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CAUGHT IN THE NET 195 - POETRY BY LYNDA TURBET
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|
Their minds slip
through my hands.
I cannot catch
these butterflies, pin
them to the page.
I flex my net;
homework, I say:
five references
to creatures
in the text;
explain why.
from Last Lesson by Lynda Turbet |
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CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 - POETRY
DANGER
IF LIFES A LOUSY PICTURE WHY NOT LEAVE BEFORE THE END
LAST LESSON
A GREEN THOUGHT IN A GREEN SHADE
WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE
INSTRUCTIONS FOR A JOURNEY CROSSING PLACES 60 DEGREES NORTH
MAWKIN
SAMHAIN
|
3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY
4 - AFTERWORD
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1 BIOGRAPHY: Lynda Turbet
After decades teaching in Yorkshire and NE Scotland, experiences which now
inform her poetry, Lynda Turbet now observes the world from rural Norfolk,
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2 - POETRY
Danger
how many
times were they
a hands
length from disaster -
caught
before some fatal fall
from wall or
stairwell, dragged
from cliff
or pavement brink -
the
treacherous pan of soup
the branding
iron, neglected fire
intent on
causing grief?
so easy then
to recognise catastrophe
intercept,
grip harder, act;
you learn
you cant
avert
the broken
bones and hearts,
snatch them
safe from pain;
release is
hard: you feel
their
trustful fingers in your palm
like scars
from skirmishes survived
calloused by
years. Danger
enjoys its
game of hide and seek -
we play, we
win, we lose: we cant
avoid
the twisted
metal, strangers
knife,
the slow
creep of mutant cells.
If
lifes
a lousy picture, why not leave before the end
Roger McGough
Id
like have the guts to go
with Thelma&Louise
engine revving
tyres spinning
over the cliff
one last joyful woohoo
of I am
or Butch&Sundance
running into sunlight
bullets and stars -
or even Captain Ahab
dragged by rubber destiny
defiant to the last.
Id
like to say
play it again
or believe
I frankly dont
give a damn
meet high noon
guns blazing
but its
likely to be
a
botched
Italian Job
teetering on the edge
before
the fall
or carry on regardless
looking on the bright side of life.
Last Lesson
They
sprawl, listless, eye
the torpid clock,
slack
pens slumped on sweaty paper,
tired
of words.
A low
drone penetrates our stupor,
fat,
familiar; a single barbed invader
circles the scene.
The
classroom hums alive: they duck,
flap,
flick manes like restless ponies
bothered by flies.
Macbeth attacks, his
victim
smeared across the cover
badged
with blood.
Unsettled, skittish, they call time
on
Shakespeare's Scotland,
itch
for phones and
friends.
Their
minds slip through my hands.
I
cannot catch these butterflies,
pin
them to the page.
I flex
my net; homework, I say:
five
references to creatures
in the text;
explain why.
Their
voices buzz, a thickening swarm
gathers for release; the bell
an
open window.
A Green Thought in a Green Shade
Sent from under her feet
you wear the colander,
a helmet in the sun.
Thick smells of compost
follow the baked brick path,
wind past wigwams
drooping crimson blooms,
to netted bamboo canes
for clambering shoots.
Pods bulge;
their fatness fills your hand.
First, the satisfying pop
of break and enter -then
slit with grubby thumb; strip
the sweet spoils nestled snug,
aligned in size. Pale globes
roll on your tongue. Your world
is midday heat, the scent of mint,
white butterflies, green peas.
I am releasing my garden
into the wild. Look -
the ivy scuttles up the walnut tree
patters through branches
where pigeons bounce;
the wayward hedge unchecked
opens to blackbirds
nests,
gauzy fennel waves bronze fronds
brushes the window, bold.
Feverfew runs rampant
lemon balm spreads its bed
embraces thyme, promiscuous.
I let forget-me-nots alone
to find their place, permit
old rosemary to thrive unpruned,
wait to see what freedom holds.
I scatter seeds to make amends -
poppy, campion, mallow, scabious -
apologies for harsher discipline
pressed on damp earth.
