The Bit in Between by Claire Varley

Varley

I can see why Macmillan plucked this novel from the slush pile.

In a time of terror what joy to find a debut novel that deals with some tragic backstories but manages to be both irreverent and philosophical at the same time. Varley has used her Greek/Cypriot background and time as traveller and community worker in China, Cyprus and the Solomon Islands to create pacy fiction in the form of a Bildungsroman or a coming-of-age story as far as Oliver, the male protagonist is concerned.

The action, mainly based in Honiara, is where Oliver chooses to set his second novel in the company of new love interest, Alison, an adventurous girl he meets at the airport. Varley pokes fun at the literary world here since Oliver has had a book published and has won a literary prize but it soon becomes clear that his writing is dire and he has no original ideas.

Expats in Honiara come under scrutiny too in their desperation to build wealth, reputations or to find themselves in the spiritual sense while the Solomon Islands struggles to build a nation. Varley has an eye for the serious and the ridiculous in this post-colonial carnival. This is entertaining and sensitive writing.

Written in the third person, the action springs from the curious and lively Alison. In spite of her insecurities and her twenty-something questioning of life and its meaning she observes folly and flaws in the parade of opportunists and do-gooders seasoning places like the Pacific Islands. These characters could have fallen into the  stereotypical-drunks, egomaniacs and bleeding hearts but are saved by authentic dialogue and surprising revelations that bring balance to individuals like NGO Rick, the dope-head American who lives in a Vogue house with a servant and who is given some of the funniest lines.

Caricatures like this really exist and Varley knows how to extract comedy and pathos from her experiences. She cleverly juxtaposes a funny episode in a bar or club with the more serious story of Sera and her pregnancy. We are taken into indigenous family life and the struggle of the local women in particular, their morals and mores cleverly set against Oliver’s struggle with his over-protective Cypriot mother back in Melbourne and her hilarious emails which made me think of Sue Townsend and ‘The Diary of Adrian Mole’.

‘DEAR OLIVER CONSTANTINOS

I AM IN A COMPUTER CLASS IN PRESTON. A NICE GIRL CALLED VALERIE IS TEACHING US. SHE DOESN’T HAVE ANY EARRINGS ON HER FACE. …YOUR FATHER NEEDS TO GET HIS PROSTATE CHECKED BUT HE DOESN’T WANT TO GO TO OUR NORMAL DOCTOR BECAUSE THE DOCTOR HAS TO PUT HIS FINGER INTO YOUR RECTUM AND YOUR FATHER SAYS DR KHAN’S HANDS ARE TOO BIG.’

I enjoyed this book’s meta nuances and literary devices, not only where Oliver writes a story within a story, but where vignettes of individuals are embedded in italics. This technique highlights their significance but also Varley’s dexterity as a writer. These backstories are lyrical, poignant but not sentimental.

Varley might have become didactic in narrative dealing with social injustice in a Developing country but instead, we learn a lot about life on this Pacific island through skilful weaving of well-drawn situations involving believable characters. A surfeit of adjectives was distracting now and again in phrases like ‘beautiful brown eyes’ and where a description of a sunset and sky seems overwritten but this is a minuscule irk in what I found an engaging and intelligent read.

I found the story compelling on many levels, many personally resonant, and whilst it will probably not be considered literary fiction because of its humour and accessibility, it has a literary bent bordering on the style of Simsion and Hornby.

‘The Bit in Between’ could have wide appeal because of its global reach, political themes and humour, but specific appeal to young adult and baby boomer travellers. I read it in two sittings and look forward to the sequel because the ending opens it right up and I want to see where Oliver and Alison go from here. A confident and assured debut.

Claire-Varley-High-Res-Credit-Renee-Tsatsis

Robyn Rowland

robyn

Robyn lives on the Great Ocean Road in the same little seaside town as me for part of the year and can sometimes be glimpsed heading for the shops or the beach in crimson boots or purple sandals with her hair flying loose. The rest of the time she is in Ireland and often Turkey, and has two brand new publications to show for her time and love of these places, their peoples and histories.

Between 2010 and 2013, when I was new to the area, Robyn curated a memorable series in Geelong called Poets in Conversation where we  were treated to readings by some of Australia’s and Ireland’s best loved poets. Robyn transformed an otherwise dreary institutional space into a living room with lamps, flowers and beautiful words. This warmth and intimacy infuses her personality and poetry so it’s not surprising to see the word ‘intimate’ in the title of one of her new books, with some irony and melancholy, perhaps. Robyn is the sort of person who could inspire the likes of Harry to read a verse or two. I think she tried.

