<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I Praise the Spider<\/strong><\/p>\n I<\/strong><\/p>\n At the web\u2019s dead centre, a thumbprint tucked beneath an overhang of leaves baby-faced mummies, the empty as if with a god\u2019s touch or curse sun-laced and lit like a bride\u2019s crown dawn\u2019s plainsong II<\/strong><\/p>\n Almost invisible song, exquisite of the infinite. Low slung earth and sky in balance or breakage, or the flecks around its fragile lifelines, III<\/strong><\/p>\n I\u2019ve been watching you I wanted to I couldn\u2019t with your drug and have to go on between your busy hands. the beat of sucked blood. flutter around the cutlery IV<\/strong><\/p>\n Creepy-crawly<\/em> lurker in the garden shed<\/em> pillow-fright<\/em> first at the wedding feast<\/em> attercop<\/em> out here in the garden at home inheritance perfected V<\/strong><\/p>\n Little revenant Yet here you are the trembling, sky-tumbled <\/p>\n <\/p>\n David Calcutt<\/strong> is a playwright, poet and fiction writer. Many of his original plays and adaptations have been broadcast on BBC radio, and his plays for theatre have been performed in both professional and community settings. Several of his plays for young people are published by Oxford University Press, as are three of his four novels for young people. His poetry appears widely in print and online magazines, and he is the author of four poetry collections. Drawing on his many years\u2019 experience as a writer, and the breadth and diversity of his writing, David has organised and worked on several small and large scale community writing and theatre projects, and continues to run a variety of writing workshops in community settings. More here: https:\/\/davidcalcutt.com\/<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I Praise the Spider I At the web\u2019s dead centre, a thumbprint smudge in your secret heaven tucked beneath an overhang of leaves and hung about with jewels and corpses baby-faced mummies, the empty sacks of your children, trembling as if with a god\u2019s touch or curse your fingers stroke the silks […]<\/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":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-20589","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20589","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=20589"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20589\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20611,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20589\/revisions\/20611"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20589"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20589"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20589"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nsmudge in your secret heaven<\/p>\n
\nand hung about with jewels and corpses<\/p>\n
\nsacks of your children, trembling<\/p>\n
\nyour fingers stroke the silks of your harp<\/p>\n
\nsending your music into the morning<\/p>\n
\nthe victim\u2019s lament.<\/p>\n
\nintricacies traced on the air
\nflung out, and hooked to the lips<\/p>\n
\nbetween the fence post and the
\ngarden shed, it seems to be holding<\/p>\n
\na net to catch whatever
\nfalls in, whether food-stuff<\/p>\n
\nof ash from autumn fires.
\nLike a hand, loosely cupped<\/p>\n
\nhoarding its meagre provisions
\nagainst the lean times.<\/p>\n
\nfor so long, you have
\nmy eye transfixed
\nand no matter how much<\/p>\n
\nmove away now.\u00a0 Numb
\nfrom the feet up
\nas if injected<\/p>\n
\nswaddled in a cocoon
\nof rapt fascination.
\nI\u2019m watching you eat<\/p>\n
\nwatching, unable to stir
\na finger or thought
\ngripped, like your prey<\/p>\n
\nFace locked forward
\neyelids glued open
\npupil pulsing with<\/p>\n
\nLater, I\u2019ll sit almost
\nlifeless at the table
\nwatching my own hands<\/p>\n
\nwhile my mouth
\ngoes on chewing
\nat tough meat.<\/p>\n
\ncarpet-scuttler<\/em>
\ncurtain-climber<\/em>
\ncorner-skulker<\/em><\/p>\n
\nprisoner in the empty bath<\/em><\/p>\n
\nbig-toe-biter<\/em>
\nwindow-wender<\/em>
\nmoney-finder<\/em><\/p>\n
\nlayer-out of grave shrouds<\/em><\/p>\n
\nlankylegs<\/em>
\nbogeyface<\/em>
\nhairymouth<\/em>
\npoodleflopper<\/em>
\ndingledody \u2013<\/em><\/p>\n
\nrain and shine
\nyou\u2019re in your element<\/p>\n
\nin your spun geometry
\nof air and light<\/p>\n
\ninto instinct
\nnameless.<\/p>\n
\nlittle suicide survivor
\nwho would have thought
\nyou could make it back
\nfrom such a big freeze
\nsuch a battering of storms
\nsuch withering of roots?<\/p>\n
\non the first untroubled
\nday of the year, as if
\nyou had never been away
\nhanging by a narrow thread
\nat home among the
\nquiet voices<\/p>\n
\ntears of dew.<\/p>\n