Glove

Because I love you, I offer you
this old glove.
Wait. Do not cast it
aside. It has held my hand.
Its soft felt embraced my fingers,
covered my palm.
Its partner is lost.
Take it to remind you, how you and I
could lose each other.
It fits me perfectly.
Keep it under your pillow.
Perhaps it will
reach for you in the night.

Note: WordPress does not like the indentations in this poem, so it’s lost its shape. It was first published in my collection I Sing of Bricks (Salt 2011). I think of it as slightly spooky but others see it differently, which is fine. Maria Walker made some art using this poem and the remaining glove.

Sometimes a package arrives that is like a party in the mailbox. Often it’s a poetry party, especially the one that just arrived from Anne Stewart‘s poetry p f. The site is affiliated with Second Light Network of Women Poets. There are no gender or age restrictions at poetry p f, which is now a go-to resource for me when I want to buy the collections of U.K. poets.

“The site is principally intended to be a showcase of modern poets, and to provide a focused point for members to take advantage of the visibility and searchable presence the Internet provides; further to promote poets and poetry.” MORE

My recent acquisitions from across the pond include Anne Cluysenaar‘s Touching Distances, Diary Poems (Cinnamon Press, 2014), which was a gift from Myra Schneider and my own purchases: Janus (Oversteps Books, 2010) by Anne Stewart and Dilys Wood‘s novel-length…

Spring Lines
after Larkin

An early morning train to London and Canary Wharf
from Crewe, the first warm day of the year. Regular
as local stations, lines of laundry start to appear.

Backyards and suburban gardens, balconies of flats:
strings of washing hang half the length of England.
Freed-up linens, tugged by spring’s fingers, on parade.

Even the pegs are little miracles, brought forth
from ingenious bags, to clutch underwear,
spread sheets and dangle white lace handkerchiefs.

Small acts of love, pinned up with such hope of drying,
kissing an April Saturday from North to South,
a fanfare of frills, bunting-dressed to welcome spring.


Calling me on the Phone

was an ordeal then:
you, pathologically shy,
no phone anyway,
a long walk to the nearest call box.

Me, shy too,
hating answering the thing
that squatted blackly
in the garishly-papered hall.

Yet we had our first big row
on the…

I first published this piece on Ruth Stone in 2013, but I love her poetry so much I had to include her early in this Thursday series of mine inspired by the work of poet Dilys Wood and the London-based Second Light Network of Women Poets (SLN), which Dilys founded. SLN encourages and supports the poetry of women, including those women with voices emerging in their third act. 

Poems clutter the landscape of my mind with bite-sized portions easily committed to memory, ready to be pulled out in a moment of need or want. I like to think of poetry as literary dim sum, which means “touch the heart.” And poems do spring themselves on me and touch the tender places. Depending on the poem and the poet, they may also tickle my funny bone, stimulate my intellect, or affirm some insight. In the art of living hugely, poetry…