<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Through Sludge to Nirvana<\/strong><\/p>\n Let us go sludging then, the sledges put away, Let us manufacture brief heat as we flit, and flirt, you can chivy me on, a step and a step, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Geraldine Clarkson<\/strong> has published\u00a0two pamphlets: Declare<\/em> (Shearsman Books), which was a Poetry Book Society Pamphlet Choice, and Dora Incites the Sea-Scribbler to Lament<\/em> (smith|doorstop), a Laureate\u2019s Choice.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Let Streetview take you home for the holidays<\/strong><\/p>\n Hitching a white arrow up Saffold Way <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Alexandra Citron<\/strong> was born in Washington DC and moved to the UK at 12. An editor by day, she is a Poetry School student, member of the Blue Side Poets and published in Mslexia, Visual Verse<\/em> and New Boots and Pantisocracies<\/em>. @AlexaCitron<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Happy Christmas, 1978<\/strong><\/p>\n Not expected: a glossy book Respectable, published by M&S, (sitting amid ripped-off paper, Note: this poem was originally published in Wristwatch<\/em>, Cinnamon Press 2017<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Through Sludge to Nirvana Let us go sludging then, the sledges put away, the snow a dirty sorbet over city streets and suburban hills. Let us sludge to our hearts\u2019 discontent, Mr Frost tweaking our toes in spite. Let us manufacture brief heat as we flit, and flirt, between sheltered spots, plant […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[82],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-15366","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-twelve-days-of-christmas-2017"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15366","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15366"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15366\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15515,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15366\/revisions\/15515"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15366"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15366"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15366"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nthe snow a dirty sorbet over city streets
\nand suburban hills. Let us sludge to our hearts\u2019
\ndiscontent, Mr Frost tweaking our toes in spite.<\/p>\n
\nbetween sheltered spots, plant kisses
\non numb-sore faces, chapping lips. And if I stop
\non a drear deflowered path, losing my nerve,<\/p>\n
\nin the hope of a sudden valley over the brow,
\nbeyond now, where easy and smiling the old ones
\npour sunlight like tea from voluminous sleeves.<\/p>\n
\nthe trees are all too tall. It\u2019s garbage day.
\nThe blue door to the old house stands ajar
\nbut should be orange and the street wider
\nwhere in summer small feet ran over searing
\nasphalt for a dare. The birch in the front yard\u2019s
\ngone with the brown Toyota and begonia beds.
\nA man in shorts is heading to go in,
\nhis chores complete. I shadow his retreat
\nback to the kitchen on his left. Ahead
\nthe L-shaped room and stairs, perhaps a cat
\nscratching the corner of a chair. You are
\noutside on the balcony, let\u2019s say,
\njust out of sight, calling us in from play.<\/p>\n
\nwith satisfying new-paper tang,
\nThe Human Body. I am ten
\nthe year my parents gift me sex ed.<\/p>\n
\nalthough it contains pages
\nof blood vessels, skeletons, brain,
\nwhat rivets me<\/p>\n
\nposh chocolates, tiger-feet slippers,
\nhoping no-one spots my interest)
\nis a diagram, cross-section: fucking.<\/p>\n
\nEdinburgh-based Jay Whittaker<\/strong>\u2019s debut poetry collection, Wristwatch<\/em>, was published by Cinnamon Press in October 2017.\u00a0 She writes about transition, resilience, grief, breast cancer, and LGBT+ lives (including her own). Her poems have been published in a wide range of magazines. https:\/\/jaywhittaker.uk<\/a> @jaywhittapoet<\/p>\n