Tag Archives: family

as if thrown by a boy

Here is the second selection of poems by Judy Kendall, our June guest poet. She lived and worked in Japan for almost seven years. Cinnamon Press published four collections of her haiku and ‘mainstream’ poems. You can find her biography below her writing.

Poems:


The First Fountain Ever Placed In A Japanese Garden

for my mother

more than half
is the sound of it
as it splashes on the stone rim

this is the part
the thousands of photographs
will never reach

their takers stop
to make a frieze
and then move on

no chance of hearing
the other half
clapping its moving shadow in the trees

the shudder
when the leaves
follow the foam

which drops, unmoved
as if thrown by a boy
to fall through air

diluting
dissolving
into parts


Note:
The first fountain in a Japanese garden was built in Kenroku en, Kanazawa, in 1861


Driving To Noto

Men are better says Toshi I know
no they are not says I (I also know)
and so we argue to the tip of Noto

To Suzu where the wood huts slump in shock
plopped suddenly in frocks of snow
and the sea is whipped to icicles of frenzy

Over a nabe pot of fish and cabbage
(Toshi warns me not to call it cabbage
for it is the vastly superior hakusai)
our host asks me my age

Taken aback
(I`m older than he thought
more single), he inquires
don’t you like men?

So I assure him
only frequent country-moving
has prevented me from choosing
one of them

The returning road is white, wide as a field
the ditches spread themselves with frosting
and the windscreen blanks out like a blizzard

Toshi scrapes at the iced-up wipers singing
to himself, waving me in

Midwinter hangs in the boughs

The pine trees are bent nearly in two
laden with second helpings

(earlier version published in Ambit)

Short poem, haiku and tanka from The Drier The Brighter (Cinnamon Press, 2007):

Poem:

5 am

these cold skies
cheating the dawn,

these bits of tree,
blocks of houses too close to houses,
shrouded people, shrinking in the weather.

Haiku:

too much autumn
the reds are almost scorching now
a mouth brimming with leaves

tanka:

leaving.

not one stick of furniture
in the room.
in the heart,

no tears.

(previously published in Presence)

Biography:

Judy Kendall worked as an English lecturer at Kanazawa University in Japan for nearly seven years. When she first went to Japan she was a practicing playwright but she soon began to focus on poetry and haiku, kickstarted by an invitation to to participate in a collaborative translation of Miyaiki Eiko’s haiku. This became the bilingual publication Suiko /The Water Jar. Since then she has been writing haiku and haibun along with other poetic and prose forms. The haiku mode has informed her four Cinnamon Press poetry collections, particularly Joy Change – composed while she was in Japan. She has won several poetry awards, recently receiving a 2019 Genjuan International Haibun An Cottage prize, and is the essays and bilingual translations editor for Presence haiku journal. She has also run the Yorkshire/Lancashire haiku group.

She is Reader in English and Creative Writing at Salford University, and aside from haiku and haibun, works as a poet, poetry translator and visual text exponent. She has published several articles and books on the translation and creative process, including ‘Jo Ha Kyu and Fu Bi Xing; Reading|Viewing Haiku’ in Juxtapositions, 1 (2). She is currently putting the finishing touches to a monograph for Edinburgh University Press on Where Language Thickens (focusing on the threshold between articulation and inarticulation in language – a threshold in which haiku itself is surely situated).

The special table cloth

Credit: Bismillah via Pixabay

The day before my birthday storm Poly (Beaufort 11) raged at speeds of 140 kms an hour: overhead lines and trees came down. The day after my birthday the Dutch government fell.

On my birthday I treated family to lunch. It was a joyous occasion. My uncle (born 17 years after my mother) turned 85 in June. He has only recently given up playing volleyball: too much for his shoulders. He’s taken up Jeu de Boules instead.

Here are two verses from an extended sequence titled Briefly a small brown eye.

Primary school demolished,
protestant church a community centre.
Our old house extended.
Forty years on no reason to visit
this town other than the old uncle.

Lunchtime, my aunt brings out
the special table cloth.
She has embroidered signatures,
some in Arabic, some in Cyrillic.
I’m looking for mine.

St. Agatha’s

The day after my birthday I travelled back home and saw St. Agatha’s church from the train. That brought back memories of the poem – a competition winner some years ago.

