I like its flow, its unexpectednesses, its disguised rhythms, its mysteries, its afterglows…..
In the end, it was the language, the imagery and the mystery of the poem that decided the outcome of what was a very close race and saw ‘When an albatross crash-lands in a dream’ by Deborah Harvey emerge as the IS&T Pick of the Month for April 2023.
Deborah Harvey is co-director of The Leaping Word poetry consultancy, and has an MA in Creative Writing. Her fifth poetry collection, Learning Finity, was published in 2022 by Indigo Dreams. She is currently writing poems on the theme of estrangement.
She has asked that her £20 ‘prize’ be donated to Stand Alone, a charity that supports people who are estranged.
When an albatross crash-lands in a dream
Long ago I saw an albatross fly
head-first into a dream so fast so
hard it penetrated half a mile deep.
Inside the crater
a wreckage of feather and bone
remains which over millennia became
this fossilised skull you’ve found
and which, slicing open my right forearm
you press into the wound
holding the edges until they knit.
‘We’ll keep this for later,’ you tell me
‘We’ll talk about it then.’
Other voters’ comments included:
stunning and gripping use of magical language – it’s sense of deep intimacy, that is not spelt out, though it feels like a spell, that takes me to a place beyond the ego, somewhere I can feel and be receptive.
It was a close call between this and Mrs Hitchcock takes a bath. In the end it was the perfectly dreamlike writing that decided me. I’ve read it many times now and even though it is short, it will bear reading again.
I love the imagery in Deborah’s work – she takes you on a journey that continues beyond the length of her poem.
The poems I like best are an act of collaboration between poet and reader, leaving a space for the reader to walk into and inhabit, with their own experience, which is exactly what this mysterious poem does. It’s simultaneously unique and universal.
Such an evocative poem.
It was the poem that kept coming back
It is surreal but also heartbreaking.
[The line] ‘We’ll talk about this later’
beautifully written, so talented
Succinctly compelling
Harvey has a masterful way with language, invoking vivid imagery that so naturally fits in with individual and very personal interpretation….
Alarming but deft imagery
*********
THE REST OF THE APRIL 2023 PICK OF THE MONTH
Hutch Ado About Nothing
Carrie crouched beside a ramshackle rabbit hutch and watched as her boyfriend tried to squeeze through its narrow door.
She’d thought it looked cramped and dingy, really too small for a poor bunny to live in. ‘Nah,’ Nick had replied. ‘There’s plenty of space. You could fit a person in there and they’d be quite happy.’
Carrie had rolled her eyes and said, ‘Go on, then.’
Nick wasn’t the type to admit when he was backed into a corner. It took time, but he finally, after more effort than he’d ever admit, forced himself all the way inside. He peered out of the mesh window at Carrie. ‘See,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. Plenty of room.’ Beside him, a confused rabbit wrinkled its nose. According to a nearby sign, his name was Herman. Nick tried to leave the hutch but, somehow, wasn’t able to get out again. His shoulders were wedged tight. ‘Um,’ he muttered, head sticking out of the door and red in the face, ‘I seem to be stuck.’
Carrie shrugged and, as she’d long grown bored of Nick, simply left the pet store and went about her day.
A week or so later, however, she grew curious about what had become of Nick and ambled back to the shop. Nick was no longer in the hutch, although Herman remained, chewing on straw. She asked the man behind the counter, whose name tag read ‘Hi, my name is Dale!’ about Nick.
‘Oh, we sold him a couple of days ago,’ Dale said.
Carrie was now doubly curious. Who on earth would buy Nick? He was a bit smelly and barely house trained. She could find out, though. She’d had tracking software installed on his phone, back when she’d thought he was having an affair with Nelly from the fancy cake shop. In fact, he’d just become temporarily addicted to cream horns. She simply clicked a couple of icons on her own phone and – bingo – she had Nick’s exact location.
Whoever had bought Nick lived in the posh end of town. Carrie took an Uber and hopped out at the address. She peered over the fence. There she saw a woman, somewhere in her forties it looked like, in a garden chair. The woman had Nick cradled in her lap like a baby. She was feeding him a carrot and scratching him behind the ears. ‘Whoosa a good bunny-wunny?’ she simpered. ‘Yoosa good bunny-wunny, yes oo is!’ Nick showed every sign of enjoying this bizarre behaviour. He grinned widely, went for another bite, then stretched out luxuriously. At the far end of the yard was the hutch. It looked little used, and Carrie suspected Nick slept in the house rather than the garden. A flicker of jealousy sparked inside her. She looked over at the house. It was large, spotlessly clean, and decorated with trellises and hanging baskets. Through a window, she could see a plate of cream horns on a table.
Carrie took another Uber home, thinking. She didn’t miss Nick, not really. They hadn’t been very well-matched. But she did miss attention, affection and companionship. She had to admit it. She was lonely. Nick, on the other hand, clearly wasn’t. She reached a decision. She walked back to the pet shop. She opened the door of the rabbit hutch. She squeezed inside, more easily than Nick had, and elbowed aside a visibly annoyed Herman. And she sat there and waited.
A couple of hours later, a small pigtailed girl approached. ‘Mummy, look at the pretty bunny,’ squealed the child, pointing at Carrie. ‘Can we get her, please, please, please!’ The mother nodded.
‘Why, she is a cutie, isn’t she, Daisy?’ she said. Carrie beamed and wiggled her nose. ‘Oh, that’s so sweet, isn’t it? Okay, we can get her.’ Daisy nearly exploded with joy.
