This anthology confronts something difficult: when our news bullintens reel off disaster after disaster, how do we respond to voilence and tragedy? It takes a poet to make sensce of it. In this document for troubled times, contempory poets offer their response in various ways – grieving, consoling, protesting questioning and measuring losses.
Profits will be donated to Médicins Sans Frontièrs
I feel honoured to be included thanks to Moria Andrew and Susan Sims
A Poem from my collection Timelines was selected as one of the April poems of the month on Second Light Live. I feel honored to be chosen. This is the poem
Diamonds fall on glass, rain on the window
patterns of water shimmering in the dawn
not precious gems, eternal settings of graphite
pressed for millennia beneath specific rocks.
Worn by women as tokens of affection, pride
of their menfolk as they sport rich gifts,
the carat of a poor man pledging life
a bauble cast unheeding by the oligarch.
One set of diamonds a young mother wore
token not of love but duty to be done
her pledge no to a single man but
to a race she never wished was hers
and on that day the diamonds were returned
to wait in silence for another’s brow,
now a lifetime’s past, children then undreamt
walk streets changed beyond concept,
all that was sixty years ago.
Poem published in collection, Timelines, Indigo Dreams, 2014
Collection: Timelines, Indigo Dreams, 2014, ISBN 978-1-909357-53-2, £7.99
Anthology: Mirrored Voices Emerging Poets Anthology, Star Investment Strategies LLC, 2015, ISBN 978-1-5077107-1-5, £6.95.
Timelines is also available at Amazon https://www.amazon.co.uk/Timelines-Carolyn-OConnell/dp/1909357537/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Carolyn+O%27Connell&qid=1555078862&s=books&sr=1-1-catcorr
The following poem was published in the April issue of Reach Poetry 247
Thanks to Ronnie Goodyer the Editor for selecting it.
Transactions on Thursdays
The last snow had melted, slowly the days’ length
etched into a pattern of rising, brightening hours;
doors slowly opened, boats swayed in tides
the town waited for the Dutchman
who would tie up on Thursday.
All winter women filled the baskets with bulbs
platting them into skein-species that hung
in coils waiting for hands to drape them in baskets
lined around the hold of the ship skippered by
the Dutchman who took them on Thursdays.
Then the market would fill with flag-fluttered stalls
displaying bursting bulb-baskets, ready to ship
and bales of lace crocheted by skilled fingers
all for the Dutchman who would buy
when he came to purchase on Thursdays.
Then the Dutchman sailed down river to the sea,
in boats filled with bulbs and lace ready to sell
to the astute market men ready to buy
from the Dutchman delivering the newest promise
for investors waiting on Thursdays.
A February day was drawing in,
called by the light of silver birches
guarding the garden; their branches
whispering the wind to evergreens.
They spoke of times almost forgotten
when the Manor House ruled over
acres of farm and woodland, only
one house remains to tell the history,
as I watched the skies shadowed
the sun sapped, suddenly
a bird flew over alone; a cloud
that swept the sky with shapes.
The birds signalled to each other
the safe way home to roosts
murmuring, diving, flying in formation
until they descended, covering trees with
black bird-leafs hanging on silver branches.
12 February 2018
© Published issue 285 Jan 2019
Had the following poem in this anthology celebrating the river and its voices . It was inspired by Jon Gorman and edited by Barry Woods and is dedicated to the memory of the late Cheshire poet Tonia Bevans. Over 40 poets have poems in this celebratory anthology which was launched on National Poetry Day. Contact email@example.com for a copy £3.99 including postage.
Carolyn O’ Connell
Your song beats beneath M60’s ring roads, Merseyway
bringing ballads of the Goyt and Tame, the colours
of long gone dyes, cloth woven, and the hint of heathers
held in water, murmurs from the moor’s high gorge.
Despite your ride beneath Stockport’s sixties concrete
here the drooping hands of urban trees catch your birth,
cradling you in industries track, concrete, rags of cotton
spun in the mills you and your daughters turned.
Your voice sings the strength of Mercia’s lost kings
Northumberland’s craving peaks and wild seas,
you hold strong the boundary trench between
Cheshire and Northumbria still.