This too is art

Mondays, washing days.
Heaving sheets from one tub
through the mangle into
another tub on a wooden stand.
Hands placing them, spacing
them on a plastic line.
This is street art
where the westerly wind
coming in from the beach
takes the plumes from the iron
works’ chimneys,
lets them pass through
this small town – a station,
hospital, three churches.
Tiny spots mounted on white sheets,
black dots like bugs, the yellow
eggs of unknown insects.
This is smoke art, chimney stack art
landing on roofs, window sills
and the steps of St Agatha.

Birthday

This coming week it’s my birthday. I’m taking family out to lunch near where I was born: a lovely bistro near the water. Here is a poem that I wrote on an excellent workshop with the poet Kei Miller.

My name

Even in the Netherlands my name is rare.
It comes from the Northern provinces,
a bleak windy place near the sea, near Germany.

People of the North grow tall to stand up to gales
that whistle, across bare fields, into your face.
A name so rare it’s not in the book of names.

I inherited this name from a grandmother
who was often ill to spite her husband.
I heard him shout behind the shop in a town

named after the beaver. Beavers on the façade
of the vegetable canning factory, the foundry roof.
My name means strong like the teeth of a beaver.

No, it doesn’t. I wish it did. Most children born
just after the war had bad teeth because
of the hunger winter: eating tulip bulbs to survive.

I wish I was named after the beaver, or the giraffe,
an animal strong enough to shatter a lion’s skull
with a single blow of its hooves.

In Dutch my name means people, folk or even
battle folk. My grandmother died at 55.
I’m beyond that age. I am an animal after all.

When Sunday is not a day of rest

Photo Anton van Daal

A poem that has two fathers in it, with a photo of the actual building.

When Sunday is not a day of rest

Two narrow wooden benches form the arena.
Both gladiators enter through the main left door.
The one with the brown perm has an entourage:
three boys (one with red hair), a girl with braces,
and the eldest son with glasses, the creepy smile
inherited from his father, a businessman with butter
in his mouth who happens to be our uncle.
As church elder, he’ll collect in the interval,
holds out a long wooden pole with black velvet bag.
Both gladiators buy at Stoutebeek,
the town’s upmarket department store.

Our gladiator has better legs, better posture,
a striking hat, which makes up for just three of us.
She is a semi-professional singer.
Our gladiator chose to marry the controller
of church proceedings – the organist.
Outside, afterwards, the light ammunition
of smiles, air kisses and compliments.

The best years of our lives

To celebrate my friend Kathleen Kummer’s 94th birthday, here is a poem from her debut collection Living below sea level. Poems from the book have featured on the blog before. The cover image is by Shirley Smith, Society of Wood Engravers.

Kathleen’s father was a coal miner. She went to Cambridge to study Modern Languages. She met and married a Dutchman. For several years Kathleen taught French and German at an International School in The Netherlands.

Happy Birthday, Kathleen: Van harte gefeliciteerd met je verjaardag.

The best years of our lives

Passing under the neo-Gothic
redbrick arch, the original bluestockings?
Not quite, but close enough to be given
the run of the Fellows’ drawing room
to sip our pre-prandial sherry, held
in hands we remembered curled for warmth
round mugs of cocoa. The cold tiles loud
with echoes, we followed the murky passage
to Hall, the swimming-pool’s proximity
still worrying, potent with the imagined
smell of bleach. The dinner was,
as expected, reassuringly bad;
the rooms were bleak, the unfamiliar
duvets thin, cot-sized; resilience
was needed for the nocturnal trek to the bathroom.
But none of this detracted one jot
from the utter, heartfelt certainty
that those had been the best years of our lives.

In Desert

It’s a great pleasure to introduce my guest poet Judith Wilkinson. Judith and I are both members of the Groningen Stanza. It had been meeting through Zoom for over a year, and in March I went up to meet her and the other members in person.

Judith Wilkinson is a British poet and award-winning translator, living in Groningen, the Netherlands. She has published three collections of her own poetry with Shoestring Press: Tightrope Dancer (2010), Canyon Journey (2016) and In Desert (2021). Some of the poems in Tightrope Dancer have been performed by the London dance-theatre company The Kosh.

Wilkinson is also a translator of Dutch and Flemish poetry, including Toon Tellegen’s Raptors (Carcanet Press 2011), which was awarded the Popescu Prize for European poetry in translation. Other awards include the Brockway Prize and the David Reid Translation Prize.

The poems in this selection are from In Desert, which explores various desert experiences, solitary journeys in which people are thrown back on their own resources. ‘The Risks You Take’ and ‘The Tuareg’s Journey’ form part of a longer sequence inspired by a Dutch expedition through the Sahara.