The swifts return like promises,
whistle in whirring clusters, rise
like shot arrows into squinting blue.
Instructions for a Journey
Drive north until land runs
out,
peat stacks black to the
west,
turbines striding across
bleak moor
and straths cleared of
crofts where
starved children crammed
their mouths
with cockles, raw from the
rocks. But
don't linger - you must
board the evening ferry.
Check the tides before you
eat;
the Pentland Firth is
merciless, for
under the churning waves
a sea-witch labours, works
the mill,
grinds salt to feed the
seas, so
stay on deck. Watch the
light change,
the dark hump of Hoy, The
Old Man
a sign youre
almost there. Puffins
skim over foam, follow the
wake,
dive in a blur of colour.
Gulls circle,
scream you into harbour,
when
you breathe a different
air, feel
the pull of something
other.
Names taste unfamiliar in
your mouth,
as bere-meal bannock will:
Brodgar, Isbister, Quoyloo,
Stenness.
Disembark. Start your
journey.
Crossing Places
I
am drawn to the
edges of place -
heads,
points, spits - the merge and meld
of
margins, blur of shingle,
sand
in shifting dunes of marram grass
sliding to meet the sea
arms
that stretch out fingers,
clutch at breakers
hold
stubbornly to land,
refuse to leave;
the
lure of tidal islands
wave-washed tracks,
man-made causeways, ground
that won't let go.
Once,
we walked to Hunga
-
Dog Island
to the Vikings -
by-passed a farm, skirted a frantic collie,
out
into Scapa Flow.
Sheep
and feral goats
cropped rough grazing.
A
single track hooped the rim,
sheer
to the furrowed
beach,
and on the wind an eerie
rise and fall:
a choir of basking seals
like
scattered boulders
came
alive
from
smooth-slapped rocks
turned human faces to the
sun
sang
like drowned souls, wailing loss
forever trapped in unfound wrecks
no
crossing-place to guide them back to land.
60 Degrees
North
Mousa Sound,
Shetland
Once I slept
in a box bed
(too small
for comfort)
lay beside Helsinki, St. Petersburg,
Ottawa,
snug under
blankets of knitted squares,
watched
peats glow through wooden doors.
Baskets of
yarn in island dyes
of lichen,
bedstraw, woad and weld
drew shadow
patterns in the flickering light.
My pillow
smelled of smoke.
After
supper, I watched storm petrels -
dark
wishbones in the dusk -
skim home
across the Sound
the distant
broch louring black
with
secrets. Next day, I woke to sun,
six seals on
the stony beach
oatmeal
porridge made with salt,
the box bed
doors open
to someone
elses story.
Mawkin
Then, just before sleep,
you remember the brown felt hat
jammed on a straw-stuffed
sack,
neck tight with orange twine;
picture the drunken grin,
eyes,
nose black smears.
Crucified, he stands in
fresh-turned furrows
shredded jacket flaps
rags
from branching arms.
Ribbons of plastic fingers snatch the wind.
By day, birds settle, unafraid.
By night, uprooted, he rattles
moonlit bones over fields
way-marked by scattered flints,
leaps hedges, dykes, drains. You wait
for the scrape on the window pane,
the click of dry sticks on a wooden stair,
the smothering smell of earth, the face
close, closer, closing on your own.
Samhain
After dark, the guisers come
turnip lanterns grinning at the door.
Emboldened by the mask
brash painted faces menace
alien to themselves.
Tonight theres
licence in the air.
Later, stillness wraps the street,
the black sky clear, the year
balanced; solstice and equinox
pull taut, the night liminal,
thin between two worlds.
Hold the hour like a brimming cup,
the surface ripples with a breath.
Open both doors. Leave bread and salt.
Light candles; lay an extra place.
3 - Publishing history
INSTRUCTIONS FOR A JOURNEY - published in the anthology, Places of Poetry
CROSSING PLACES - winner, Red Shed
Open Poetry Competition
60 DEGREES NORTH - published in Not Very Quiet
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4 - Afterword
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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