press in September 2020.

You Don’t Fit The Way You Used To

I am unable to explain my inadequacies
to your nearly five year old stamping foot.
How you have grown too heavy for my weak hip.
You were too heavy in my womb, your growing body
creating a weak spot in mine.
A hinge that crumples under the weight of you.

I cannot carry you home

When I was pregnant with my second child I experienced a problem with my pelvis that made it very painful and difficult to walk. It was a scary time as my first child was still under a year old and I ended…

This week’s Drop in welcomes, wonderful Belfast poet, Gaynor Kane, to talk about From Benin to Belfast, a poem from her stunning new collection Venus in Pink Marble, Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2020…

Nigel, thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk about one of the poems in Venus in Pink Marble in your ‘drop in’ series. I know you have been reading the collection and I hope you have been enjoying it. It has been hard to choose which poem to discuss but I have finally decided to talk about From Benin to Belfast.

From Benin to Belfast Benin boy whittles under shade of oil palms and cocoa plants. Plagued by flies, wishing for a spare hand or tail to swish, like the bony cattle. He’s told it is a great honour to prepare ivory for the mask that will adorn Oba’s hip. Elephant blood…