On Thursday September 3rd Doire Press and Robyn Rowland are delighted that Catherine Bateson will launch Robyn’s Line of Drift at Collected Works Bookshop. Thanks to Kris and Retta. Please come at 6 for 6.30, sip a glass and join us upstairs at 1/37 Swanston St, Melbourne VIC 3000
Phone:(03) 9654 8873

Harry

Second skin

Sticky veil, this grief,
second skin impervious to touch.
Plum jam – his favourite – rests thickly in the spoon
she holds, has been holding now for two hours.
It slips along her hands, her veins, dripping.
Only the wretched know this stillness –
and the dead.      She must clear up.

They cannot give her white marble and red poppies
to grow him back. She wants to go there,
look up at the impossible height and shiver,
dig like an animal among the rough cliffs
with her bitten nails, her bared teeth,
among the bones on the sandy beach in the shallows,
find him and stick him back together.

The sea was scarlet but it will be Aegean-blue now.
Her son cannot be remade like that, washed fresh –
some god decree a whirl, a vortex in tidal time,
find the pieces and meld him back along the spine.
He wrote – ‘it is bloody, mother,
and won’t be over by Christmas. I can’t tell you more,
it lacks faith’ ­– but hid the real letters in a sardine can

they sent back not knowing. When she opened it
fishy fear leached out of the blue pencilled lines
and no-one to hold him in the night as she did for
his night terrors as a child and smooth his hair back.
‘We couldn’t find enough of Charlie to bury him.’
The thought of his fear pierced her, cut her throat,
took her voice and she doesn’t want it back.

She sits still, cold, empty-veined – wonders –
at ten million dead will peace last?
One day will we trade with them again, marry their sons
that are left, and will it somehow have been right?
They have signed all the papers, the ‘war to end all wars’
is over, they say. The ordeal done.
She sits, still, dripping.      She must just clear up.

Hyacinth Loving

Errislannan
and what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on this earth.
– Raymond Carver

God or flesh, Persian poets wooed their ‘beloved’ as if
there were no greater gift than to be both namer and the named.
Absent, your brown furred body lives in my skin’s memory,
laughter recalled is my uisce beatha, water of life,
your care, the charge of a sun.
Every morning, alone here but for the thought of you, excitement
tingles in fingertips that tuck in the stray flips of earth
tipped from indigo pots at my door, as hyacinths,
rising from their dark birth-shrouds, go ruffling for light.
Brown onion caps almost discarded, balance in comedic joy,
a small wonder as they protrude into the ice-blue chill above ground.
Heads loaded with bubbles of scented flower,
they make the sky ache for their pink and blue sweetness.
In the cleft of their companions’ leaves thrust toward sunshine,
clear rainwater is caught, meniscus bulging as if curved crystal.
First night back, a pregnant crescent moon slung low,
carried before her the shadow-shape of herself to come.
Connemara’s sky was star-crowded and cold –
deep airborne cold – and pure beyond diamond.
Spring is an act of trust – the sky will warm, buds rise and open,
and the great moon sail into her own fullness as a matter of time.
Waiting is the necessity for growth.
All this readies for you, beloved, and when you come
your soft kiss will give me again the first spring-time of opening.

Brief Sport

You see her from the highway
where the tall eucalypt stands greyly at the edge of bush,
dumb with its necklace of flowers,
drooping as if it, too, is weary of the weight.
She leans as if to kneel,
caught into the slump of her mute grief,
careless in the tangle of her clothes
at the end of the long thread of skid.
Its burn of rubber, odourless now,
scars an uncomprehending earth
right to the tree’s roots,
black scores against the young,
their sport cut short.

Across this broad land, strings of floral crosses
tacked on trees, guard rails, signposts,
sprout names in a tortured kind of style,
road maps tagged out by a new form of headstone.
Dot-to-dot drawing pages from the book of youth,
they link them in migration points under their flight
towards that un-aged land where years evaporate in a blaze.
She laces the trunk with fresh flowers,
blooms left yesterday wilting in the sear of summer heat.
Winter will never arrive with its resting dark,
her son already days behind in history, just
a photo on the mantle, heat-welded to his eighteenth year.

