Ice Age

fullsizeoutput_403

This time we more than disagree;
the air between us is arctic.
Though I hear the snow shiver
and the ice groan,
there is little hope of a thaw.

I search your face anyway
for signs of spring;
the poppies on your lips still flower;
but your tongue tears
at the root of my mouth,
and your sharp eyes.

Advertisements

The Token

(for Estefania, now gone)

Estef again

 

A caterpillar inched across the path
as we three sat to gossip in the sun.
On such a day as this it was,
and here, on this plush lawn;
the path shone white and he lay
there as bright as any jewel;
and soft he was as any fur
and plumper than a pod.

‘It is a sign,’ you whispered;
‘he comes here to point the way;
and ponderous and slow he is,
yet he comes straight from God.’

‘From where?’ I said, and curled my lip
to think that God might care,
my life in disarray and only sadness in my heart.

‘From God,’ you said, ‘or from that place
where all your beauty is.
He tells you trust in time’s slow work
to grant you wings to fly.

On such a day as this it was
and here, on this plush lawn;
and, though the sun
sank down to sleep,
still all we three
sat safe and close,
just as the evening
air was warm;
and not a passing thought
we had for how the dark closed in
nor did I think this day to weep
to think how true you spoke.

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley Wyatt

Perhaps

(On the execution of Lady Jane Grey, 

Monday, February 12th, 1554)

Not, in truth, a martyr but a trembling girl,
how you must have quaked at the scene:
perhaps the spring surprised the dawn,
silvering the close-cropped winter grass;
and, perhaps, you leaned forward for one last glimpse
and felt your child’s heart leap,
a flightless bird put up too late,
its green wings yearning after skies;
and as he came back, in that blood-bespattered cart,
perhaps, you did cry out: ‘O, Guildford, Guilford,
O, my husband, O, my one true love’
as they lead you then where the scaffold stood
against the tower’s white walls.
And perhaps it was there you shook off
your fear, recalling how he laid you down,
an eager bride, half giddy, in the circle of those lifeless arms,
finding comfort, perhaps, to think how brief
a widowhood was destined to be yours
as you mounted the steps, your eyes still dry,
read your Miserere and died.
Or perhaps you did not. Perhaps you mourned
a women’s life unlived and wept to know the greed
of those who gambled with your head;
cursed, perhaps, the father who gave you up,
the husband who could only whine and die;
perhaps you railed against your fate
even as you seemed so much resigned.
‘I pray you despatch me quickly,’ you said
as you laid your white neck down.

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley Wyatt

All rights reserved.

My Father Wanted Pauline by Abigail Wyatt (All About My Name Poetry Series)

I am delighted to be represented in the All About My Name Poetry Series currently being run by Silver Birch Press. Especially pleased, too, that this is a poem that enables me to post a picture of my grandmother, Matilda Jane. She was quite a woman. 🙂

Silver Birch Press

Wyatt photo
My Father Wanted Pauline
by Abigail Wyatt

I was a mid-summer baby,
not a Yankee Doodle Dandy
but born on the Fourth of July.
I arrived, they said, not quite on cue
but two warm days too late.
I made my entrance while still unnamed
(my father wanted Pauline)
but Paulines wear cardigans
hand-knitted in pale pastels
and fastened by dainty pearl buttons.
They must have taken one quick peek
and right away known
that wasn’t me.

Matilda Jane Ottley was fifty-four,
my father’s formidable mother.
Never a beauty, already grown stout,
her birthday fell two days before.
I should have been christened for her, so she thought;
in her mind there was no issue, no question;
I should have been Matilda Jane;
or Matilda, or Jane, at least.

It was not to be: the die was cast
their battle lines were drawn;
my mother dug her heels in deep

View original post 321 more words

Call for submissions: All About My Name Poetry Series

Not much time left to meet this deadline but it is an interesting project and I intend to try to get something together.

Silver Birch Press

name_logo How did you come by your first, middle, or last name? What’s the “meaning” of your name? How do you feel about your name? If you could do it all over (or if you already have), what name would you choose for yourself? How did you get your nickname? Did a childhood or “baby” name stick? We want to know all about your name (or names) — so tell us in a poem for our ALL ABOUT MY NAME Poetry Series.

PROMPT: In a poem, tell us all about your name — first, middle, last (or any combination thereof). Please send a favorite photo of yourself — at any age — to accompany the poem, and provide a caption for the photo.

WHAT: Submissions can be original or previously published poems. You retain all rights to your work and give Silver Birch Press permission to publish on social media and…

View original post 385 more words

Surprise, Surprise!

After a lengthy period when my blog simply refused to function – along with the blogs of a number of other people in my geographical area – it now seems that the problem may have been fixed. Sadly, this did not happen before I began another, new blog at Mad Rabbit http://abigailelizabethwyatt.blogspot.co.uk/. However, if all goes well, I propose to keep both blogs running, using ‘Mad Rabbit’ for most of my writing-based posts and this one for the stuff which is more random: meanderings, rants and the like. I am sure you know the kind of thing I mean. 

Solstice

We need more the power of magic now
since we turned our gaze away,
since we closed up our ears
to the earth’s sweet hum
and heard only the great
rasping of our greed;
though we wear our science artfully
still it catches us
and snares us in;
our little learning is lost
to us in this scrabbling
and lusting after wealth.

The ways of magic woo us
now that we are cast adrift.
(It was long ago we broke
our faith when we made
our wants our creed.)
If the great oak cracks
and bows his back
and the green girl tears at her veil,
we will bare our bones
and feed its fires
while the great wheel
hurtles and burns.

For the chorus of the magi calls:
though we shrivel and we shrink,
the dragon rises up to roar
and we must feel its breath;
and we may be heroes, all of us
that grapple with the moon
and brave the flames
to find again our vision
and our strength.Image

‘Coming Soon’: My Poem Appears at Poetry 24 Today

Recently, while catching up on what the BBC is pleased to call its News Channel – although it is, in fact, increasingly dominated by topics which are not actually news – I witnessed a shameful display of gerontophobia from the three presenters who were involved in ‘The Papers’, a nightly discussion of the stories appearing in the next day’s press.

In the course of this item, all three of the presenters laughed and joked about the suggestion that elderly people were being passed over for medical treatment on the grounds that they were old and, therefore, in terms of economics not ‘worth’ saving. The ‘problem’ of pensions was mentioned and it was pointed out, still amidst much laughter, that it would be a good thing if some elderly people died because their demise would help solve that problem. My partner and I sat open-mouthed and this display of mindless cruelty on the part of three people in a position of privilege and what should have been responsibility. I was extremely upset by the incident. ‘Coming Soon’ is my response.

Read ‘Coming Soon’ here.

Politics vs. Literature

(with apologies to Mr Orwell)

Let’s keep politics out of this.
It’s only entertainment, after all.

There are many Truths and Beauty, as you know,
is always in the eye of the beholder.

As for narratives, be they ever so grand,
they really are so very last year.

Let us, as professionals, polish our skills;
let us make a whetstone of perfection.

Poets, though, do it mostly for love,
there being piss poor profit in verse.

So when is a poem not a poem at all?
When it’s song that breaks the rules.

And when does the song-bird forget to sing
if not when she’s hobbled and tied?

The smart set would strive for anonymity now
but how will they know when they arrive there?

Perhaps, after all, we have waited too long
to find we all have a story to sell.

Orwell’s essay here