Mystery solved regarding this piece we originally posted last Thursday… Today's contributor is a bit (OK a lot) of a mystery – we have just two clues: the pen-name Dayseye and an @tesco email address…
the first and last date
the film we saw was a clinker,
it needed not just a clip but a shave,
we joked – we who had not shared
jokes together, ever, only knowing
each other on the basis of a photo
and bio found on findingdates. com;
after that we went for a few drinks
at a wine bar with wooden pulp-dusted
floors, a sign of the live havoc just
starting up, electric guitars revving;
i didn't know what to think of you,
how should i know what to think of a man
whose main interest in life is cinema?
you could be anyone, you are just some man,
you could be anyone, how should I know?
Chablis tinted your cheeks a pinkish shade,
a fetching flush that made me smile,
made me set to liking you, so we could talk
about the bad film, and how it was that it was bad,
and for an hour before we parted you seemed
warm, realistic, very naturalistic.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
IN THE ALMOST INVISIBLE WOODS
One wavering caterpillar green as a Granny Smith apple
crosses the cupped blue flower, supping in luminosity.
We sit on an oak bench dedicated in memory to a William
Owens, 1925-1985, who “loved this woods”. We sit silently
hoping to hear the woodpecker again. It's been a year.
When I was little I used to catch gobs of caterpillars,
let them crawl up and down my bare arms, tickling.
There was more of them then, more of everything:
frogs, butterflies, birds, bees, trees, lizards, wildflowers.
Now there is more of people, and more of people-things.
It is what it is. What else is there to say?
My legs are stiff as twigs. Your neck is cricked
from looking upwards into labyrinthine tree tops
that cluster against steely clouds closing in.
We're not alone. We didn't realize at first, but behind us
a world of Dungeons & Dragons opened up.
Medieval soldiers with cardboard swords kneel in bushes.
Soon swords will cross. Queenly women – possible witches –
watch over, maybe casting spells.
Up the hill a bit, a family picnics. And just beyond them
on the smooth caterpillar green grass of a golf course,
a man hits his club, staring after the ball that's small as a plum
but white and hard as stone, and just as serious. Awhile ago,
a woman on horseback was hit on the head by a wayward ball
and instantly killed. I don't know who she is.
From far off this little woods is almost invisible.
Close up, there is a caterpillar on my hand.
* Dayseye is Leah Armstead who lives in Aberystwyth, Wales, where most days she walks by the sea. She's won writing prizes and published poems in magazines and anthologies in the US and UK. She has worked as a facilitator of poetry workshops in many settings such as schools, mental health drop-ins, psychiatric hospitals, and nursing homes. In addition, she researches medieval European art and literature.