POETRY CLUB

We held the second poetry club on Tuesday 25th Feb; I was hosting, sort of, unfortunately

At the moment, I'm having a tough time coming off Ropinirole, so it wasn't the best. However, I certainly enjoyed the company, and thank our two Irish lads, Jarlath and William,

our honorary Brit Alice, and our friend Jim.

Below is the agenda; please have a look.

what do each of us think Poetry is,

Think of an informative response to the well known phrase,

‘I just don’t get it!’ (poetry)

Opinions on reading out, presenting, acting, to give our words a bit of oomph

CONTEMPORARY BRITISH POETRY

Jar of Honey by Jacob Polley

You hold it like a lit bulb,

a pound of light,

and swivel the stunned glow

around the fat glass sides:

it's the sun, all flesh

and no bones

but for the floating

knuckle of honeycomb.

Swimming in the Wood by Robin Robertson

Her long body in the spangled shade of the wood

was a swimmer moving through a pool:

fractal, finned by leaf and light;

the loose plates of lozenge and rhombus

wobbling coins of sunlight, heat-wavering.

When she stopped, the water stopped,

and the sun remade her as a tree,

banded and freckled and foxed.

Besieged by symmetries, condemned

to these patterns of love and loss,

I stare at the wet shape on the tiles

till it fades. When she came and sat next to me

after her swim, then walked away

back to the trees, she left a dark butterfly.

The Kaleidoscope by Douglas Dunn

To climb these stairs again, bearing a tray,

Might be to find you pillowed with your books,

Your inventories listing gowns and frocks

As if preparing for a holiday.

Or, turning from the landing, I might find

My presence watched through your kaleidoscope,

A symmetry of husbands, each redesigned

In lovely forms of foresight, prayer and hope.

I climb these stairs a dozen times a day

And, by the open door, wait, looking in

At where you died. My hands become a tray

Offering me, my flesh, my soul, my skin.

Grief wrongs us so. I stand, and wait, and cry

For the absurd forgiveness, not knowing why.