Grant Me This - for #nationalpoetryday

I was asked to be one of the #BBCLocalPoets - for #Cambridgeshire - to compose a new #poem as if from the point of view of a local landmark or geographical feature of the area.

After putting it out to people via social media, the one feature that came out again and again was that of the river (in various different ways - as visual feature, bridge-bearer, punt-vehicle, houseboat-home, wildlife-habitat, etc.) and, as it stretches across the whole county, it seemed a good way to celebrate and inhabit the character of the county (bearing in mind that the poem needed to be less than two minutes long and "not political").

It was recorded yesterday, down by the Chesterton Road stretch of the river, and you can see/ hear me read it (somewhat creakily - this is my fifth week of severe laryngitis) here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p04b4cpv



I also went on breakfast radio to be interviewed and to perform some of it live in the studio. I am not a mornings person. It was interesting... :)

(If you want to hear what I sound like early in the morning with laryngitis, check out this link http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0482z92 - the segment starts at 01:46:55)

Full text below - enjoy! :D  (Credit needs to be given to Carla Keen for the line "Catch, catch, catch..." which I heartlessly stole from a beautiful poem she wrote about her love of rowing.)

Grant Me This

Birthed beyond borders,
I rise in the west,
Scrawl a course
Of eccentric penstrokes
Across this palimpsest.
With my sisters
I weave a drench of memories,
Stretching to the new day's edge.

I have carried you
On my broad back -
Gambolling new beginnings,
Fleece, stone, and corn meal,
Vellum and sand,
Two-tongued, poling solo,
Always with a weather eye
To the next angle.

You have inscribed me,
Drawing me deep into histories,
Gleaming lines sighing,
Igniting visions, lingering
In civilisation's litanies
For those who came before
And all who dream of
Divining mysteries.

I was named backwards,
Shaped by the town
Around which I curve,
A cupped palm,
A charm of siren sounds,
Enclosed and disclosing,
Ringing with myriad bell-tongues
Flooding this rich ground.

Cast me between walls
And I surge and curvette,
Beckon evolution's remedies and
Ambition's gravity,
Leaning into the gradient of Best,
Cresting sly wins at the
Narrowest of passes -
On your marks, get set.

I creak in the mornings -

Gasp and echo the endless
Catch, catch, catch…
Scratching glory etched deep
In the clutch and pull of legs,
Mist-rimed breaths, swelling shoulders,
Cold noses, and warm hearts,
Regardless of your team's net.

In the evening I chug,
Bank-huggers making fragrances
Of home - curtained and potted,
Dot-and-carry dance partners,
These happy-anchored vagrants,
Swaying, framed in gold paint,
Named for the way I spell freedom,
And tomorrow's chances

Your ancestors built me steps,
Bedecked me with loving chains,
Cross-stitching me with sighs and pigsties,
While monarchs, mathematics,
And dragons all stake their claims
As I stride on, lop-sided,
A reminder that, together,
We have made a grace of strangeness.

Tell Me

Wrote this on National Poetry Day during an open mic at Anglia Ruskin featuring Daisy TG. It comprises elements of everything I heard this evening.

Tell Me

We started undone,
Uncovering ourselves in uncertain light,
Inviting bruises,
Perusing paths, tendrilling.

We explore the empty shell
Echoing around the bright, forgotten core.
Sprinkle us with petals, regretless
Of the scars that clasp us.

Hear us, we are lost, disconnected
From the reflected warmth of open palms.
Listen to the glittering darkness,
Spinning along inked-in fault lines.

We have found gaps between
Sweetness and verity, laughing it off,
Because we've got this -
Blistering our fingers on the frigid distance
Between here and the stars,
Hearkening to the shards of hearts,
Gasping in songs of guts
And final calls,
Beating the fade to black.

Harmonies tug us,
A suspension web, deft connections.
Our road goes ever on, but
Ultimately diverging, emerging from the mist.

We are our own lines,
A mighty vibration taking us
Into mythology - ash-born,
Walking on coals, rolling our tongues
Over notions of hell,
Beckoning escapes from age.

Make your choices, raise your voices.
Ask.
Don't Stop.