Spring poems from Anne Berkeley and Caroline Carver, image from Douglas Robertson

Spring Lament by Douglas Robertson

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Take this spurred
violet
from the spread
of cordate leaves
under the willow –
five petals and a stab of light
hooked on a pin
and shaking
with rain
 
Keep it pressed
to the place you are now
where for the very first
time the lovers
have just
kissed
and no-one's hurt
or fading
or lost


Anne Berkeley



“The Woods are Knitting New Clothing for Spring”

The woods are knitting new leaves
into the Great Book of the Year,
ancient oaks wind us in
among clever branches

twigs plucking at buttons and sleeves
to turn into acorns and new shoots
until we tremble
like a new-strung orchestra.

We may think we can walk away
unchanged in the moon-made evening
back to our shingled homes
on lamplit streets

but we are woven into the trees
like threads of fine fabric –
you may hear us singing
among the deep dark roots of spring.


Caroline Carver


*Douglas Robertson is an artist who divides his time between his home in Hampshire, and researching and traveling in his native Scotland.  He regularly works in collaboration with poets, and was recently artist-in-residence at the Scottish Poetry Library in Edinburgh. To see more of his work, go here.

*Anne Berkeley’s first collection, The Men from Praga (Salt, 2009), was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Centre Prize. She edited Rebecca Elson’s acclaimed posthumous collection A Responsibility to Awe, and is one of the poetry group extraordinaire, Joy of Six.  

*Caroline Carver has won or been placed in many competitions including the National in 1998 and a commendation this year.  Both poems draw on her Jamaican childhood.  She’s a Hawthornden Fellow, has published three collections and is resident poet at Cornwall’s Trebah Gardens.

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Sarah Bower's royal wedding


The Princess Speaks Mandarin

The first time Fei Yen hears the princess’ voice is a mid-morning in January. Strip lights blaze above the work benches, and she wishes she could hold her hands up to their heat; even in the white cotton gloves, they are frozen. Mr Li has just done his rounds, pausing, as usual, at Fei Yen’s work station. She didn’t look up, it isn’t permitted in case the work slows down, but she could feel him, as if the air was suddenly pressing more heavily on her back, and smell the aniseed on his breath.

Aniseed means he will want her to go to his office in the meal break. The anticipation shrivels her belly, which is just as well because she hadn’t been able to eat any breakfast before coming to work. She dreads her encounters with Mr. Li now, even though his breath smells of aniseed and he has clean fingernails. Secrets have come between them.

‘So don’t go,’ says the princess, in perfect mandarin.

Fei Yen starts and, without lifting her head, flicks a rapid glance at the women seated opposite and to either side of her. This part of the factory, where the women apply photographic transfers to the centres of plates whose borders are already decorated with hearts and ribbons and gilded crowns, is quiet. Surely the others must have heard the princess’ voice. But only Mei gives her a brief, tight smile. No-one else even looks up.
Fei Yen isn’t popular; perhaps she’s hearing voices because so few people speak to her. They pretend not to understand her accent, and say she smells of dried fish because that’s all they eat where she comes from. She’s given up trying to tell them her husband’s a farmer, and that they eat mostly cabbage and turnips at home. She’s realised that, for her work colleagues, the city is all they know. Countryside is just what is suggested to them by the comedy shows they devour on TV, a place where people have slow wits and thick accents, and live on dried fish. Some of this is true.

‘Don’t go,’ repeats the princess. ‘Why are you ignoring me?’

It must, Fei Yen supposes, be very bad manners to ignore a princess. When the chairman of the company brought his wife to see the work being done to fulfill the important order from the Queen of England, the production line was stopped long enough for the women to rise from their work stations and bow to the chairman and his wife. Neither of them has their image on a plate.

‘I’m sorry,’ Fei Yen whispers.

‘Talking to yourself now, are you, country girl?’ mocks Lin. Fei Yen feels her cheeks begin to burn and imagines picking up two of the cool white plates from the conveyor and pressing them to her hot skin. It’s getting worse; now she’s imagining herself cheek to cheek with the princess.

‘It’s OK,’ says the princess. ‘I’m getting used to people not hearing what I say.’
Fei Yen finds this hard to believe; the princess gazes out from her photograph with such confidence. She has round, blue eyes and good teeth; any words that line up to be spoken behind those teeth must surely be worth hearing.

Anyway, says Fei Yen, though she doesn’t speak aloud this time, I can’t not go. He’d sack me.

‘You could find another job. I bet the city’s full to bursting of factories making plates with my face on. And his of course.’