Notes on Robyn’s new titles  (2015) and Testimonials

Intimate

This Intimate War Gallipoli/Çanakkale 1915 – İçli Dışlı Bir Savaş: Gelibolu/Çanakkale 1915 is published by Five Islands Press in Australia and by Bilge Kultur Sanat in Turkey. Sponsored by the Municipality of Çanakkale.This is bi-lingual in English and Turkish (translations by Mehmet Ali Celikel), about the experiences of Australians, allies and Turks – soldiers, munitions workers, nurses, families, composers, painters and poets – during the battle for Gallipoli, and its pre-cursor the Battle of  Çanakkale.

Lisa Gorton writes in her cover comments: ‘These poems draw on works of history and private testimonial. They are what this age needs: poems about war which do not glorify war; poems which, for all their considerable rhetorical power, nowhere distance themselves from pain,brutality and callous error. These poems are immediate and unwavering; they are also deeply thoughtful. In them, Robyn Rowland considers war from what were enemy positions; also, from the perspective of mothers and factory workers. Very few collections bring home so powerfully the vulnerability of individuals in the face of history. This collection certainly takes its place among Robyn Rowland’s best work. It is a courageous achievement.’

Professor Himmet Umunç writes: ‘ … she has looked at the Gallipoli experience not only through the eyes of the Anzacs but also through the eyes of the Turkish soldiers. With an epic perspective and overwhelming emotionality, she has created a lasting and moving saga of the Anzac and Turkish warriors in conflict as well as intimate comradeship. Critical of imperialist politicians and ill-planned logistics, Dr Rowland draws in her poetry extensively both upon her own impeccable observations of the battle areas but also upon the Anzac diaries and letters as well as Turkish narratives concerning Gallipoli. Her powerful style and also her descriptive and perceptive sensitivity create in the mind of the reader a vivid and enduring picture of the agonies, sufferings, and heroic fighting that characterize the human tragedy of Gallipoli.’

Line of Drift

Line of Drift, Doire Press, Ireland with the assistance of a grant
from the Irish Arts Council. Poems include tribute poems for Robert Adamson, Theo Dorgan and Jacob Rosenberg, an Epic about the Island of Inisboffin that could be a history of Ireland itself. Poems swing between Australia and Ireland, and reflect that tug.

John Foulcher writes: ‘Line of Drift’ is a high water mark in Robyn Rowland’s writing and for poetry in general. Her dual identity lends Line of Drift a unique perspective in modern poetry; she combines the best of Irish and Australian sensibilities. The lush passion of this book’s language is balanced by a wry, at times almost laconic view of the world. Every experience, from the grand to the mundane, from the personal to the political, is taut with vividness and energy. These poems are generous and genuinely moving, whether they depict the people or the places that she travels restlessly among and between.’
Iggy McGovern writes: ‘Line of Drift celebrates the ‘here and there’ of a half-globe bilocation, as ‘kestrels, wrens, robins’ line out against ‘rainbow lorikeets, crimson rosellas, honeyeaters’. Rowland is more than equal to the challenges of our own landscape and place history, as evidenced in the long poem ‘Unbroken Stone in a Stubborn Sea’; here Rowland is a latter day Synge who listens, not through the floorboard cracks, but across the hearth.’

Short Bio

ROBYN ROWLAND is an Irish-Australian dual-citizen, annually visiting Ireland for thirty-three years, now living half-time in Connemara. She regularly visits and works in Turkey. She has written twelve books, nine of poetry. Robyn’s poetry appears in national and international journals and in over thirty-six anthologies, including six Best Australian Poems: 2014, 2013, 2010, 2009, 2005 and 2004 (Black Inc.), with editors Les Murray, Robert Adamson, Lisa
Gorton and Geoff Page; and Being Human, ed. Neil Astley, (Bloodaxe Books, UK, 2011). Her work has been awarded a number of prizes and she has published and read in Australia, Ireland, Japan, Bosnia, Serbia, Austria, Turkey, Canada, India, New Zealand, Portugal, the UK, the USA, Greece and Italy. Robyn’s poetry has been featured on Australian and Irish national radio programs. Robyn has two CDs, Off the Tongue and Silver Leaving — Poems & Harp with Lynn Saoirse. Dr Robyn Rowland AO was an Honorary Fellow, School of Culture and Communication 2008-2012, University of Melbourne; was a member of the National Advisory Council for Australia Poetry Ltd 2010-2013; curated and presented the Poetry & Conversation Series for the Geelong Library Corporation, 2010-2013; and was inaugural Deputy Chair of the Board of the Australian Poetry Centre 2007-2009. Previously Professor of Social Inquiry and Women’s Studies at Deakin University, she retired in 1996 and was created an Officer in the Order of Australia for her contribution to higher education and women’s health.