Slim trace here of the anthems you’ll extol,
that rushing travellers hear – unmoved or
unheeding shoppers snub; Heaven’s Gift
begins its winding melody of life until
it rings abroad as your wide skirts dip the Atlantic
and Liverpool harmonizes your history with the sea ©
I am now located in Cheshire and a member of the Vale Royal Writers Group and Blaze Mid-Cheshire Stanza. Hope to be posting more after being absent for some months. Happy reading!
When they met she was in black –
her red lips a splash of hope –
and he caught her by the door:
she had stopped in the light,
named by the etched glass,
a kiss before he left for the boat.
It was one remembered by her
but was not spoken of until
she was forced to admit the truth.
Summer was the time we travelled
away from the city to new places
where sea scented the days mingling
with fruits from her orchard.
We gulped thyme, garlic that grew
wild on the hills above the bay,
broke the glass water as a pair
of eagles frolicked over the island.
Her cups were stacked carefully,
brought out for tea when guests came
together with cake stacked
neatly on stands above white cloths,
so the ceremony would always be perfect.
The city clouds, the moist heat had thrust
me inside. I found a photo of them
taken in that lost light.
Submitted to Reach Poetry September 2017
Published Reach 229 October 2017
and in Beneath the Blue Bridge Anthology VRWG 2018
The beach trees were shining gold
suddenly the white flakes came
the dropping temperature plunging
the garden into silent white
but still the blackbirds flew
seeking sustenance among stalks
of newly planted shrubs peeking
from above the winter’s path.
I watch them from above
sealed by a screen of glass
remembering snow in another garden
far away in time and place.
Finding your love
Hidden in your briefcase I found this poem
I’d written it to you as a gift on our Silver Wedding Day
never knowing you’d kept it perhaps read it
as you travelled to work, I never knew!
When I found I cried, for you had died.
We will never celebrate another anniversary
for you are gone and I am packing memories
into the box, and the box of my heart.
Two dozen summers, springs and falls
each season’s change we’ve seen
their promise, glory; gleaning we have known
and winter’s chills did feel.
Where they went I do not know
they passed – as turning tides,
yet you have made the Maytime years
a chain of sparkling blossoms picked
morning fresh as for a bride.
Whether we reach a haven like that depicted here
or destined we remain
within the city’s hassle, its struggle or domain,
I have, with the dew dropped blossom
you’ve given with the years, a haven
secret in my heart to hold my love with you.
A tall strong son with manly grace
a daughter to enchant,
are blessings that we offer to
a future still in dark.
If no more we lie beneath bright stars
as in our courting days – it matters not
for creaking limbs need duvet’s down to play.
To Silver and Gold let go –
with courage and our love
may God’s grace keep us close my love
His blessings still to know.
So with me here beside you
let’s celebrate our date….This Anniversary of Our Wedding Day. Carolyn O’Connell
Submitted to Reach Poetry 5/9/2017 Published Reach Poetry 232 Jan 2018
Over oceans of ideas, cultures, and countries
raised hands rise to support, supplant
the rulers whether democrats, dictators
oligarchs they face each other for a time
then time rolls on fading them into
sepia images rattling history.
They leave a thread of wounds and horror
littering the globe with tears, mourning hands
uplifted, pleading for justice, return of lands
even from long forgotten graves they rise:
but the hands unnoticed rise to comfort
from hearts torn in silent breasts
calling in deeds of kindness to the outcast
defying the power of the tyrant unopposed.
Published on the Be Zine .com 16 April 2018
From this grey moon-dust
I see my home rise
as a child’s marble –
the games, tunes of childhood,
my mother singing “Hey Jude”
or thinking of your ring;
a cabochon fire opal
as we kissed when we danced
to Oasis as morning broke.
Castaway with no way back
I watch for home to rise
from jet night, ribbon stars
firework comet tails threading orbits,
think of you asleep beneath
the water blanket encasing
the home we knew and loved before
I left for this desert. No island
no disc, no luxury but only
my thoughts, memories and love
to hold until they rescue or air expires.
Published Reach Poetry 197 January 2015