Fei Yen looks at the other face she is smoothing on to the plate with her white gloved hands. He is handsome, she tells the princess.

‘You don’t mean that.’

Fei Yen is shocked. Surely everything you say to a princess becomes true, merely by virtue of being said.
  
‘No-one else can hear us,’ says the princess. Fei Yen fancies she has raised her eyebrows a little, as if she has asked a question and awaits a reply.
  
He is…

‘To you he looks like roast pork. He is too large and too pink.’
   
Fei Yen passes the flat of her hand across the princess’ face and wishes she would shut up. She is drawing Fei Yen into an impossible situation. As the plate wobbles away along the conveyor, and she peels a new transfer off the sheet at her elbow, ready for the next plate, she says,
   
You are putting words in my mouth. That is your prerogative, but I wish you wouldn’t.
   
‘Aha!’ says the princess, ‘Got you! That’s what you need to say to Mr. Li. If you dare say it to me, you dare say it to him.’
   
It’s not that simple. I’m pregnant.
   
‘I know. And that it can’t be your husband’s.’
   
Fei Yen’s eyes fill with tears in response to the princess’ bare and brutal exposition of her circumstances. You don’t understand, she says.
   
‘You think? You still have choices. We all have choices, just not always the ones we expect to have. Life, Fei Yen. Life’s a bitch. It’s got me on a plate and you over a barrel.’

During the meal break, as Fei Yen makes her way as slowly as she can to Mr. Li’s office, she thinks about the princess’ words, and the more she thinks, the more choices seem to pop up before her. It is as if they had been planted in the soil of her life, like cabbages or turnips, and were now, suddenly, coming up as the earth turned towards the princess’ sun. She takes out and dusts off her memories of home, of her husband who has dirt beneath his fingernails and ingrained in his palms, and the spine of a man who spends his days stooped over the earth, and of her daughter whose eyes are bright as spring rain and who still smells like something new born. Her daughter in whom all her love and disappointment meet like streams coming together at the head waters of a river.
   
She will go home, and be a proper mother to her little girl, who does not need the money Fei Yen sends home so much as she needs someone to guide her through all the choices open to a woman nowadays, someone who has discussed these matters with a princess. Besides, she doubts whether the money gets further than her mother-in-law, who likes to drink Japanese whisky and gamble on pigeon races. As for this new baby Fei Yen is carrying, she will go to the hospital this afternoon, as soon as she finishes work. She may need one day off, but Mr. Li won’t sack her for that, and if he tries, she’ll make it very clear to him that her discretion depends on his not doing so.
   
‘At a girl,’ says the princess, though her voice is weak now, as Fei Yen climbs the steel steps to Mr. Li’s glass box suspended above the factory floor. She is aware of faces turned towards her, of eyes and mouths and noses emerging disembodied from the shadows of the steps. She knows the other women are jealous of the favour shown her by Mr. Li, but that doesn’t make her feel any less of a traitor. She is sick with nerves and also with lust as her tender nipples rub against her blouse. How can she return to her husband, to his foul breath in her face and her mother-in-law’s ear to the curtain behind which they make love? Mr. Li owns a car. Sometimes he makes love to her on its back seat, and the memory of his clean, wise hands on her body is all mixed up with the smell of petrol and turtle wax polish.

She closes the office door behind her but remains leaning against it, reluctant to move away from the threshold where all possibilities remain open. Mr. Li steps out from behind his desk and begins to close the blinds; his skin seems to glow in the light of his desk lamp, as if fired and glazed like the porcelain whose manufacture he supervises. Fei Yen wonders what he used to do before he became manager of this production line. She will ask him, she thinks, but there are other words that need to be spoken first.

‘Come in, come in,’ says Mr. Li, beckoning impatiently with his hand.

Fei Yen takes a step forward. She opens her mouth. She thinks of the princess’ frank blue eyes and her bold smile. ‘Mr. Li, I am pregnant,’ she says, all in a rush, and squeezes her eyes shut like a child who does not know if her outstretched hand will be strapped or filled with candy. Silence. Then Mr. Li lets out a whoop, as if he is in an American cowboy film. Fei Yen opens her eyes, to see if this is the belt or the candy.

Mr. Li’s face is split in a grin, his eyes twinkle like coal chips above his smooth cheeks. He claps his hands once, then clasps them together as if they are birds about to fly away. He says not a word but begins to jump up and down with excitement so Fei Yen is afraid the glass box will begin to sway and come tumbling down on to the factory floor.