IMAGINING GEORGIA O’KEEFFE AT HER GHOST RANCH

‘My pleasant disposition likes the world with nobody in it.’
(Georgia O’Keeffe)


I will never tire of the desert,
its severe hillsides, punctuated with mesquite,
its unsentimental trees, shrouded in dust.

Now that he has left me for another,
a few owls and a mourning dove are all that splinter the silence
spreading before me like a horizon.

I don’t need more mourning, I want to
walk across the bristly desert floor
that the ocean turned into,
arrange some black stones in my yard
into a cordate shape I’ll call My Heart.

I was shipwrecked here a few times in my life
and found restoration
under a pitiless sky.
Having let all the waters pour away,
the desert unwrapped me, and my flint faith,
bound to the Badlands rolling from my door.

I set my easel in plains of cinnabar and flax
so I can explore the palette of solitude,
capture mandarin-dusted mountains, staggered against sky,
cliffs isolated in space, rising from the plateaux
in banana and persimmon and cream,
undulating mounds striated with celadon
and a lavender mist coating the distance.

Every day I scour the ground for fossil seashells,
little definite ghost-houses,
air-havens I could live in.

I’m free to gather the bleached bones of the desert:
deer horn, horse’s pelvis, ram’s skull,
splaying them open like butterflies,
dipping them in bouquets of wildflowers,
suspending them above the ever-looming Pedernal.

This morning I trekked far into the Black Place
because I could, because it was difficult,
because fear and pain were expecting me.

When I got back
I grabbed the ladder by the shed
and leaned it against the evening sky.
It needed nothing.

THE RISKS YOU TAKE

‘The true contemplative is he who has risked his mind in the desert.’ (Thomas Merton, Letter to Dom Francis Decroix)

Can I extract myself from you?
Someone called you
a few degrees short of bipolar,
always urgent, pouncing on life,
difficult not to love.

When depression settles on you,
you travel beyond reach, going far out
to some rocky, arid place, peopled by spectres
and you stay there, stubbornly
studying them, letting them haunt you,
before coming back to tell the tale
that restores you to your life.

There is so much of you,
that you crowd out my patch of wilderness,
that space where I too risk my mind
for the sake of the inexplicable.

After months of turbulence
I’m regaining some composure,
breathing in what the desert offers –
although I’m not sure I want all my prayers to go
to the gods of serenity.

Absorbing this swathe of wilderness,
I wonder if this is what I want for myself,
the wide, wild courage to leave you,
your tempests, your risks

THE TUAREG’S JOURNEY

Lost, not lost, in the ténéré, desert of loneliness,
where the Kel Essuf
spook us till we’re adrift
on the empty side of home,
as time sifts, dunes lapse.

Without GPS, without coordinates,
we measure grass blades, we focus without a compass.
With an infinite politeness to the desert
we can tell a reliable groove in the sand
from a wind-distorted one,
extract logic from a shrub,
tell the lie of the land by a bloom’s impermanence,
take our direction from sun and moon and all the stars
constellated in our heads.

We will never find Gewas, the Lost Oasis,
we will always find Gewas
in the middle of the trackless ténéré.

Lost and not lost,
so lost that we’re at home

Note: Kel Essuf: anthropomorphic spirits; Ténéré: Tuareg word for desert, wilderness; Gewas: the Lost Oasis that figures in many Tuareg legends.

Credit: Ondrej Sponiar via Pixabay

THE WHOLE MOSAIC – A DAY IN THE ATACAMA DESERT

‘Why are there archaeologists and astronomers in one place? Because in the Atacama the past is more accessible than elsewhere.’ Patricio Guzmán, Nostalgia for the Light (film documentary)

At the observatory an astronomer
scans the sky for treasure:
clusters of stars, nebulas, planets,
comets like those that watered the earth,
or the death throes of a supernova,
hatching our atoms.
Here the Chilean sky is so translucent
he can almost finger the stars, pull them down
to eye-height, unravel the energy prizing them apart,
as if the story, from start to finish,
was his birthright.

In this salt-steeped land an archaeologist
studies strata of sand and rock
underpinned by meteorites
distorting the direction of his compass.
Tenacity got him this far, leading him
to rock face carved by pre-Columbian shepherds,
whose mummified remains he gathers up,
tracing each part to its origin.
He finds a petrified lake, fish frozen in time,
and an ancient trade route from the high plains to the sea,
where caravans of llamas once found their way.

