Rhianne Celia Writing

You are marvellous

The god’s wait to delight

Today I felt comfortable in my skin,

until the anxiety set in,

but then I managed to step in,

tell myself to breatheeeeee in ...

tell myself it’s not a sin

to feel cool calm and collected, 

sometimes

no matter how much my brain in-

sists that it is,

most times.

Today, I felt comfortable 

and it was incredible

and that’s the end

I’d just pulled open the curtains; I wasn’t expecting much

from the day. Setting off to the soft patter

on canvas umbrella and the unflinching crunch

underfoot, reality seemed suspended, almost.

There’s a lot to be said for snow, how regal

in its block of white and stubborn in its will

for you to see it. I stop at particularly pretty

scenes — a crust on gold bauble hung from frosted

tree, a baby in puffed suit, pulled

along on mini sleigh, dogs in fleece coats and a hurry

to play. I don’t want to go inside

yet, it’s too warm and there’s too much stuff waiting.

Let me watch the workings of the host 

who’s invited guests of feet and paws

to leave their mark, to show

that they were here, at least for a while.

*

*

*

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky of this black August. My sister, the sun, broods in her yellow room and won’t come out.

*

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume like a kettle, rivers overrun; still, she will not rise and turn off the rain.

*

She is in her room, fondling old things, my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls like a crash of plates from the sky,

*

she does not come out. Don’t you know I love you but am hopeless at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly

*

to love the dark days, the steaming hills, the air with gossiping mosquitoes, and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

*

so that when you emerge, my sister, parting the beads of the rain, with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

*

all with not be as it was, but it will be true (you see they will not let me love as I want), because, my sister, then

*

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones, The black rain, the white hills, when once I loved only my happiness and you.

*

*

Metaphor and simile are at the heart of Derek Walcott’s poem, entwined with nature to create a changing landscape that helps Walcott explain his emotional state.

The poem begins submerged, with ‘so much rain’ and we quickly learn that the adverse weather conditions are brought about by the absence of the poet’s sister, who he thinks of as ‘the sun’. So, his source of light and happiness has gone and he must navigate life and this ‘black August’ without her.

Everything ‘goes to hell’ —mountains fume, rivers overrun, and even if thunder falls ‘like a crash of plates from the sky’, his sister still won’t ‘turn off the rain’. This is sad: we can plainly see that the poet is dependent on his sister and believes only she can ‘fix the rain’.

But then there’s a turning point in the poem, and the poet starts ‘learning slowly/ to love the dark days’ and the ‘steaming hills’ he could not contend with at the start. What follows is an admission that when his sister returns and ‘[parts] the beads of the rain’ (beautiful image!), things won’t be the same, but they will be ‘true’. He will have learnt to welcome the dark as much as he welcomed the light, when before he could only love his sister, and the happiness she brought him.

Walcott’s poem is important for what it shows about the nature of happiness; why it’s not always necessary to ‘fix the rain’, but to embrace it.

Rhi x

By Carolyn Kizer

Now, when he and I meet, after all these years, I say to the bitch inside me, don’t start growling. He isn’t a trespasser anymore, Just an old acquaintance tipping his hat. My voice says, “Nice to see you,” As the bitch starts to bark hysterically. He isn’t an enemy now, Where are your manners, I say, as I say, “How are the children? They must be growing up.” At a kind word from him, a look like the old days, The bitch changes her tone; she begins to whimper. She wants to snuggle up to him, to cringe. Down, girl! Keep your distance Or I’ll give you a taste of the choke-chain. “Fine, I’m just fine,” I tell him. She slobbers and grovels. After all, I am her mistress. She is basically loyal. It’s just that she remembers how she came running Each evening, when she heard his step; How she lay at his feet and looked up adoringly Though he was absorbed in his paper; Or, bored with her devotion, ordered her to the kitchen Until he was ready to play. But the small careless kindnesses When he’d had a good day, or a couple of drinks, Come back to her now, seem more important Than the casual cruelties, the ultimate dismissal. “It’s nice to know you are doing so well,” I say. He couldn’t have taken you with him; You were too demonstrative, too clumsy, Not like the well-groomed pets of his new friends. “Give my regards to your wife,” I say. You gag As I drag you off by the scruff, Saying, “Goodbye! Goodbye! Nice to have seen you again.”

*

*

I’ve chosen this poem for today because I feel like the subject matter is something we can all relate to: bumping into an ex. In Bitch, a woman sees her former lover and deals with the emotional consequences. What’s interesting about the poem is that the woman’s reactions surface in the form of a dog inside of her, (hence the title ‘Bitch’) who she must talk to internally while outwardly talking to her ex.

Where are your manners, I say, as I say, “How are the children? They must be growing up.”

Here, the repetition of ‘I say’ is suitably confusing, mirroring the uncertainty of the situation.

I’m a sucker for nostalgia; the parts that struck me most in the poem were the times the poet reminisced on the past relationship.

‘At a kind word from him, a look like the old days, The bitch changes her tone; she begins to whimper. She wants to snuggle up to him, to cringe. Down, girl! Keep your distance’

Keeping a distance is key here, as it’s so easy to fixate on ‘the old days’, as evidenced in my favourite sequence of the poem:

‘But the small careless kindnesses

When he’d had a good day, or a couple of drinks,

Come back to her now, seem more important

Than the casual cruelties’

Relationships end for a reason, but it can prove difficult to forget the ‘small kindnesses’—even if they were ‘careless’— especially if you suddenly come face to face with the person you once loved. It’s human nature to comfort ourselves with the times we felt good, rather than remember the ‘casual cruelties’. At least initially.