Mr. Li swoops on the visitor’s chair and pulls it away from his desk. ‘Sit, sit,’ he urges Fei Yen. ‘This is such news, such news. My wife and I have no children, no son. You will give me a son, Fei Yen. You will stop work immediately and concentrate on the baby. You must have a comfortable place to stay, plenty of good food. I will arrange everything. I will take good care of you.’

Fei Yen sits in silence. Her heart is too full for speech. The glass box seems to be transformed into a giant Yuan Xiao lantern in which she is floating towards a golden future of ease and luxury. Mr. Li continues to talk, emphasising his words with wide, fluttering hand gestures, but Fei Yen isn’t really listening. Then the klaxon marks the end of the break and it is as though the lantern has been snuffed out and fallen to earth.

‘I will speak to my wife tonight,’ Mr. Li is saying. ‘She will be thrilled. She will prepare you a room, you can move in tomorrow. And of course you will want for nothing afterwards, we will see to it. We are honourable people.’

‘Afterwards,’ Fei Yen repeats, rising from the chair and pulling on her white cotton gloves. ‘I must go back to work now, Mr. Li.’

‘Of course, of course. But today is your last day, Fei Yen. I will send word to the guest workers’ dormitory tonight. Better still I will come myself, in the car, to collect you.’

‘What are you doing?’ demands the princess. Her voice is a well-bred hiss, the voice, thinks Fei Yen, of an angry swan.

Leaving, she replies.

‘You can’t,’ hisses the princess, as a plate rocks by on the conveyor, its centre as pristine white as the moment it came out of the kiln. ‘Mr. Li made a fair offer. If the baby’s a boy he’ll take it off your hands and you’ll have enough money to buy a house separate from your mother-in-law.’

Fei Yen picks up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. ‘I need the bathroom,’ she says to Mei, who sucks in air sharply between her teeth but says nothing in return. And if it’s a girl? she asks the princess.

The blue eyes of the princess follow Fei Yen across the workshop. She can feel them, endlessly reproduced, like a thousand matches applied to her back. She is incandescent. Mr. Li will see her from his glass box, he will know her intentions and dismiss her. She will find herself back in her mother-in-law’s house with nothing to show for her months at the factory but Mr. Li’s child in her belly. Once her husband finds out about that, even her daughter will be taken from her.

She falters, seeing her daughter in her mind’s eye, carrying water, her feet bare and calloused like an old woman’s, her bony ankles coated in dust. Choices. You still have choices, the princess had said, just not the ones you expect. Fei Yen squares her shoulders and walks on, and the princess’ eyes feel, now, like a cloak of invisibility. Their blue blaze will dazzle Mr. Li.

A window above the wash basin gives on to the street. It is high and small and, reflects Fei Yen as she hauls herself up on to the lip of the basin, another couple of weeks and her waist would be too thick for her to fit through it. Thanks, she says to the princess, though she isn’t sure the princess can hear her from the bathroom. She drops down heavily into the narrow lane which runs between their factory and the one next door, and turns her ankle. She manages a hobbling run, however, until the lane ends in a street thronged with workers changing shift, and she can adapt herself to their pace, go with their flow, one among thousands. No-one looks at her, no-one sees the image of the princess transferred to her heart or the child turning somersaults in her belly.

There is a television in the guesthouse, for the visitors from Europe and America. Usually they eschew it, with lofty remarks about being at one with the mountains and ‘finding themselves’. Old, fat, rich people so solid in the world Fei Yen wonders how they ever managed to lose themselves. But today they are all crowded around, sitting, standing, balanced on the arms of chairs, straining the walls with their solidity, all peering at the grainy picture and talking over the tinny sound. The women coo like doves, the men burst out in sudden shouts of laughter and drink beer from cans. Fei Yen shifts the weight of the baby on her back and leans against the door, her tray of cleaning things wedged between her feet. She pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand.
   

And there, suddenly, is the princess, smiling and waving from an open coach. Beside her the prince who reminds Fei Yen of roast pork does likewise. Sunlight glitters off the accoutrements of horses and soldiers, and the princess’ jewelled wedding veil, like notes played on the guzheng. The cooing and laughter of the guests fades as the princess looks right into Fei Yen’s eyes. Perhaps it is the poor quality of the picture, or her distance from the small screen, but Fei Yen fancies she sees a shadow behind the princess’ eyes, like when the sky over the mountains is clear blue, but you can feel snow coming. She waits for the princess to speak; she owes her that much.
   
