Tag Archives: Poetry

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.

Photograph with a Very Small Moon

A year ago this month, Gina Wilson died. The two of us met just over a decade ago on the Writing School run by Ann and Peter Sansom of The Poetry Business. We were both psychotherapists, working in private practice.

Gina was published first as a children’s writer – novels (Faber), poetry (Cape), picture books (Walker Books). Her adult poems are ‘complex, though deceptively simple’ and ‘tough and compelling, no verbiage, no sentimentality’ (Kate Clanchy).


Gina’s poems ‘lure you into thinking you’re on safe, possibly domestic territory. Then they catch you unawares, taking off at an unexpected, often surreal tangent.’


I am grateful to her family for permission to share three poems from Gina’s poetry pamphlets (Scissors Paper Stone, HappenStance, 2010; It Was And It Wasn’t, Mariscat Press, 2017.

First Shoes

I must label, swaddle, cradle them
at just the right temperature.
Their linings are cracking already.

The step of childhood ought to be
weightless, all skipping and dancing
but they look haggard, misshapen

as if old age has worn them.
Polish can’t cover their knocks.

I showed them once at a meeting.
Bring something you’ve kept we were told,
a sign, maybe something you’ve made.

I took the shoes. Nobody spoke.
Because of the way you looked someone said.
As if you were bringing a grief, not a pride.

Photograph with a Very Small Moon

It was still day, the end of a summer one
that people had been happy in;
I wanted its tiny white moon, not quite spherical or certain
to stay.

I wanted to catch it, lacy, fine, almost dissolving
in almond-blossom clouds, so I tilted the camera
upward. Otherwise I might have filmed

little barefoot girls setting up their lantern
with the glass door and tealight,
friends round the warped table, wine;

not the moon, but moths, and slugs
oiling the flagstones. I might have caught
a wind getting up, or the edge in low voices that moment
when darkness plummets.

Still Horses

He said he heard her
one night, about a week
after she died,
her Scots ‘r’
and no-nonsense tone
that carried without being
a shout.

He got out of bed,
found his balance in the dark
and took his time,
checking upstairs first (once a hayloft),
then down stone steps
to where it seemed
there were still horses
and a night-time smell
of straw and soft new dung.

She wasn’t there. Just a shawl
left draped because it was winter.
He opened the door to stars
and mild small moon
in a blur of frost.
Cold held him fast.

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.

a horizon of lilies

It’s a great pleasure to introduce this month’s guest poet Judy Kendall. We met many years ago through our membership of the Yorkshire/Lancashire Haiku group. Judy lived and worked in Japan for nearly seven years. Cinnamon Press published four collections – containing haiku and ‘mainstream’ poems. You can read Judy’s full biography further down. I’ll post a second selection of Judy’s writing next month.

Haiku published in Presence

shades of blue distance in the fells

afternoon off 
red grouse in flight 
almost grazing the heather

moorland air
just after a curlew’s call
liquid fresh—

travelling light
I will my neighbor
to turn the page

(published in Presence and selected for Red Moon Best English Language anthology)

Short poems or ‘vegetable’ haiku published in insatiable carrot (Cinnamon Press, 2015)

[Many of these have featured on Incredible Edible Todmorden’s Edible Poetry site and on or around the town]

tall green mild and meek
not quite the full onion
the gentle leek

hairy bitter cress
going wild
among
the cabbages

snug by the wall
the one the pennine wind forgot
Todmorden’s first apricot

taken apart, the cabbage
becomes all heart
and leaves

chunky, nobbly-eyed
the potato says ‘hi,
will you be my friend?’

Haiku and poems from Joy Change (Cinnamon Press, 2010)
Haiku:

wooden geta
the water quivers with carp
a horizon of lilies

sickle moon, yellow
and black, on my way
back to the heart

(still international haiku competition)

watching the breath come
and go, who am I but
a broken bit of star?

(still international haiku competition)

drifting
mountains shoulder the sky
blotches of pine

(Asahi Shimbun)

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 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 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.

Exhibitions

I’ve just renewed my annual Museum pass. With a typical entry fee of 15 Euros, it’s well worth it: over 400 Dutch museums take part. There is usually a top-up fee for major exhibitions. I wrote the prose poem on a recent workshop.

Exhibitions

You can’t just wake up and decide to visit an exhibition. Not a major show. You must book a ticket online beforehand and choose a time slot. I managed to get one, Saturday lunchtime, for the Manhattan Masters. Rembrandt, aged 52, poster boy.

I was way too early (I’d gone with Astrid to collect her prize from the Xmas competition and have our photo taken) so I ended up buying books in all three bookshops near the Mauritshuis. Manhattan Masters, ten paintings over from New York while the Frick is being refurbished. The Fricks went to Europe to buy, do the grand tour. They were booked to travel back on the Titanic. She sprained her ankle and they postponed.

I won’t even tell you about the Vermeer at the Rijksmuseum, the coloured lines on the floor, everyone taking photos, the horse-tooth woman who needed to be in the photo with the painting. I gave up after 30 minutes. I think it’s well-known that the exhibitions of prehistoric art take place in replica caves with fake bones and spotlights on those red hand prints and bison on the walls. I’ll give it a miss. I’ll order the catalogue and a pack of six postcards from the museum shop online.

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.’

Britain, once more …

Nuri Rosegg had seen publicity about my online reading for Writers in the Bath, Sheffield. This led them to my website. Nuri loves the UK and, pre-Brexit, used to visit often. Nuri’s website can be found below her poem. There are also three poems on the Visual Verse website.

Below is Nuri’s poem, inspired by my poem Britain, from the Anthology Welcome to Britain.

BRITAIN  
 
Britain is a fedora hat, opera- 
And theatre-tried. In this modern era 
Dramas turn into comedies. 
 
This country is a glass of ginger wine: 
Tangy wetness without a spine. 
Alas, the love for self-harm is mega-big. 
 
Britain is a decaying cherry tree 
Turning its back on the sea. 
The City, such a cold-hearted cherry pit. 

http://aroundthewritingworld.weebly.com/about-me.htm

https://visualverse.org/writers/nuri-rosegg/