everyday

overheard joys

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‘Oooooh!’ ‘wooosh!’
‘Look at you!’ A
grandmother neighbour
greets her family
in the street outside
my house.
Laughter percolates
towards my bedroom
window. I hear the pause
of hugs exchanged.

On the café table
next to me, two
cashmere women
discuss a favourite
dancing show, the merits
of the ‘last man standing’,
the northern darling, the
East end lass, the tinkling
delight of little girls
let loose in dressing up
clothes. I feel their
inner twirling.

Returning from a
conference, three women
(unusual in Eurostar
Standard Premier class)
tease a colleague. Tall
tales, tender taunting,
their warm laughter
embraces the whole
carriage, washes me
with gladness.

We are a humanity of
constant hopes and tears,
and yet in streets, and
trains and
public places, there is,
it seems,
for a moment,
more than enough
joy to go round.

 

 

the poetry of outfits

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Occasional blogger – bobble hat, brogues,
pointy-out skirt,
grey tights,
red headphones.

Christmas auntie of
small children – jeggins
(don’t tell anyone), soft top, long
cardigan and (still) Uggs.

Urban gardener in a hurry –
shorts with tights, wellingtons
a parka and pink gardening
gloves with polka dots.

Runner in disguise – dawn-coloured
vibram five fingers (yay!),
black thermal tights (too hot),
blue long sleeve top and
large white plastic sunnies.

Businesswoman with recently
adopted ‘flat shoe’ policy – suit
dress and jacket,
New York snow scene
silk scarf (for winter) and
silver pointy flats.

Writer on the weekend –
stripey slogan top
‘believe’, cream
coatigan with enormous
sleeves and collar
(cosy), grey suede boots.

Woman pretending
to be French – pencil
midi-skirt (striped again,
horizontal), light grey
cashmere jumper, gold
zigzag scarf, just so,
peacoat, maybe Le Monde.

Faux-nonchalant
party-goer – black silk
tracksuit bottoms, gold
lamé linen vest,
leather flip-flops,
enormous studded
clutch.

The endless poetry of
outfits has possessed me;
(spring christening of
new friend’s son, grey
print dress…)
how can I escape? I can’t stop
thinking about
(grown-up beginner
ballerina – …)
the poetry of outfits.

This will have to be
‘Part One.’

(What’s yours?)

 

 

Winter walk – question

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When I wrote ‘Winter walk‘ poem, I tried it with a final stanza to answer the poem’s questions. But then I could not tell if I had closed down the poem too much.

Here is the stanza I wrote, so you can judge for yourself.

If I make the world
stop for a moment,
and listen,
I can hear the sap
stirring, feel the
explosions of the
tiniest seeds,
almost reach out and touch
the promise of spring.

winter walk

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The trees are dying
Leaves yellow, brown,
drop, rot on paths,
trodden underfoot.

The air is dank,
Sullen November
skies weigh
wearily on the eye.

Passers-by,
preoccupied,
gaze into middle
distance, dodge
all greetings.

The birds have
given up and gone
south; anywhere
but here.

Is this what my
summer beauty has
come to?
Dare I ever hope
for more?

 

wild night run

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We were wild women
that night, when the
trees waved, whistled
and wove their spectral
shadows in the night.

Howling, a gale
streamed past our
spindly lines. We called
out to each other, another
runner shrieked in my ear.
I jumped higher than you
might think.

Dark, though only
early, but blackest
winter made the
lamplight dim. A
late-walked dog a tripping
hazard that might prove fatal;
the head-torch glare
seared my night-sight.

‘Whole trees in motion,
effort needed to walk
against the wind.’  All
ordinary cares cast
sideways; office politics,
lacklustre lovers, let
loose and hurled about.

An eye, a calm, a
freedom borne of
drama outside the
domestic sphere.
We were wild and
free, we ran faster,
we ran
like the wind.

 

Note: The quotation in the third stanza is the description of ‘land conditions’ for number 7 on the Beaufort scale.  This scale has captivated me since I learnt it as a little girl.  Now I realise this is because it is all poetry:  ‘Large branches in motion. Whistling heard in overhead wires. Umbrella use becomes difficult. Empty plastic bins tip over.’ (number 6, but it wasn’t dramatic enough for the poem).