But the princess looks away, to wave at the crowds on the other side of her coach, and Fei Yen feels the baby begin to stir against her back. Not wanting to disturb the guests, she goes outside. She stands on the roof of the world and surveys its intricate array of peaks and ridges silhouetted against a sky which, this moment, is without threat or promise but pale and cloudless and snapping with prayer flags. She will grow old here, she thinks, in the margin between earth and sky where everything remains possible, and one day, when he has laid out her body for the birds, her son will take the money she has saved and go to find his sister.

*Sarah Bower is a novelist and short story writer. Her first novel, The Needle in the Blood, was Susan Hill’s Book of the Year 2007.

Artwork by Helen Ivory

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Spring poems from John Calvert, Nicky Phillips and Stephen Pain

Primavera

My favourite tea shop girl
Has a hooked nose, a dirty laugh
I'm trying to fathom Heidegger
What is is?
The butter-split cherry scone
Sugar-dusted
Later sitting with peach iced tea
Eyeing legs, bags , Selfridges, Next
Spring tarts, fruit flavours
This morning the first wasp
Dozed through the kitchen window
I load apricot jam on the knife
With trepidation


                                                                                                                          

*John Calvert is a  poet/musician/ performer based in Manchester



Camouflage Caravans
 
Pale blue would waver in spring's breeze;
grass-green guard, with jealousy, lush pastures;
chocolate brown stick fast in squelching mud;
prickly pebbledash skitter by shingle beach;
matt primrose nestle in sand dunes;
whereas unrelenting grey-white merely seem
to stretch mile on Mile on MILE on M1.
 
 
*Nicky Phillips lives 30 miles from London in a village with no gas, no shop and only the odd bus. She has had poems, short stories, 60- and 100-worders published in magazines, anthologies and online.

    spring  spring   spring
   
   sprriiiinnnnnnnn
 
     spprrrriiiiiiiiiiiii
    
    ssspppprrrrri

    sssssppprrrrr

   ssssssspppr

    sssssssspr
 
    sssssssp
        
    sssss

    ss

    s
    .

ta ta ta ta ta ta ta ta ta ta ta ta creak crack CHEEP CHEEP

ga ga ga gr kre dup kredup kredup kredup kredup geroooosh  SPLAT

oh oh ooohh aaaaaaah uuuuuuuu yeah yeah yes yes yes oh oooooooh ahhh  oh NO! Sploosh

Concrete poems first three for children key : 
flower to be read from bottom up ,
cracking of egg
frog crossing road to mate
adult poem –  making love – premature ejaculation

*Stephen Pain is a zoosemiotician based in Denmark. He has written poetry over a period of time and has had poetry published in hardcopy and on the internet. If he were to describe the school or genre of poetry he belongs to – it would have to be the maverick  i.e. crossing over borders.

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Spring poems from Andrea Porter and Jacqueline Saphra

Brood

The pigeon is nesting in the hawthorn.
If I lift my eyes from the lap top screen
I can see her sitting on a mess of sticks.
She watches me closely, cocks her head,
as if the sound of the keys were visible,
small fears to put her on the edge of flight.
She sits whilst I sit, whilst the rain falls,
she sits through cold brightness, the dark.

Out there a clutch of the future warms
under the press and nestle of feathers.
The hours heat my lap, word by word,
as my fingers peck. She waits it out,
I type on, both of us tuned for a crack,
the moment when something opens.


*Andrea Porter’s collection A Season of Small Insanities is published by Salt. She is also a member of The Joy of Six Poetry group. She has completed one novel and is up to her eyes in the next.




To Melissa Who Complains about Being the Youngest

They say the blossoms are more beautiful this year

because, though winter dragged, a slow spring saved them from

the frost. Like you, they’d waited in the dark so long

perhaps they doubted that their cue would ever come.

But look at you now, half grown, playing in the sun,

rampant in this tree where our bright blooms celebrate

the light in pinkly fat profusion. So. Now you're here

and every blossom too, though all of you came late:

more loved for being born at last, and worth the wait.


*Jacqueline Saphra's pamphlet, Rock'n'Roll Mamma was published by Flarestack. Her first full collection, The Kitchen of Lovely Contraptions, developed with funding from the Arts Council of England, will be out from flipped eye in Summer 2011.

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Spring poems from Julia Webb and Ken Head

Oak

It was as if we had ensnared ourselves:
the way your little boy hands
pushed the acorn into the soft loam
and your face looked up to mine
with the unspoken question.
And later a green finger
pushed itself out of the earth
and you measured it year by year,
until gradually the slender stem
became entwined with the fence
and the only way to separate them
would be to take a knife and cut them apart.