Links

Books: http://www.doirepress.com/writers/k-z/robyn_rowland/ Postage free http://fiveislandspress.com/catalogue/this-intimate-war
http://www.bilgeyayincilik.com/kitap.asp?ID=735

Interview: http://www.advertiser.ie/galway/article/78071/when-i-was-growing-up-youd-have-thought-the-australians-had-won-at-gallipoli
Launch speech: Lisa Gorton: The Vulnerability of Individuals in the Face of History
http://rochfordstreetreview.com/2015/03/24/the-vulnerability-of-individuals-in-the-face-of-history-lisa-gorton-launches-this-intimate-war-gallipolicanakkale-1915-by-robyn-rowland/

READINGS in August, 2015

Bendigo Writers Festival August 7-9th Sat 1.15pm WAS THIS MY PLACE?;
Sun 10am THE FORCE; Sun 11.30am LINES OUT LOUD.
http://www.bendigowritersfestival.com.au/robyn-rowland/

Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne on Wednesday August 12th at 5.30 for 6pm (FREE, gold coin donation welcome) with Turkish translations also read by Erdin Gunce
http://www.shrine.org.au/Visit-the-Shrine/Talks-and-Events/This-Intimate-War–Gallipoli-Canakkale-1915

Rob Walker

I’ve seen Rob’s poems in many places in recent years, wondering if he was the Rob Walker I’d once taught with in South Gippsland. He doesn’t appear to be, his hair’s not long, black and curly (or not anymore). I made contact with Rob when I read his terrific poem ‘termites’ which you can read here. I’d written a poem with the same title, not unusual, but our language and observations are uncannily close and his is the better poem. Rob has just enjoyed the successful launch of his new book ‘tropeland’ published by the prestigious Five Islands Press. I find Rob’s poetry full of energy, it’s often funny, oozing with his love of language and general pissed-offness with the current government and injustice in general. He doesn’t hold back. I bring you Rob Walker…

RobWalkerByMartinChristmas

Photo by Martin Christmas

Bio
Rob walker has always been fascinated by language and its multiplicity of forms. In between his time as an educator in Performing Arts around Adelaide and teaching English to Junior and Senior High students and  adults in Japan, he has also found time to write a children’s musical, essays, short stories, poetry reviews, co-edit a poetry anthology and produce three  poetry books. With hundreds of poems being published online and in journals and anthologies in the UK, US and Australia, Rob also enjoys collaborating with other artists. He currently divides his time between grandchildren, a small farm in the Adelaide Hills, travelling and writing.

tropeland

Tropeland.

In the Land of Trope
boxes of matches spontane combustiously,
self-ignite like passion.
Vampire bats appear as garbags snagged on barbed-wire fences
Butterflies float skyward like liberation

In the Land of Trope street lights go through the phases of the moon
while the real moon waits for the traffic lights to change.
Deep serene ponds resemble your eyes and babies’ cheeks are gardenias

In the Land of Trope ears roar like the ocean
when you hold them up to your shell
cellos are the waists and childbearing hips of country girls

In the Land of Trope cotton wool confined
to bathroom cabinets thinks it’s a cloud
forming over the ranges
the day sky tries to be as blue as the child’s pencil
while the night leaves itself deliberately empty
for the distant sound of a lone dog

In the Land of Trope sweat from armpits impersonates
cinnamon bark and vanilla pods
Similes assimilate later as comparative as a comparison

In the Land of Trope dark sky splits white lightning apart
and all poetry is black except for the pink bits

In the Land of Trope nothing is like anything else
It’s as fat as a fat thing or as like as an as.
It’s as different as everything and like nothing else.

