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CAUGHT IN THE NET 201 -  POETRY  BY
SUE HANSARD

Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit - www.poetrykit.org
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You can join the CITN mailing list at -
http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm and following the links for Caught in the Net.

Submissions for this series of Featured poets is open, please see instruction in afterword at the foot of this mail.
 

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Then

like a flicked switch,

your blank eyes

colour

and I can almost see

your shrinking brain

processing the reds and yellows

and the softness against your fingers.

 

                 from Tulips by Sue Hansard 

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CONTENTS

1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
 

 

The Blue Beret

Dream Child

Duet

Fellwalk

First Time

MotherLovce

Tulips

Witness

Woman

You

 

3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY

4 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY:  Sue Hansard

 

Sue worked in hospice care as a Lymphoedema Nurse Specialist for 25yrs and as an independent specialist nurse for 20yrs. She retired in March this year and is looking forward to more visits to her beloved Lakeland, family time and to finally being able to focus on her writing.

 

Sue started writing poetry in the 1990’s when she studied creative writing with the National Extension College and then attended a Creative Writing group in Tamworth led by an inspirational teacher and mentor. Jenny W remains Sue’s most honest ( and skilled) critic.

 

Sue’s poetry has been published in journals: (Poetry Now, Never Bury Poetry, Pennine Ink and in The Dalesman) and in numerous anthologies, (Forward Press, Arrival Press, Pyramid Press, Triumph House). Her poem `Tulips’ was shortlisted in the annual Alzheimers’ Society (2017) competition and  `Artisan’ was runner up in the 2023 Kit Poetry competition.

 

Her academic writing has been published on- line and as patient information leaflets.  She recently completed Julia Donaldson’s `Writing for Children’ BBC online course and is a member of the Tamworth Writing group which recently took part in a Literary event at Tamworth Castle. The body of work produced by the group will soon be printed and sold in the Castle.

 

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2 - POETRY 

 

 

THE BLUE BERET

 

What kind of war is this,

that we well-trained

in battle skills,

stand on Sarajevo streets

paralysed, not by fear,

but protocol,

embodied in the Blue Beret?

To see them flee,

then fall to sniper’s fire

and lie bloodied

in their helpless agony.

 

 

 

DREAM-CHILD

 

I dreamt of you last night,

your face, your hair,

felt your breath against my cheek:

our heart's own synchrony.

 

You drank sweet milk

from my nipple as you slept

and I stroked your peach skin

and marvelled at this gift.

 

But suddenly you faded

into a world apart

and I was left, still craving

the beat of your tiny heart.

 

 

DUET

 

Now, as you stand

side- by- side,

back-lit by the new morn sun,

teasing the reeds’ sweet harmony,

I yearn to gather your notes,

thread these moments

and wear them

like strung pearls,

perfect and shining

for all to see.

 

 

FELL  WALK

 

We clamber high, through curtain pines,

step lightly over mountain ghylls.

And slip and slide on tree-root vines,

that anchor forests to the hills.

We follow crystal-laden tracks,

side-stepping cairns that lead the way,

examine frosted lichen-cracks,

and seek a place to rest and and stay.

We drink our fill of drifting peaks,

consume a meal of virgin air,

then look toward the feathered streaks,

of Winter's presence looming there.

We turn to face a steep descent,

refreshed by nature’s dewy scent.

 

 

FIRST TIME.

 

He is not so sure- footed now

picking his way

down the sea- smoothed slate,

still wet and cold

beneath the hoof.

 

A brass-plate sun,

warms his rump

and the saddle,

sweats his back

as he noses the breeze.

 

Salt spray flares his nostrils

and he champs

the bit, foaming,

and feels the sand

yield to his hesitant stride.

 

Mounted, he is taken,

sugar-cubed

and whip-kissed,

towards the white

fizzing tide.

 

Further boy! Further still!

the leather- lick urges,

but the backwash steals

his foothold

tugs his fetlocks.

 

STEADY! STEADY!

but he , wide-eyed

and snorting

rears  roller-high

stamping the froth at his heels.

 

And again he faces the swell,

mastered,though not

pliant or willing until

heel-nudged,he turns

scenting  home.

 

 

 

MOTHER LOVE

 

Beneath thorned branches,

cradled silent

by their shade,

a mother weak from searching,

crouches with her babe.

 

He suckles only comfort

from her arid breast,

as she shuns flies

impatiently waiting

her death.

 

Stark silhouette

beyond the shimmered heat,

clawing red dust

for some crumb

to eat.

 

Silent shadows

forsaken in their quest

motionless mother

dead child

at her breast.

 

 

TULIPS

 

You reach, warily.

You extend long bony fingers

and delicately

caress the flowers I have brought.

 

Your own mother’s hands

I think, not yours.

Then

like a flicked switch,

your blank eyes

colour

and I can almost see

your shrinking brain

processing the reds and yellows

and the softness against your fingers.

 

I see you

as your features soften

and a smile

transforms and animates you.

For a few garnered moments

we are  connected,

mother and daughter

and tulips…….

`Beautiful’ you whisper

and I have to agree

……..it is !

 

 

WITNESS

 

She says

she survived,

not through bravery

or luck.

 

She lives

because she refused

to be

another corpse

cast naked

in the pit

and buried deep

beneath the lies.

 

And now,

free-living

she inhales

the stench

of man's inhumanity,

and breathes life

into memories

stock-piled

like the shoes

those silenced Jews

had worn.

 

 

 

Woman

 

I never knew her,

never had the chance

to get inside

her  head,

behind her grateful smile,

inside the skin

that grasped my hand

and said

more than any words

or tears shed.

 

I never knew

the  woman in the photograph

poised, vibrant,

charming the camera

with life’s zest.

 

And I never really knew

the woman sleeping away

her last days,

sinking silently into the white,

shrinking before us

stealing her soul away.

 

 

 

 

You...

 

…should be six this Autumn

kicking leaves

and pocketing acorns.

 

You

should be brimming with excitement

counting candles

playing with friends.

 

You

should be pulling my skirt hem

demanding attention

gathered and loved.

 

You

are all these things

in my head

 

but

child of my imperfect womb

you are dead

un-named

un-held

un-known

my own

lost

love.

 

 

 

 3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY

BLUE BERET.  First Published 1994. Anthology West Midlands. Poetry Now.

 

DREAMCHILD. First published. 1997. `For the love of Poetry’ Forward Press

 

FIRST TIME first published. 1998. Poetry Today. 2002. Top 100 Poets. Forward Press

 

MOTHER LOVE. First published. 1997. Arrival Press

 

TULIPS. Competition shortlist. Alzheimer’s Society 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

Thank you for taking the time to read Caught in the Net.  Our other magazine s are Transparent Words ands Poetry Kit Magazine, which are webzines on the Poetry Kit site and this can be found at -
http://www.poetrykit.org/