Archives for the month of: February, 2013
Photo credit: Keith Dax Moss

Photo credit: Keith Dax Moss

If you were a turtle lady and you loved a turtle man

It would not be odd in turtle-land

if you had known the waves four hundred

years and he another sixty-one;

or he knew the beach for twenty,

you the sand for forty-six;

you each lost your turtle-hatchlings

in the week you turned and left

for waves and fish in deeper waters

such as it happens every year,

for you the turtle-man and lady

know enough of turtle fears.

I am rather fond of tortoises, terrapins and turtles. We had half a dozen tortoises in our back garden when I was a child, so I spent time watching them and observing their life cycles.

There isn’t much about jazz in the poem, so perhaps the title is mismatched. There’s a jazziness in the loop of the ‘turtle this’ and ‘turtle that’ refrain, but some might say I’m stretching it now. Maybe this will still prove a work in progress. We’ll see.

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In addition to poetry, I have written on travel, art and visual representations of Africa. I also have an affinity for suburban memoir.

Here is my latest published piece, which appears in the Public Catalogue Foundation’s February newsletter: Painting in Focus: 103 True Faces of Robert Burns.

The Public Catalogue Foundation has recently completed a decade-long project to catalogue over 200,000 oil paintings in public collections across the United Kingdom.

 

Cover and contents

My first volume of poetry is now available for purchase via http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/4110533-shining-in-brightness

Enjoy the preview pages, then please share this exciting news on Facebook and Twitter.

Here’s the book’s ‘blurb’:

“Shining in Brightness” presents twenty poems about loss, love and growing up in quiet suburbia. These poems chronicle a young woman’s journey from 18 to early adulthood. After leaving the leafy Cape Town suburb of her childhood, the poet-wanderer travels to California, Brazil, Cambridge, Poland and the Eastern Cape before alighting in North London. Two accompanying essays provide insights on both the poems and the writer’s process.

P.S. If you are interested in an iPad version or a deluxe, folio edition, please email beadedquill@gmail.com

Wire Heart

Handmade Heart

 

I never got

a heart kitsched out of plump red silk

or fluffy between grinning paws

 

My heart was curved out of wire.

Two little hands threaded rows of beads

terracotta to brown

sienna

sky

verde

vermillion

 

in bedside light my wire-heart hangs

glinting only for me.

 

2002

I have done a great deal of childminding and babysitting in my time. It was a pocket-money making staple during my adolescence. More than ten years ago, I used to look after a little boy. He was incredibly creative and sometimes we would be up at late hours constructing his ‘projects,’ which usually involved hanging things down the stairwell. While he instructed my draping technique, I would be worrying myself about getting him to sleep before his parents came home. One night he and I sat on the floor and devoured a juicy mango, there and then, next to the kitchen cupboards. (We seldom had mangos in my childhood home.)

One evening, when I arrived for my usual duties, he handed over a palm-sized, tissue-paper wrapped gift. I opened it and it was this – a handmade heart shaped out of wire and strung with a rainbow of beads. This heart has lived on bedside tables and hung on my bedposts in three continents and about a dozen countries. It’s one of those objects I would grab if I had to flee from a fire.

I doubt this child, now all grownup, even remembers giving this special gift to me.

In old Dutch paintings

a green-winged hummingbird

might stand for love

when it’s on the inside of a pane of glass.

Hovering outside, it signifies the woman within

has been betrayed.

How would you know this

were it not for the scholars and books?

You would have to be Dutch from 1656.

In my notebook, this poem is preceded and followed by a few lines.

Preceding is a criticism, “There you go doing that thing again, where you write something obscure that no-one else can understand. What’s in your mind?”

After the last lines of the poem, are these comments, mine:

You expect  some easy icons

Tins to pick from Tesco shelves

Or marked down shoes from TKMaxx

My poetry’s just not like that.