In the Land of Trope pine forests are as fresh as toilet disinfectant,
lemons smell as clean as dishwashing detergent.
Silver coins look like rain-filled sheep hoofprints

In the Land of Trope 2 a.m. clocks tut-tut that you’re not asleep.
Mountain scenes are almost as realistic as paintings.
Surreal estate.
leaves fall in love every autumn and
drums beat like a
heart.

In the Land of Trope dogs feel as sick as a man
wheels are as silly as eccentric children
and tacks never feel flat.

In the Land of Trope rainbows come blank
so you can colour them in yourself
from ultra-yellow to infra-green

In the Land of Trope pins are as neat as houses,
rabbits breed like the poor. A whip
is as smart as a sadomasochist

In the Land of Trope
money is mute and
humility talks.

In Tropeland
it’s better for you
and metaphor me

termites

we are the tectonic organic architects.
fixed action patterns, no masterplan
predisposed destruction
genetic construction.
we are the wrecking ball
and the engineers.

bees are greek geometers,
bodies as rulers, hexagons in their heads.
we the pallid homewreckers
with magnets instead. north of capricorn

use our clay skyscrapers
as compasses
but we will destroy your home
to build our own.
we are Vishnu and Shiva,
no arms, six legs.
world-best-practice fungus
farmers
we’ve thrown away the plans.
each buttressed edifice with aircon, heating,
unique.
form is function,

function, form.            hyperbolic paraboloid,
hyperboloid, helicoid
straight lines are anathema
the shortest span between two points is
follow the guy ahead.
we know no Pythagoras nor Euclid,
give a passing nod to the Bauhaus
and gaudy Gaudi who plagiarized
our best.

An accident waiting to happen

purposeless and alienated, a coexisting anomie and ennui
a concatenation of the unrelated    i lurk on street corners
planning the intersection of vehicles.

delayed by traffic light whim or
leaving home moments earlier you leave    yourself
vulnerable to my coordinate points.

I am the haybale awaiting synchronicity
of temperature                   and humidity
to interrupt            a firefighter’s dinner.

I am the thrown match which may peter out
or destroy the entire national park,
the oily rag in the shed.

I am the outdated nuclear reactor
behind the low seawall
waiting for the plates to move.

I am the occasional freight train,
the unsignalled crossing,
the sleepy motorist.

I am the barely submerged snag in the murky river
the sharemarket software trigger
programmed to sell  sell   sell.

I am the one flake of snow
that begins the avalanche.

I am unstring theory.
I am tired of waiting.   So tired…

(all poems from tropeland)

Rob blogs here:      http://www.robwalkerpoet.com/

Five Islands Press, June 2015
PO Box 4429 University of Melbourne
Parkville
Vic. 3052

http://www.fiveislandspress.com
ISBN: 978-0-7340-5026-7

Available here. https://www.google.com.au/?gws_rd=ssl#q=rob+walker+tropeland&tbm=shop

Jane Clarke

Jane165HiRes

I spent a week with Jane on a residency in 2013. She impressed me, not only as someone with strong convictions, but also as a sensitive  and beautiful writer. When she shared her poems with us I could feel her passion for the natural and political world of her native Ireland, and her love and respect for her father and for people of the soil.

At the time Jane had been widely published in journals but seemed frustrated that she hadn’t had a full collection accepted. How exciting it was then to hear, two years on, that her poems had found a very good home indeed. Bloodaxe Books has published Jane’s debut collection which will be launched in various locations from June this year. Please go to her website for dates.

janeclarketheriversmaller

The River

What surprises me now is not that you’re gone
but how I go on without you, as if I’d lost
no more than a finger. My hand still strong,

perhaps stronger, can do what it must,
like carving your name on a branch from the beech
by the Suck, letting the river take you,

so I can call myself free. Only sometimes,
like yesterday or the day before, last night or this morning,
the river flows backwards, uphill to my door.

 First published in the Irish Independent, 2012

Every tree

I didn’t take the walnut oil,
linseed oil,

the tins of wax
or my lathe and plane

when I closed
the workshop door.

I left the grip of poverty
on the bench

beside my mallet,
whittling knife

and fishtail chisel
with its shallow sweep.

I quit the craft
my father had carved into me

when I was pliable
as fiddleback grain,

left all at the threshold,
except for the scent of wood,

a different scent
for every tree.

First published in the Irish Times, 2015

On the Boat

On the boat we were mostly virgins,
we talked about who we were going to be –
waitresses, seamstresses, nurses,
we didn’t talk about why we had to leave.