Near the ruins of a concentration camp, women
sift through the desert, decade after decade,
in search of loved ones.
Stumbling on Pinochet’s mass graves,
they piece together splinters worlds apart,
bleached by the calcinating sun.
‘I found a piece of my brother there
and spent a morning with his foot,
stroking it, though it smelled of decay,
hoping to find the whole mosaic
that was my brother.’

Too Much Mirch

It’s an enormous pleasure to introduce our guest poet. Safia and I met on a Poetry Business workshop a few years ago.

Safia Khan is a newly qualified doctor and poet. Her debut pamphlet (Too Much Mirch, Smith | Doorstop) won the 2021 New Poet’s Prize. Safia’s full biography can be found below her stunning poems.

Dave

Let’s discharge him today.
We’re wasting a bed keeping him here,
I know a lost cause when I see one.

No need to biopsy, it’s clearly end-stage.
Sadly, not much we can do at this point,
best to discharge him today.

He’s asked, but don’t bother with a referral
to Addiction Services – he won’t engage.
Trust me, I know a lost cause when I see one.

Before you book his cab, tell him he needs
to break the cycle. Record it, otherwise
we can’t discharge him today.

His notes say no fixed abode. He mentioned
a daughter. I doubt she’ll take him in this state,
that’s a lost cause if I’ve ever seen one.

Social services have called twice now.
The daughter asked why she wasn’t contacted.
I said they told me to discharge him,
they knew a lost cause when they saw one.

On Placement

I donned mask, visor, and apron,
washed my hands the right way,

correctly identified an osteophyte
at the acromioclavicular joint,

imagined the right diagnosis,
asserted the wrong ones,

was humbled like pines after avalanche,
inspected behind the curtain,

tried not to register relief
when hers looked like mine,

translated incorrectly, blamed my parents
for speaking English in the house.

I donned mask, visor, and apron,
washed my hands the right way,


noted an antibiotic prescription
for a young wife’s sudden death,

and a son’s hanging decades later,
ate fish and chips during a discussion


on seven-year old M, presenting with
pain down there (by his cousin),

taken into care after being removed
for witnessing Mum’s self-immolation.

After, I wiped
the mushy peas from my mouth.

I donned mask, visor, and apron,
washed my hands the right way,

vaccinated death in a red dressing gown,
touched its eggshell, auscultated its yolk.

I have heard ghosts blooming like spring mist
through my stethoscope.

River
(After Selima Hill
)

Other people’s mothers
shout at them in public,
I cry in the car on the way
back from dinner.
Other people’s mothers
don’t cremate their
daughters with a look.
My mother opens
like the seed of a tree.

I am sorry, she says.
You are right. But
other people’s mothers
had the chance
to be daughters.
Other people’s mothers
were softened by rivers.
I had to be bedrock
all my life.

I am sorry
you can feel silt
in my love,
but know you are
water to me.
Wherever you run
I’ll run under you,
holding the current
like no one else can.

But where are you really from?

Clay. A shapeshifting clot of blood. A kernel inside the first shell-
breath of God. Primordial soup, reduced to its atoms after being
brought to boil. The same place as the stars and birds, where
everything that ever existed was wrapped in tin foil and microwaved
into being. An iron ballerina, pirouetting round the Sun and sweating
out the Oceans. Mountains formed in an ice tray mould. A patch of
grass that drifted from elsewhere. A patch of grass still drifting. Like a
refugee with amnesia, I cannot recall home, though once in a while, I
catch its fragrance on the wind.


Biography:

Safia Khan is a newly qualified doctor and poet. Her debut pamphlet (Too Much Mirch, Smith | Doorstop) won the 2021 New Poet’s Prize. Her work has been published in various journals and anthologies including The North, BATH MAGG, Poetry Wales, Introduction X: The Poetry Business Book of New Poets (New Poets List), We’re All in It Together: Poems for a disUnited Kingdom (Grist), Dear Life (Hive), Surfing the Twilight (Hive).

She has been commissioned to write poetry for the University of Huddersfield and The British Library. Safia has performed her work widely, including as a headliner for Off The Shelf Festival. She has delivered poetry workshops for The Poetry Business, and seminars for the University of Oxford on the role of poetry as patient advocacy. Safia has been invited to deliver a creative writing teaching series with Nottingham Trent University’s WRAP Program, as their featured writer for 2023. 



refugee with amnesia, I cannot recall home, though once in a while, I
catch its fragrance on the wind.

