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CAUGHT IN THE NET 192 - POETRY BY CLAIR CHILVERS
Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit -
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A stroll in the Fellows’ garden
planted in diamonds of blue and silver
dinner by candle-light.
Fire alarm late at night
tumble down the stairs, half-asleep
a woman in silk kimono, jewelled slippers.
from Fragments by Clair Chilvers |
CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
THE FOUNDLING
UNIFORM FOR A UNICORN
FRAGMENTS
THE VIRGIN AND THE CRESCENT MOON
THE BADGER
GREY
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3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY
4 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY: Clair Chilvers
Clair Chilvers lives in Cheltenham, UK. Her poems have been published in
online and print journals.
She
won 2nd prize in the Poetry Kit Ekphrastic Competition 2020 and was
highly commended
in
the Poetry Kit Autumn Competition 2020 and longlisted for the Cinnamon Press
Pamphlet Competition 2020.
Recent publications can be found in Agenda, Impspired, Sarasvati, Apex, The
Journal, Ink Sweat and Tears, Reach Poetry.
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2 - POETRY
THE FOUNDLING
I was born, yet not born,
arrived on the doorstep on a dark night.
The angels put me down, blew a kiss,
and went off to do whatever angels do on Saturday night.
They found me in the morning of course
when they opened the kitchen door
to let the King in after his night out.
He hadn’t met the angels, different pubs I guess.
They didn’t know what to do with me
didn’t want to call the cops
in case they found the loot in the loft.
Decided to wait until they’d tidied up, moved it on.
That I could stay till then.
Of course that day never came.
It wouldn’t, would it
whatever was moved on was replaced.
So I grew up but I knew about the angels;
they came by once in a while
to check I was ok
to check my wings hadn’t grown yet.
UNIFORM FOR A UNICORN
A well-bred unicorn must go to school
to the school for unicorns
in the forest far from home
where the foundlings live
delivered by the angels.
She must have a uniform
from the unicorns’ uniform shop
in the shady dell by the stream
where spirits congregate at night
and elves sit on leaves
to sew her school clothes
so that she will look like all the other unicorns.
FRAGMENTS
A punt on the Cherwell
moored under willows
cool wine in the shallows.
Chinese food, an Elvis movie
climb into Christ Church
Sunday morning dew on the Meadows.
A stroll in the Fellows’ garden
planted in diamonds of blue and silver
dinner by candle-light.
Fire alarm late at night
tumble down the stairs, half-asleep
a woman in silk kimono, jewelled slippers.
Summertown Bed and Breakfast
the single bed so worn
it had a hollow in the middle.
A paper at Green College,
dinner overlooking the Observatory
the last memory of my love.
YORKSHIRE AIR
Across the river from a car park,
the gallery, all hard edges and angles,
built over a weir so spectacular
a window floor to ceiling
captures it, soundless.
Her models for the sculptures, plaster, life size
rather than Lilliputian maquettes.
The lives intertwined
linked by a common birthplace
Hepworth, Moore, Hockney
something about Yorkshire air.
In another room Miller's photographs
of Moore and undazzled children.
Afterwards we walk through the town
to the cathedral
to see the great Kempe windows
passing foreign food shops,
people speaking other languages,
poverty, pound shops,
then the cathedral steps
and inside a labyrinth.
Eight boys sing evensong.
THE VIRGIN AND THE CRESCENT MOON
After Albrecht Durer: The Virgin on the Crescent Moon. (1510-11)
She sits within a starburst
on a crescent moon
the Child in her arms
her gaze intent, eyes lowered
The rich drapery of her dress
her necklace and the tasseled cushion
are far from the stable, the manger
Another moon-seated woman
swings her leg seductively
in a fifties musical
and wonders whether there is a future
CYNARA SCALYMUS
Incongruous in a herbaceous border
an artichoke stands proudly.
The cruel thistle leaves pale green
against the dark, damp, Devon soil
the stem sturdy, woody
the globes with their triangular petals
densely packed.
A cook would say that it had gone to seed.
But no, the purple flower, spiky
as a punk's haircut,
is a wonder for a day or two
until it darkens and dies back
to a quieter shape.
Too late to pluck these globes to eat.
I imagine boiling them for twenty minutes
dipping each leaf in melted butter
my teeth stripping off the inner softness
Then saving the best ‘til last
cutting out the soft spikes from the heart
to eat the tender flesh.
THE BADGER
I drive along the lane, not far from town,
to my house, where my lover will come,
one day, when he is ready.
The lane unfamiliar
I struggle a little to find the way
then come to houses
dark shadows set back
and in the middle of the road a badger
unmistakable in his grey striped coat
unhurried, crosses the lane,
pulls me up short from my reverie
of a future that hasn’t quite come.
GREY
Wet London pavements
reflect streetlamps at four o'clock.
The Solent lumpy,
leaden clouds brush the sea.
Yachts with reefed sails
hurry to Cowes, Southampton Water.
The shingle shore at Welcombe Mouth
pale pebbles marbled dirty white.
I pick one up for my collection.
The wedding dress I should have bought
a column of cold grey chiffon
more prescient than red velvet.
RESTLESS NIGHTS
In the still darkness
when the church clock strikes three
when all the world sleeps but me
I dwell on the past, on sins of omission or worse,
most from the years before I understood
that what the world thinks does not matter;
what I think seals the divide
between repose and remorse.
Today I read the Letter of John,
words well known from the liturgy,
a way at last to face the past,
acknowledge wrongs done, hurt caused,
then leave them like mists
wrap
EQUINOX EPIEDEMIC
The equinox is near
a feeling of relief
to have got through the winter:
through the twilit late afternoons,
the cheerlessness of cold and rain.
Last year tea and crumpets by the fire
with children, grandchildren;
friends meeting for brunch in warm cafés,
walking through the dusk to see a film.
This year is different:
a profound sense of waiting,
of nervous uncertainty,
an epidemic hovering
on the cusp of exponentiality.
Empty shelves in the shops
human interactions put on hold,
thrown back on our own resources,
pubs feel threatening, restaurants unwise,
Saturday afternoons without the match
loom long and dull.
By day we talk on zoom and skype,
change how we live and work forever.
Rusty at neighborliness
we discover the invisibles -
the old, frightened, vulnerable,
alone.
THE FOUNDLING published in Artemis 2020
UNIFORM FOR A UNICORN published in Apex 2020
FRAGMENTS published in Allegro 2020
YORKSHIRE AIR published in Sarasvati 2020
THE VIRGIN AND THE CRESCENT MOON published in The Ekphrastic Review 2019
CYNARA SCALYMUS published in Atrium 2018
GREY published in Sarasvati 2020
RESTLESS NIGHTS published in Impspired 2020
EQUINOX EPIDEMIC published in PK Plague Year Anthology 2020
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4 - Afterword
Email Poetry Kit -
info@poetrykit.org - if you would like
to tell us what you think.
We are looking for other poets to feature in
this series, and are open to submissions. Please send one poem and a short
bio to - info@poetrykit.org