This poem is a refreshing take on what it’s like to see an ex and have old feelings resurface. I really enjoyed reading it.

walking to a garage not because

you want anything but because

at home everyone is shoving into each other

*

staring at a carton of juice

which shows an orange skipping with a cane

and two grapes laughing at the orange.

There’s a lot more than meets the eye in this poem by Tim Cockburn. In just six lines, it manages to be both confessional and detached: ‘at home everyone is shoving into each other’. This line frames the poem in a non-committal kind of sadness; it’s said matter-of-factly, with no further comment.

Of course, the image of the ‘shoving’ at home conflicts with the jolly image on the juice carton. And this is intentional. The person is ‘staring’ at this happy image while standing alone in a garage. So even though the poem is not outwardly emotive, we certainly get a sense of how this person must be feeling.

You made yourself at home inside my head

and now there’s only room for thoughts of you.

My days lie ruined, like an unmade bed —

*

I wish we shared one. Smiling, you quietly spread

your words out for me, watched them as they grew.

And made yourself at home inside my head.

*

Your image overlays each thought I tread,

a clouded pane of glass I strain to see through.

My days lie ruined like an unmade bed.

*

And now my own heart’s writing goes unread:

I am a stranger to myself, preferring you,

since you made yourself at home inside my head.

*

We keep ourselves a secret, and instead

undress each other’s words. Which must make do.

My days lie ruined, like an unmade bed.

*

And words don’t count, don’t last, is what you said.

Like these; but they’re the only way I’ll have you.

You made yourself at home inside my head.

My days lie ruined, like an unmade bed.

*

*

I’ve chosen a Villanelle for today as I admire the intricacy involved in this form. A Villanelle has two lines (also called refrains) that get repeated throughout the poem; in this case, the lines are ‘You made yourself at home in my head’ and ‘My days lie ruined, like an unmade bed.’ You’ll notice that the Villanelle is a rhyming poem; in all stanzas, the first and third lines make use of an end rhyme — for example ‘you quietly spread’ rhymes with ‘inside my head’ in stanza two.

for Eve

*

*

My daughter, heading out on the town in her glad rags,

laughs a laugh like a floribunda rose pinned in her hair.

She has so much beauty in her, more than this summer

evening, in all its frippery. More, even, than the sound

of her heels the length of the road, her phone voice

dipping into company, the pooled high talk of her

and her friends slipping through the city’s open doors.

*

Do me a favour, daughter: sometime, in time, wear for me

a sweetheart neckline, slingback sandals, my good ring

and howsoever many of your necklaces and bracelets.

Walk your walk through ten thousand doorways

so the music of you is one and the same as the music

of starlings and new moons and traffic lights and weirs,

only in a new arrangement arranged by, and for, you.

*

*

What a beautiful poem to welcome in the weekend! There’s so much I enjoy about it, from the language — ‘on the town in her glad rags’; ‘this summer evening, in all its frippery’ — to the imagery — ‘slipping through the city’s open doors’ — and the measuredness of it — each stanza has seven lines; the frequent use of commas paces the reading of it, allows a savouring of the words.

I had the pleasure of being taught by Vona on my Creative Writing MA so it feels a little strange analysing her poetry, but what a poem it is. She balances the abstract and concrete nicely —‘laughs a laugh like a floribunda rose pinned in her hair’ — but favours the abstract to convey the endless possibilities the world holds for her daughter: ‘so the music of you is one and the same as the music/ of starlings and new moons and traffic lights and weirs’. 

a poem from the late Dennis O’Driscoll

*

*

someone is dressing up for death today, a change of skirt or tie

eating a final feast of buttered sliced pan, tea

scarcely having noticed the erection that was his last

shaving his face to marble for the icy laying out

spraying with deodorant her coarse armpit grass

someone today is leaving home on business

saluting, terminally, the neighbours who will join in the cortège

someone is paring his nails for the last time, a precious moment

someone’s waist will not be marked with elastic in the future

someone is putting out milk bottles for a day that will not come

someone’s fresh breath is about to be taken clean away

someone is writing a cheque that will be rejected as ‘drawer deceased’

someone is circling posthumous dates on a calendar

someone is listening to an irrelevant weather forecast

someone is making rash promises to friends

someone’s coffin is being sanded, laminated, shined

who feels like morning quite as well as ever

someone if asked would find nothing remarkable in today’s date

perfume and goodbyes her final will and testament

someone today is seeing the world for the last time

as innocently as he had seen it first

*

*

It’s funny that in a poem about death, the form resists a definite ending: there’s no full stop to close the poem, nor are there any elsewhere. This is deliberate, and I feel the sentiment of the final two lines explains it:

‘someone today is seeing the world for the last time/ as innocently as he had seen it first’

Just as this someone came into the world unaware of their life, so they will leave it oblivious to their death. It makes sense to leave the poem abruptly for this reason.

The repetition of ‘someone’, each time detailing a different person and circumstance, really drives home the point that death can sneak up on anyone and at any time. We are all ‘someone’.

O’Driscoll narrates different lives seamlessly and with care; he navigates concrete actions such as writing cheques and putting out milk bottles, and abstract notions of making ‘rash promises’ to friends and breath to be taken ‘clean away’. I find it interesting that in a neutrally descriptive poem, O’Driscoll chooses to be emotive about someone ‘paring his nails for the last time’; he calls this ‘a precious moment’. 

But aren’t all of these moments precious? The example that struck me most was ‘circling posthumous dates on a calendar’, for this someone was actively thinking about the future, taking for granted- like we all do- that they’d have one.