Beyond the skies

On 11 September 2001, a BBC radio programme discussing the song ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’ was interrupted by breaking news from New York City

Watching CNN, the screen fills again
and again with a long plume of smoke 

my television is the sky, its camera a bird
circling a plane crashing into a tower

a slim needle piercing the eye of a camel
over the rainbow

windows curve and disappear, moulting glass
skies are blue

yet the building stands –
and the dreams

or did it sway?
that you dare to dream

and the people – where are they?
really do come true

a plucked skyline fills the room
one day I’ll wake

I guess at what we cannot see
and rub my eyes

feet pounding down the stairs
in that land

counting each breath to safety
beyond the skies

until the towers begin to fall
first the inside, then the outer wall
melt like lemon drops

the camera sinks, a body slips
away above the chimney tops

more black dots dive – none can fly –
that’s where

did you close your eyes?
you’ll find me

The 154 Project

I’m one of 154 poets invited by Live Canon to respond to Shakespeare’s sonnets, in this anniversary year of his birth.  Our poetic responses were published by Live Canon in an anthology and performed at the Victoria and Albert Museum on 24 April 2016.

I responded to Sonnet 7. It’s not a sonnet I knew; I asked Live Canon to select a sonnet for me, wanting the challenge and open to serendipity.  As I’ve been working on celestial bodies, the imagery was appealing.  But the sonnet’s tone and repeated association of the sun with a masculine life cycle irritated me. I particularly disliked the final couplet, which insists that you must have a son to be remembered (to not “diest”).  Daughters, apparently, won’t do.

SONNET 7 (Wm Shakespeare)
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, ‘fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon
Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.

The dogs howl and household gods shiver
as the sun is dimmed and living colour dies,
a world reduced to black and white – but tides
continue to rise. The moon draws to her
growing seas and awkward monthly pains;
her milky light is gone, yet she covers
the golden sun, casts a shadow over
its flame. Her gravity and mass remain
even when her features disappear;
a stoic lid to the star’s burning light.
Unlike the sun, she will always stay near,
whether full or perilously slight.
Now be glad, dear woman, expectant one,
for a moon-faced daughter – not a son.


Greenwich Train Station Residency

In August 2014 I was poet-in-residence at Greenwich Railway station.  Three painters were also artists in residence, in an opportunity arranged for us by the Made in Greenwich Gallery and Network Southeastern, with many thanks to the wonderful Irena Hill and Sonia Caulson!

Together we had an exhibition at Made in Greenwich in October.  The work chimed well, with different but complementary styles from painters Gillian Burrows, John Govett and David Weekes, and three poems by me — luckily I had a poem that matched the tone of each artist.