Review: Contrapasso by Alexandra Foessinger

Credit: Kev via Pixabay


Contrapasso is the title of the debut collection of Alexandra Fössinger. She is of Italian origin and currently lives in Northern Germany. She writes mostly in English. Many of the poems included have been previously published in the UK and elsewhere, in magazines such as Tears in the Fence, The High Window, The Journal. The cover design – a black bird against a stark white background – is by Daniel Lambert, Art Director of Cephalopress, established in 2018, providing ‘a voice for the marginalised and the voiceless’.


I do not know the author, though I attended her online reading with Q&A. There she explained the background to the poems: her attempt at survival ‘after the imprisonment in the UK of someone dear to me’. This sudden loss may, in part, have coincided with the pandemic and its lockdowns: creating an incarceration for the poet too.


In Dante’s Divine Comedy, contrapasso is the punishment of souls by a process either resembling or contrasting with the sin itself. The collection is in two parts, both preceded by a quotation from Dante’s Inferno. Part 1 covers the period of imprisonment, while poems in Part 2 were written after the person’s release.


Birds for someone who cannot hear is the title of the opening poem and birds appear throughout the collection, as messengers, omens, and symbols: the blackbird frozen in shock, the thrushes in hiding, along with magpies, sparrows, sky larks, great tit, kingfishers, herons, seabirds. The second poem is titled Cell, giving us just the bare numbers:
1,
5,
3,
4,
7,
1,
and ending:
bad luck has brought
and kept you here,
and whether
you’ll walk out

or
be carried in a coffin

is also entirely
a matter of chance
.

The poems are the author’s response to the sudden loss, despair, darkness, pain. We have no life apart from life apart (Sentence); How can I find dreams of oarweed and eelgrass, / bring currents to glide on, as I must, when half / of my body is entangled / on the wrong side of the sea, / how will I know when time says to dive? (Velut luna).

Fössinger has said that she ‘is mostly interested in the spaces between things, the tiny shifts in time, the overlooked, the unsaid.’ Throughout the collection, we find astute observations and statements: la vita assurda: the middle-aged couple / pushing their dog in a pram. (July); that emptiness is best hidden / by a display of tame beauty. (Ambulant).

The strongest poems are those which describe a specific situation, or which have objects as ‘animate scaffold’. The poem Ambulant is in two parts:
I
The house with the Christmas decoration,
and the magnolia tree in bloom,
and the blackbird frozen in shock,
and an ambulance parked in the front garden,

all stand completely still.
People walk by, averting their gaze,
a stoop hammered into their skin –
How many lives will they have lost before,
without ever noticing.

The orange light is beating on the windows
like rain.

Here is Fössinger’s close attention to the overlooked, effective personification, interesting use of language. Not all the poems are so securely grounded, sometimes abstraction obscures their meaning. Other poems would have benefited from being tighter, shorter. The book is a short collection of 31 poems with quite a few blank pages. Some readers might want ‘more poems’ for their ‘pounds’.

While the poems reflect the poet’s emotional and psychological response to loss and separation, she manages to maintain a careful balance: hope is not abandoned. The recurrent bird theme also provides a framework, an underlying structure. This theme returns in the short closing poem, The robin redbreast. The loved one appears in a dream, as tiny as a bird, and:

Then you grew a beak
with which to pick and sing
and transport worms and roses.

Contrapasso is a confident and authentic debut by a perceptive, astute poet. Her personal tale finds echoes in the reader’s universal story. However long and painful the journey, there can be closure and transformation.

Valentine’s Day

Credit: Megan_Barling via Pixabay

This coming Tuesday it’s Valentine’s Day. Here is an early poem that hasn’t featured on the blog before. It was published in the Tees Valley Writer, Autumn 1995, and Highly Commended in their annual competition.

On the beach

Against the sinking sun gulls ride the waves.
Our dogs bark and chase their tails.
Try to run with a lone jogger who braves

the east wind whistling. Your son trails
in your wake, attempts big steps. Laughter peals:
a scene lifted straight from some fairy tale.

Heaped grey boulders mimic a colony of seals.
Not long before love winters in my heart.
I need to tell you how it feels

to be together, yet growing apart.
Your craggy face seems so much older
clouded in a bluish hue. I brace myself to start

as you place a hand on my shoulder
but all I can say is It’s getting colder.