Putting Things Back Together Again
— Sue Wallace-Shaddad 2023
All the bits and pieces came in a box,some in better shape than others.They had next-to-no value exceptfor sentiment. Each chipped dish,broken vase, had meant somethingto you. I remembered them whole,gracing a sideboard, a window sill. I took the Chinese plate to a manin antiques at the end of the road;he thought he could save it witha light touch and glue. It now haspride of place on my dining tablehosting a jug of daffodils. If onlymy cracks could be mended too.
Rest
— Sue Wallace-Shaddad 2023
Hair spread over the pillowso soft and full of shinea greying brownwith strands of white. You always look youngerthan your yearsfour score and fifteen Your hands hold minein their warm embrace as you negotiate your wayfrom restless motionto peace
Wensleydale
— Johanna Boal 2023
See how wensleydale crumblesthe limestone, dry old mossbreaking drystone walls,sun beating, pale yellow hillsidebumblebees working with the monks. Picnics: the sweet and salty.Spiked waterfalls, the nettles, buttercupsmy mouth filled with wensleydale cheesethe smoky taste, acidic flavourtouch the drystone walls.
Magician’s Gloves
— Johanna Boal 2023
I wear magician’s glovesthey move so speedily as they lay stone upon stonerabbits run in the fields, secret doorsthe gaps in the walls, my gloves a strong fabric:canvas paints a wall of limestonesfive foot high, edged with moss,blades of grass at the foundationswalls run into walls, cows, hawthornfingers smoothing the creases in the corners.‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ my sledgehammer and malleta magic wand, abracadabra – poof.Top stones, slick and shiny like top hats.
A Letter Addressed to the Wind
— Keith Harris 2023
I love you,I love you as a friendand as my sister.And though no humaneye might ever withempathy’s nuancealight upon these pennedtear-blotted linesas this paper, crinkled and tossedto the winds, is tornand drenched by storm,lost and trodden downon sodden soil –these written words stillcarry significance today andthrough as yetuncounted years. I love you,I love you as once mychildhood delighted in its mother.And though no humanear may ever hearkento the cry of this sadseparated self,though grey cold oceandeeps or dusty scorchingdesert sands as shroudedabysses liebetweenthose winding waywardpaths our lives have steppedsince we met and with alast pained wincingglance parted those many,many moons ago –my words silentlyspoken into the breezebear meaning thismoment and for seasonsstill to be. I love you –though decades have whitenedwaves of flowing hair,dimmed those luminousso expressive eyes,though time has etchedcrevices in that facialglow and flesh sagson once lithe and vital limbs,though bones be boxed and buriedor cremated cinders strewnin an unknown grave,though starry heavens’ darkestfrosty night or secludedforests’ scentedsun-illumined dayalonelisten to my voice –I love you,I love you as my friendand as a sister,I love you as my daughterand my mother,nowand in vales hiddenin the eternalI love youas my beloved.
The Brook, the Artist and the Poet
— Judy Dinnen 2023
I swell with pride todayas they gather on my banks.They belong to me,hope with me,travel with me,the artist with a black hatthe poet with blue shoes.They hope with me,travel with me,indulge my journey;yes, even carry my soulaway to their town,They draw my flowers,turn mayfly to pink glass.Theyhang my portrait in galleries,read my stories in schools.They are part of my flow,indulging my journey. Theymourn when my water is foul,when the sun robs me of life.I blush at the honour;I flow faster,bubble and swirl.I travel onbeneath their bridges,round the oak tree,past stores and clinics.And stillthey sing with medance with metravel with mepaint and frame me,shout for me andcampaign for my rights.
See, the sun is out
— Leela Gautam 2023
~a cult show~ Ninety percent chance of rain,predicted the experts.Nonsense, said the leader,The sun will shine.They arrived in shorts and T shirts, No rain jackets, no brollies.They listened to his words,Enthralled! Reason was lost.Rain came; a sudden downpour,Blinding eyes, soaking bodies.Arms stretched out in renewalof a forgotten sacrament, they felt sanctified.He stood under an awning,A divine presence untouched by nature.As they walked away, glorifying their leader,Rain was not mentioned.Someone looked up and pointed,See the sun is out,He said it would shine,It has.
Inheritance
— Susan Jane Sims 2023
In New York my nephew Rob writes plays, and acts.His wife’s an actor too.I never knew Rachel as a child but RobI remember at threewearing a series of different hatsand rushing in and out to us, in the kitchentotally absorbed in being someone else. Later when Rob had careers interviews at schooland had suggestions made like traffic wardenor Sainsbury’s, he said I want to act.Their little sonjust three and a half goes to pre-schoolin character. I’m Simon he’ll sayto his teacher and she’ll play alongand let him be Simon all day. He’s Reggie in real life, and if anyone asksthey never get a short answer.He’ll say I’m Reggie and sometimes Reggie Roo.I’m also Reggie Mark Benson but today I’m Spider man.Yesterday he said he’s writing a movie in his head.He wants his dad to film it. It’s about a skeleton chef who sings.I know exactly where he gets it from.
The Mill
— M. Anne Alexander 2023
In the beginning, we plucked grainand ate it raw or roasted in the fire.Then we ground grain in family querns,for many hours, to make our daily bread.Then we paid the miller who paid monks who had built the mill, untilthe mill was taken to make gunpowderand then taken over to grind grain againbut to convert to alcohol for gin palacesto transport the London poor into oblivion. The mill’s darkened frame stands still,awaiting restoration, as swans glide by,glancing, turning, shaking their heads,as if wondering how long a speciesthat evolves this weirdly can last.
Travelling light
— M. Anne Alexander 2023
The sun slouchedamong passengers, dazzledby the wintry light, shuffling as they sat cocoonedwithin snaking concertina carriagessinging along frosted tracks, flitting through shimmeringwhite-lit clouds and starched fieldsand twinkling trees. As if barely aware, chattering childrenand couples with cases were setting outfor airports and fresh worlds, while Welcome signs flashed at passing stationsand tumbling ivy hinted of greenshoots to come. Then, the sun smiled, sharingbright gilding strings of lightas our stops came into sight.
About the editor
Poet, editor and artist, Susan Jane Sims has been running Poetry Space since 2010. She has three collections to her name and has edited or joint-edited many anthologies. Poetry Space is a social enterprise operating from Susan’s home in Beaminster, Dorset, where she is also a chef in the food and arts business she runs with her husband Chris (Tangerine Cafe & Gallery). She has been a poet in schools for many years, a judge in a regional heat of The Poetry by Heart competition and a Hawthornden Fellow in 2018. Susan loves nothing better than bringing people together with community events; her latest venture is a monthly collage group supported by Dorset START.