We talked about where we were going to be,
the wooden frame house with a picket fence,
but we didn’t talk about why we had to leave
as we touched the lockets around our necks.

The wooden frame house with a picket fence
led to talk of lost villages, lost streets
as we touched the lockets around our necks.
We didn’t foresee tenements that grew thick as trees

when we talked of lost villages, lost streets
and the diligent men we were going to marry.
We didn’t foresee tenements that grew thick as trees,
the suitcase of memories we would have to carry

to the diligent men we were going to marry
when we were waitresses, seamstresses, nurses
nor the suitcase of memories we would have to carry
from the boat, where we were mostly virgins.

First published in the Irish Times, 2013

Biography
Roscommon-born, Wicklow resident, Jane combines writing with her work as a management consultant. She holds a BA in English and Philosophy from Trinity College, Dublin and an MPhil in Writing from the University of South Wales. She won the Listowel Writer’s Week Poetry Collection Prize (2014), the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland Competition (2014), Poems for Patience (2013), iYeats (2010) and Listowel Writers Week (2007). Her poems have been published widely, including The Irish Times, Irish Independent, Rialto, The North, Agenda, Southword, The Stinging Fly, The Shop, Cyphers. Her first collection, The River, is published by Bloodaxe Books.

www.janeclarkepoetry.ie

http://www.bloodaxebooks.com/titlepage.asp?isbn=1780372531

http://andotherpoems.wordpress

www.dromineerliteraryfestival.ie

May-June Wandering with dingoes in the outback

Magazines and Anthologies that Feature my Work

2008

I’m often interested to see where poets are getting their work published. If you’d like to see which journals and anthologies have published my work I’ve listed publications in Australia, UK, Europe and the US.

AUSTRALIA     The Age, Australian Poetry Journal and Anthology,  Avant, Blue Pepper, OzBurp, Cordite (39, 46, 46.1), Divan, 8d Erotica, ETZ 7, 8 and 9, Famous Reporter 44, foam:e 9 &10, Gangway, Hecate, LiNQ,  Overland, Plumwood Mountain, Rabbit, Regime, Southerly, Stylus, Tango Australis, The Best Australian Poetry (UQP), The Paradise Anthology, The Red Room Company, Tincture,Verity La, Wet Ink, Windmills. Forthcoming in Australian Poetry Journal.

bunyips

UK/ Europe  And Other Poems, Angle Poetry Journal, Antiphon, BODYLit, The Emma Press anthologies (Motherhood and Dance), Eunoia Review, Flarestack Poets anthology: Sylvia is Missing, Flash, Gangway, Indigo Dreams, Heartshoots anthology, Ink, Sweat and Tears (including 12 Days of Christmas 14/15), Kumquat Poetry, The Interpreters House, The Lake, Mslexia, Obsessed with Pipework, New Linear Perspectives,  Orbis, Poetry Salzburg Review, , Shadowtrain, Shearsman (93/94, 101/102) Under the Radar, Wandering Words, Sensing Spaces Pamphlet (edited by Abegail Morley, Emer Gillespie and Catherine Smith).

Forthcoming in New Walk Magazine

                     ms

 US/Mexico        Cultural Weekly, LA (Feature poet), ‘Dogzplot, B’, (Barbie anthology) Kind of a Hurricane Press, Sundress Blog-Best Dressed feature collection for Kiss of the Viking, The Ofi Press, Penduline, Poetry (Chicago), The Bond Street Review, The Nassau Review. 3_2015-cover-360

When Temporal Lobes

chair

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ignite like Christmas lights
down High Street

in the middle of
her grand mal

she is sitting upright in a bentwood chair
/resin replica/

She can neither see nor hear
Not a sound

Normally susceptible to suspense
/Can’t seem to shake it/

Never expecting a good thing
to come of it         she is suddenly alive

in the crate of her skull
a pulse of epiphanous bliss

She thinks in tongues
of a thousand angels Gabriel

Could never imagine a suicide
bomber or serial killer

Knows everything about us
Some days she takes little walks

past hospital wards with white views
a clipped, aching feel about them /to us/

carrying out her marvellous plan
over crumpled pages, musical scores

Child of the cosmos
Jesus lives!      /for five minutes/

 

Published in Helen Ivory’s Twelve Days of Christmas, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Dec 2014/15