<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
They Said<\/strong><\/p>\n They said so many untrue, unkind, unfair Their close-up, riled breath whisked I realised love is not so much something <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Peter Eustace<\/strong> has published two books of poems in English and Italian (Vistas<\/em>, 2006, and Weathering<\/em>, 2010) and an English-only pamphlet (Brink<\/em>, 2009) with erbacce press, Liverpool. He has been a guest at the Valpolicella, Verona, Monte Baldo and Nogara poetry\/literary festivals (Italy), as well as the Small Press Day as part of the 10th anniversary celebrations of the World Academy of Poetry based in Verona and set up with the patronage of UNESCO.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n When temporal lobes<\/strong><\/p>\n ignite like Christmas lights she is upright in a bentwood chair Can\u2019t see or hear Normally susceptible to suspense Never expecting a good thing the crate of her skull She thinks in tongues Couldn\u2019t imagine a suicide Knows everything about us past hospital wards with white views carrying out her marvellous plan Child of the cosmos <\/p>\n Julie Maclean<\/strong> is the author of Kiss of the Viking<\/em> (Poetry Salzburg)\u00a0and\u00a0When I saw Jimi<\/em> (Indigo Dreams) and e-chapbook You Love You Leave<\/em> (Kind of a Hurricane Press, US). She is published in The Best Australian Poetry<\/em> (UQP)\u00a0Forthcoming in Poetry. Blogging at http:\/\/juliemacleanwriter.com\/<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" They Said They said so many untrue, unkind, unfair Cruel things behind my back And later on even to my face \u2013 Always three or four of them, At least, better to make their point \u2026 Afraid, more like, on their own, I might for once have made other use Of my work-hard […]<\/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":[37],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7920","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-twelve-days-of-christmas-2014"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7920","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=7920"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7920\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23965,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7920\/revisions\/23965"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7920"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7920"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7920"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nCruel things behind my back
\nAnd later on even to my face \u2013
\nAlways three or four of them,
\nAt least, better to make their point \u2026
\nAfraid, more like, on their own,
\nI might for once have made other use
\nOf my work-hard hands.<\/p>\n
\nThe sawdust from my brows
\nTill I was almost wooed by their threats,
\nFrightened and confused and still
\nMore than a little old-fashioned
\nIn my unskilled ways and means.
\nYet when I thought again how brave
\nAnd pure she was, so fragile, defenceless,<\/p>\n
\nWe feel but all told what we give.
\nSo I let them say whatever they cared –
\nFor the life of them they could not begin
\nTo understand my smiling silence –
\nHeeding her and the boy to be born
\nWhose perfect, painful innocence
\nBecame my burden and my joy.<\/p>\n
\ndown High Street<\/p>\n
\n\/resin replica\/<\/p>\n
\nNot a sound<\/p>\n
\n\/Can’t seem to shake it\/<\/p>\n
\nto come of it<\/p>\n
\na pulse of epiphanous bliss<\/p>\n
\nof a thousand angels Gabriel<\/p>\n
\nbomber or serial killer<\/p>\n
\nSome days she takes little walks<\/p>\n
\na clipped, aching feel about them \u00a0\/to us\/<\/p>\n
\nover crumpled pages, musical scores<\/p>\n
\nJesus lives!\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\/for five minutes\/<\/p>\n