New publication

Delighted to have another poem published in the poetry webzine Ink, Sweat & Tears.

Woven In

 

i.
Once my head was off
a new house was needed,
as though the stones had blood
so soaked into their porous,
gritty hearts that no water
could wash them clean.

 

The pond fills slowly;

it rains so rarely. The weed
waits, with the one shark-eyed
pike in the shallows. Men
build slowly, stone by stone,
until the roof shines in its

 

dull, red brilliance;

fakey turrets crowing in
fat glory over the dry moat.
They are a bold bunch.
The wainscotting is shined
to a rich red sheen.

 

ii.
In another country women stitch,
between sharp white wings,
at raw canvas; threads coloured
with saffron, spinach, beetles’ blood
shape face after face.
I get myself in there, somehow,

with some  sleight of hand.
They said I was a witch.
At night I step down, taking with me
my newly stitched head that is wiser
than my old one. Corporeally,
I walk their halls, feet ringing.

Continuing the archive...

Published in Ambit 175, selected by Henry Graham and Julia Casterton (2004)

Joan of Arc

i
They begin;
small whispers that round my ears.
See: I am doing it myself,
turning in my vision,
turning it in to the mad orbit of days.
They begin, with their sleight of hand,
thrusting me into tight corners of space.
I cannot be alone with these things,
these thoughts that spill into each musty corner.

I am silent and unmistakably sheened,
with my mouth lapsed open.
They speak, in vast curls of roundness,
in mixed lyricism.
My ears are buzzing with the feel of them
and the ache of the flames crawling higher.
They are oozing through the cracks in my door,
their oily presence.

And so I cut off all my hair
and fit myself for battle,
naked and glowing beneath
the looped casings of my armour.
No longer silent I am speaking in tongues,
loosing my mouth with good wine
like the soldiers do.
I spiral higher; let battle commence.

ii
They gather the dead rushes into crude bundles,
tying the ends with hair and spun thread.
The pyres are built with care, the songs
of the builders drifting over to where
I kneel in my shift; more girl than warrior.
My eyes are raised to my own sacrifice
as they douse the pyres with oils and perfumes.
The mouths of the priests are wet with mead.
My own starved lips mouth my endings.

They lift me like a prize, these glazed men,
and call upon their faiths to carry me away
on their burning fronds; their conscience.
The flames lick my thighs. My own scent hangs
and cloys and it scares me, oh it scares me
when I see how men fall and flay themselves
at my feet like penitent saints or cracked gods.