Tag Archives: Cinnamon Press

A Word in Your Ear

Alex Josephy

It is a great pleasure to introduce this month’s poet. Alex Josephy and I met last November. We both read at the ‘virtual’ Poetry in Aldeburgh festival, along with poets Sharon Black and Christopher North – all of us with a connection to Europe.

Alex lives in London and Italy. Her collection Naked Since Faversham was published by Pindrop Press in 2020. Other work includes White Roads, poems set in Italy, Paekakariki Press, 2018, and Other Blackbirds, Cinnamon Press, 2016. Her poems have won the McLellan and Battered Moons prizes, and have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the UK and Italy.

As part of the Poetry School Mixed Borders scheme, she has been poet-in-residence at Rainham Hall, Essex, and in Markham Square, London. Alex is a poetry mentor and writes reviews for publications such as Envoi and London Grip. Find out more on her website: http://www.alexjosephy.eu

I have chosen four poems from Naked Since Faversham which show the range of her work. I hope they speak to you, as they did to me.

Grasshopper, Castelvecchio

Stalled between diagonal slats,
you’re a dry hull, ridge-backed

as if whittled from a vine stem,
forelegs splayed to grip the ledge

you’ve chosen for shelter.
Hail made me close the shutters;

that’s when I noticed you, remote
in winter torpor. When I woke

you were still here, a cold wedge
interrupting the light.

Each time I pass I look for you,
imagine how the frost

deepens, fills your hollows;
hear no rasp of song, no longing

for green. Cavalletta, little horse,
I hope we’ll see the spring.

A Word in Your Ear

Cielo, the heaven
of unimportant things:
half an hour together

in the usual bar.
It’s a light still on
when the morning sky

starts to remember blue.
Cielo, just look
at the shape of it:

five strokes, a hasty dot,
slight enough
to skim a canvas

on a brush-tip, watery
peaks and arcs.
That fluent curve –

a sudden smile,
stand-offish verticals,
and then a hug.

A little bite of something
sweet and quick –
cielo, cielo, ce l’ho!

warbles the pastry cook.
His cielo is yeast
that swells the heart

of a brioche, opens
rooms of warm air
in a bread roll.

Going Up

At the door I pause to salute
the white plastic vessel. Press

the panel, cupping a palm
beneath. The blessing flows;

I wring my hands, fold them,
gather a fearful breath, hope

for the best. Together we can fight
infection. Shed what I’ve carried,

invisible on the wheezy bus. This is
a clean hand zone. Trace finger bone

to knuckle, heart line to life line.
Catch a whiff of spirit,

hurry through Reception,
head for the silver lift.

Therapy

Take thistledown, hold it in the bowl
of your palms. Feel it tingle
like Spumante.

No, it can’t mend your heart,
but it will float you to the surface
of your skin.

Each time you long for your child
across the ocean,
find a river

or a canal., worn stone steps
down to the towpath.
Accept

a kingfisher’s quick shot of blue,
a moorhen’s buoyancy;
how easily

they dive, come up somewhere
unexpected, sleeved
in a twist of air.

The Boy Who Found Fear

 

janie

Jane McKie’s collections of poetry are Morocco Rococo (Cinnamon Press, 2007), When the Sun Turns Green (Polygon, 2009), and Kitsune (Cinnamon Press, 2015). In 2011 she won the Edwin Morgan poetry prize and published a pamphlet, Garden of Bedsteads, with Mariscat Press, a PBS Choice. Her most recent pamphlet is From the Wonder Book of Would You Believe It? (Mariscat Press, 2016). She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of Edinburgh and an Advisor to the Edwin Morgan Trust.

Jane’s poems have been described as “magnificently precise” and “spare and visceral, strange and accessible”. Jane is another poet from the 2012-13 Writing School and it’s a great pleasure to introduce her with three poems from Kitsune. The poem Leper Window was awarded first prize in the 2011 Edwin Morgan International Poetry Competition.

 
The Boy Who Found Fear

Boy made of sand
carries a black swan underarm
to jimmy windows, lift
all those little rubies
that wink in the small hours like digital clocks.
And as he crosses thresholds, lintels,
the grains of him unpick steadily
through the night,
ticking minutes, seconds
till he’s caught.

The man and his wife
get home. There he is –
black feathers on the floor,
pile of sand so powder-white
it makes them recall their Gold
Coast honeymoon and weep.
The thieving boy! They sweep him up
into a pan, chuck him out.
He can’t speak to tell them: Stop,
I’m sorry. A real boy at last.

 

Leper Window, St Mary the Virgin

The contagion of lepers
has lifted.

The low glass, where they crouched
even lower,

remains, but their breath,
their rash, their lack,

has passed into the lace
of shadows in the yard.

Where God looked
but did not touch,

the lip of sandstone
is purled with fissures.

 

Viking Horse-bone Ice Skates

The horse won’t know how its metatarsal
can be whittled by friction with the lake,
how the act of skating is part halting
glide, part planer blade; or how thick ice melts
back to health, its grooves, its scuffed ‘v’s, softening
to fill their own wounds. And the horse won’t know
how the skating boy, who opens his mouth
as he flies, will lose three blunt teeth, two milk,
one new; how these teeth, also, will be found.