*Julia Webb lives in Norwich. She has just completed an MA in Creative Writing at The University of East Anglia. She runs The Norwich Poetry Book Group, writes reviews and is working on her first collection.



Morning Glory

Moving along the  track, head full of images of buckskin-shirted
braves ghosting through ancient forests, the boy walks
into sunlight.  Swiftly, he steps behind the shadow-line, stock-still,
leaf-dappled, heart singing songs of morning in his ears.

Nothing moves, there’s no birdsong, time hangs by a thread,
like dry leaves spinning in a web as empty as the sky.
The boy watches, feels his world stop, sees rise out of the dewy
glitter, a solitary, golden-haloed hare.



* Ken Head is a regular reviewer for IS&T.  Here is his website

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Spring poems from Marcelle Olivier and Penelope Shuttle

proserpine

i eat her lungs, in a dream,
while she lies beside me. no,
not eat, but inhale out of her
body. she says: i am tired.

she says: i am tired, and then
we lie in a bed and talk, talk
nonsense – as if we knew
each other. her hair is colourless.

her hair is colourless, like bleached
scarab legs kept airless in a jar
on the windowsill; like the undreamt,
harsh memories of serotonin.

memories of serotonin flood
the cavity of her. without touching
comfort becomes papal – she
sinks into the sheets as if she loves.

as if she loves, too, the potential
of neural pathways, or the bleak mystery
of a spring famine in the horn of africa,
where the goats can graze on sand.

goats can graze on sand, still cannot
die without dreaming. when i look
at her, and when she speaks, i see
my own lips shiver. i eat her lungs.



*marcelle olivier is a South African-born writer and archaeologist living in Cambridge, UK. You can read more of her poetry in, amongst others, Oxford Poetry, New Contrast, and Carapace.



The Year Strikes the Rock

The year strikes the rock
with one spoilt-child glance, like Athene,

the world’s first olive tree
springs up, millions will follow,

their rough grey bark like lions’ tongues,
their little squab branches

striving for sky at the year’s command,
ankle-deep in poor thin dry soil.

The year is sleepless on her mother’s side,
wants to live where a lake

lies quietly under the spell of its own name,
where evening makes a quiet copy of everything,

the year wants to live in
a leaky green caravan in Cadiz

or in an attic some place
where the world won’t think of looking for her…

The year makes many an arduous journey,
one day scaling a mountain range,

the next scanning a flat mirage-ridden
monotony of sea ice,
 
now the year wears bird-feather gloves,
bluethroat, greenwing teal, swan of the tundra,

her sealskin boots are lined with caribou fur,
her cape sewn from the pelt of the arctic hare…

At night, in the tent,
by the faint shine of the lamp,
the year carves maps on tablets of walrus ivory…

Poor year, her maps are out of date before the dawn…
So what?

She knows her work is never done,
she’s a realist,

tucks all her weathers
under her humble hairy marvellous armpit,
just watch her making sunshine
from the gold of Frau Luther’s wedding ring.




* Penelope Shuttle's
last collection Redgrove’s Wife
(Bloodaxe Books,
2006), was shortlisted for both the Forward Prize and T.S. Eliot Prize.
Her latest collection is Sandgrain and
Hourglass
(Bloodaxe Books,
2010).






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Joanna Guthrie's 'Home'

Home

I offer to cook you an egg, at least:
that’s something I can do. Okay
you say, the bent nape of your neck facing me
your thinking fingers searching over the keyboard.

So I find a pan, let water pour in
thumb the lighter
to light the heat
so the water can set to rising.

The gas flame floats like bluebells.
It is quiet and luminous
outside, the leaves are nearly ready, dipping
in crinkled discs, still damp, settling in

for the long season. I take an egg from the box
lower it in and burn my thumb
the egg tumbles and thumps the pan’s edges –
the water fizzes slightly around its turn.

Beyond here there’ll be lambs
tottering on spotless flares
butting her for milk
and on the lanes, frogs squashed to tracing-paper

their legs a dry curl.
The lambs will spring four feet clear from the grass
with the shock of the land, the crows will fly low
so the lambs turn their heads. The fields will be greening.

The egg knocks against the pan.
The house ticks over.

You quarter the egg later and its yolk
the yolk of this egg alone
is a yellow of gorse, of dandelion, of the centre of sun
and you eat it on bread, in the afternoon, in this quiet.




*Joanna Guthrie’s Billack’s Bones was published by Rialto in 2007; “her remarkable first collection cuts across accepted and expected boundaries and dimensions, directing us towards a physical world of overlooked riches.” – Ambit.  She is currently completing Hurricane Season a book about the Florida Keys.

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