This thing called Poetry Space

Sometimes
I wonder why
I started this thing called Poetry Space.
And then
an old lady in her hospital bed,
lost and confused
breaks her silence
and the bodies of the drowned
are looked for over and over again.
A tear falls,
and tiny fingers soft as silk
suture an open wound.

Two readings by Poetry Space poets yesterday and I started to write in prose what it meant and then a poem took over. This is for Sylvia Perry, and  Beverley Ferguson and for everyone in the audience yesterday at two very special events celebrating A Kindness and Flowers in the Blood, both beautiful collections.

Last Meal

I keep wondering what meal

is gonna be your last,Dad.,

Today it's cauliflower cheese,

Susie's special with broccoli and egg,

soya milk, herbs.

I've boiled and melted, stirred

and baked while you, tipped back

in your big old chair, slept, open mouthed

brown blanket keeping in warmth

The dish is out of the oven now

bubbling like a living thing                     

in its white ceramic shell,

and I know that if this meal's

the last you have

you'll  suck  your lips,                     

tell St Peter it was good.

© Susan Jane Sims

Ode to the Wye

I paddle in your core                                      

and as I float you whisper

of  a long ago birth,

high in the purple mountain

Of Plynlimon,

and how you cut like a knife

through  sand  and limestone rocks                        

to make a valley.

                                                                               

You murmur of your journey to adulthood                                                                          

widening as you found

your way down to the ocean,

how you became home to the otter

and the kingfisher,

and a spawning ground

for lamprey, shad and salmon.

                               

You tell me tales of battles

fought for your soul                                       

and how my kind made

artificial borders                              

along your length.

 How folk built castles

and cottages and lived

on your abundant wealth.

You speak of mines

and acid rain      

that threatened to spoil you.

               

And all the while I drink you in:

your calm clear water easing my worries;

your fast tumbling heart

thrilling me        

more than any fairground ride.

© Susan Jane Sims

This poem was published in Landscapes on the Edge : poems of the Wye Valley and Welsh Borders, eds. Margot Miller and Sue Sharp. Fineleaf books, 2010. The poem is unusual for me as I rarely write landscape poems.

Stone,

 a heart becomes,

 to head off hurt that picks away at skin.

 We turn stones and send life scurrying,

 up, down, through a mountain.

 The voice cries, open sesame.

 We gather stone upon stone upon sparkly stone

 to fill our arms. The hole we leave, as wide

 and scorched as grief.

Susan Jane Sims

This is a very recent poem and written in response to a prompt on the Blog 52 hosted by Jo Bell.The prompt was to choose a word from a given list and write an Assay poem. 

Staying Alive

The days drift on,

with nothing much achieved;

for my father, for myself,

just growing older.

These scales we’re on

weigh heavily on my side.

I give him my hours, my minutes, my seconds

and like a small child with no thought

for the parent

he takes them greedily,

his life shadow lengthening.

What if I can’t outlive him?

What then?

What if there are no more years left

to tumble free?

© Susan Jane Sims

This poem was written last Summer at a Second Light residential writing retreat in Worcestershire. The theme for the week was time.

Second Light is a network of women poets. 

At the bus stop

she was chatting on the phone   

telling her friend that

he hasn’t  seen the kids for weeks     

that she’s been coping alone    

that she worked six days a week

and it was all too much   

that she hated him  she turned away  

lowered her voice   I don’t find him

attractive now   he makes me feel sick  

she lowers her voice  still further   

he says he loves me 

wormed  his way in for coffee

last time he brought the kids back 

tried to touch me

I told him where to go   

now I don’t know where he is

© Susan Jane Sims

I have included this poem here as an example of how inspiration can come from anywhere if you keep your eyes and ears open throughout the day and your notebook handy. When I overheard the above I just happened to be on my way to a writing day with Bath Poetry Cafe. Wendy French was a guest facilitator and reader. This poem arose out of the session with Wendy.

Bringing Flowers

If  Wordsworth were to bring me flowers

I’ve no doubt it would be chrysanthemums

with pretty heads growing old

on sturdy shoulders.

They’d last the full seven days

like it says on the label

and their loveliness would slowly

fold into the ocean that sustains them.

 ShelIey’s hand  would grip the stems

of half a dozen blood red roses, thorns and all.

And they’d live scandalously for a few short hours

then die a swift dramatic death.

Susan Jane Sims

In  February 2012 I was invited to be guest poet at Words and Ears, Bradford on Avon, (an open mic event organised by  Dawn Gorman and Helen Murray). The above poem was part of my set.