It’s a great pleasure introducing this month’s poet: Rachel Davies. We met through poetry workshops in Manchester many years ago.
Rachel Davies has had several jobs including nurse, teacher and head-teacher. She thinks retirement is the best job she’s ever had because it gave her time to pursue her poetry. She is widely published in journals and anthologies and has been a prize-winner in several poetry competitions.
Her debut pamphlet, Every Day I Promise Myself, was published by 4Word Press in December 2020 and she is currently seeking a home for her second pamphlet, Mole. Rachel is co-ordinator of the Poetry Society Stanza for East Manchester and Tameside. She has an MA in Creative Writing and a PhD in contemporary poetry, both from Manchester Metropolitan University. Originally from the Cambridgeshire fens, she now lives in Saddleworth with her partner and two cats.
I hope you enjoy my selection of four poems from the pamphlet.
Alternative Mother #4
For fun, you push me round the lounge
on the Ewbank till I beg you to stop, teach me
hula hoop, two-ball, how it’s good to laugh.
You soothe my knees with Germolene,
say a hug helps, say it’s alright to cry.
You know the healing power of a biscuit.
You hand-sew my wedding dress,
stitch into a secret seam a blue satin ribbon,
a lock of your own hair, all the love it takes.
You take my daughter out, keep her
for bedtime stories, forget to bring her home
so I worry she’s followed the rabbit down the hole.
You make me dance, even on those days
when the music died in me. You teach me
the euphoria of champagne.
You bake scones so light they float down
to your granddaughters like hot-air balloons.
Alternative Mother #8
Sometimes dreams can be nightmares.
You wanted most of yourself to be buried, to become
an enrichment of the fenland soil you loved so much,
your heart and lungs to be thrown into Whittlesey Wash
to feed the eels you knitted your nets for.
Oh, you were generous. You gave me some peonies once,
dug up from your garden. You shook the soil off though—
that soil’s worth three thousand pounds an acre you said.
I looked for the smile but there wasn’t one.
One night your skeleton grew out of the earth like a myth.
Breaking the Line
The blood red sky
sheds tears. Fresh milk
curdles. Now I know
my heartbroken father
left the house with
chisel, mallet — after dark
he’s out there hammering
like a minor god. Grief begins
to surface from the cold stone.
To St Ives, a Love Poem
Even though November is a black dog sitting at your feet
and your beaches lay crushed under the weight of mist
and your shoreline roars at the passing of summer
and your white horses rise on their hind legs
till your fishing boats get seasick; even though your trees
shed tears like baubles and your shops drip gifts like rain
and your cobbled streets and narrow alleys wind
around me like a clock and your posters announce
Fair Wednesday as if all other days are cheats
and your bistros display fish with eyes wide as heaven,
scared as hell, and your railway bridge yells
do what makes you happy and it feels like a tall order;
even though your choughs are impatient for pilchard
your huers won’t see today from the Baulking House
still you open your arms and kiss my cheeks in welcome.