Soon after, Dale appeared, picked Carrie up, put her in a box and handed it to the girl’s mother. He charged them £50, and threw in a couple of rabbit toys and a bag of ‘gourmet’ rabbit food. The bag featured a picture of a cartoon rabbit with a top hat and a monocle. Daisy was bouncing up and down with excitement, squeaking ‘bunnybunnybunny!’
Herman watched them leave, turning a chunk of carrot round and round in his mouth. Dale crouched in front of the hutch. ‘It’ll be your turn eventually, buddy,’ he said, and gave the rabbit a scratch. Herman, who couldn’t have cared less, blinked at him noncommittally and went to sleep.
David Cook’s stories have been published in Ellipsis Zine, Bending Genres, Janus Literary and more. He’s a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. He lives in Bridgend, Wales, with his wife and daughter. You can find him on Twitter @davidcook100.
*
Mrs Yeats’ Love Letters from the Other Side
Mrs Yeats slackens carefully in her comfortable front room.
Perhaps her slow arm drags a lace antimacassar from a sofa back.
Perhaps her lips part in an O. Mrs Yeats unfolds and sags.
Where is Mr Yeats? We would all like to know this.
Here are his papers, haphazard on the bureau. Mrs Yeats
will not attempt to tidy them again! Here are his spectacles,
exactly where he put them down.
Hurry, hurry! Something surely speaks through Mrs Yeats!
Her shoulders dance, now. Her soft heels buzz, now, on the carpet
but he does not come. Oh, let the answers bide a while!
Mrs Yeats’ right hand is a wonder. It is a conduit; she is famed for it.
Watch now as it clutches at the pen. Sometimes she will visualise
her arteries and veins as pipes. Sometimes she can see a message
pucker at her wrists before the spirits take her up and write.
She starts to write.
Mr Yeats? She calls tightly from the floor, her elbows
skidding on paper. Oh, Mr Yeats, I have another happening…
And what a feeling, when it comes! It is a honeymoon
of something rushing up and spilling out of her at once.
When it comes, she thinks herself blessed, or else a wild girl
with a stick between her teeth, bucking at the crackle in her head.
Oh, quickly, Mr Yeats! Your gentle, lovely wife begins to write!
Rush your glasses to your face and let it please you –
this urgent letter from the Other Side.
And if it please you, place a dry hand on her hair
and leave it for an instant. She will love this unexpected present –
she will love the ghostly weight of you on her.
Mrs Yeats would ask for nothing more.
Rachel Curzon‘s debut pamphlet was published in 2016 under the Faber New Poets scheme. She has had other work published inThe Rialto, Magma, Tangerine and the Bridport Anthology. Rachel lives in North Yorkshire.
*
When Your Lawnmower Quotes Stalin
you know there’s a problem.
The easiest way to gain control of the population
is to carry out acts of terror
as you push
your rotary blade Qualcast
across an unruly lawn
full of the spirit of Spring,
this uprising
challenging the old order,
the military-might
needed to unify the horticulture
& its rival factions.
Absolute power
comes from secret bonfires
in the dead of night
& upgrades to twin-stroke,
to electric strimmer,
the shock & awe of hardware
from a local garden-centre.
& it doesn’t stop with grass.
How tempting to make an example
of the brightest blooms. Hang them
in plain sight
to swing in wicker baskets.
Each flower, bush, tree knows
it could be next.
When the wind blows
you can see leaves tremble.
Simon French has had two poetry collections published,Joyriding Down Utopia Avenue(Coverstory Books) and The Deadwing Generation(Coverstory Books). He is currently working on his third collection and seeking inspiration from ghosts, musical interludes, abandoned vehicles and stout.
*
Mrs Hitchcock Takes a Bath
I’m not so sure about showers —
if you must know it’s the sound
how it rushes, pounding,
drowning everything
and, dear, sometimes —
I know it’s probably only the pipes —
but sometimes it screams
so I’ll just take a bath
and if it’s all the same with you
I’ll lock the door.
Dearest, don’t look at me like that,
you know I care about the water too —
I’ll just put less ice in my gin.
Juliet Humphreys’ poems have been published in a range of magazines, including The Rialto,The North, Orbis, Acumen, South Bank Poetry, Obsessed With Pipework and online at Ink Sweat & Tears. In 2021 she was shortlisted for Primers, organised by Nine Arches Press, and in 2022 she was a runner-up in a competition organised by Arachne Press.
*
Gentrification
Remember when hell was a thing?
You could look it up in Dante, or better still
in a history book
you could extrapolate
from The Geneva Convention.
Remind me
the tell you the story of the middle manager
who unironically,
referred to himself
as “money-rich-but-time-poor”.
Of course, there is absolutely for that, no need
to conceive of fires
seven times hotter than any flame;
there is no need for an eternity of bitter food
or leftover dreams, misunderstanding,
secrets, cracks that language can never cover up,
there is no need for rust and ruin,
silently defeating things;
or days so cold, they feel like disliking a friend.
One afternoon, one vapour-thought,
like you cannot stay here,
and there is nowhere else to go.
Constantin Preda is a London based Romanian poet. His most recent work has appeared in Ambit, Poetry Scotland, Lighthouse and Structo among others. He translates from Romanian, focusing on Nichita Stănescu and Mircea Cărtărescu, and also writes about art for various journals.