Shoes

I do not possess lots of shoes,
my last pair sufficed all my needs
for several years,
just those, and Wellingtons mean there is
little chance for anybody else,
even if they want to be,
in my shoes.

Once when officially sized,
I went home with leather uppers and
a compass in the sole,
safe in the knowledge that I would always
be able to find my way home,
except I couldn’t,
in my shoes.
My brother’s shoes would fit,
they always did at some point in
my development,
by then I would ensure that the soles
were split or puncture them,
so I didn’t have to,
wear his shoes.
Once a dear friend of mine,
who had been drinking
beyond control,
got up semi conscious and put
on his wife’s stilettos by mistake,
he fell down the stairs,
in her shoes
I’ve met people occasionally,
and thought how wonderful their
life must be,
seeing only the façade that they wish to reveal
that can be misleading,
and I’d think I’d like to be,
in their shoes.
Shoes are a funny thing,
that we may want to wear someone else’s
or they yours,
until we walk behind our first impressions
and find we don’t exactly fit,
how we thought,
into their shoes.

© Simon Bridges

This poem was published in the Poetry Space Showcase in August 2010.
Simon later went on to publish a book Sepia and Silence (Matador) and you can buy it through the Poetry Space online shop.

I am a beautiful woman, walking

        along a river, along a beach, over a bridge,

my feet crunching on stones and sand, making

gentle thuds as they connect with the earth.

I am a beautiful woman, walking.

I choose to survive,

I am honouring my ancestors:

the beautiful women who walk with me.

I think of warrior women, walking

I think of wise women, walking

I think of strong women, walking.

For years I have not known who I am.

Now, I find answers in the arc of a duck’s wing as it

takes flight,  in a seagull’s throat as it chokes out its cry,

in the sunshine on my back, the glass-glitter of water.

I find answers in the rhythm of walking:

along a river, along a beach, over a bridge.

I am the past and the present and the future.

I am a beautiful woman walking, honouring

my ancestors, myself, my children, the future

warrior women, listening to the sound of the sea

and the timeless rhythm of feet.

© Louisa Adjoa Parker 

The above poem was published on the Poetry Space website in November 2009 when I was still publishing monthly selections of poems and before Poetry Space became a company. This was to happen in February 2010. I was very pleased though that even at this stage Poetry Space was attracting a high standard of submission. This exceptional one by Louisa Adjoa Parker later found its ways into Collage, the best of Poetry Space 2010 which included all the poems from our first year alongside the winning and highly commended poems from Poetry Space Competition 2010, judged by Philip Lyons.

Tree on the Drostdy Lawns

Perhaps you will cast down only

whatever it is you want to,

whatever it is you need to cast down:

moths and manna, coins, rain and silver goblets,

your roots aching with that elemental

longing of a child’s outstretched arms,

pulling in, holding on, needing.

Perhaps your sky is hot, or misted cool,

or only really there when the weather

moves, when you too are cast down beneath it,

clouded in leaves, twigs, branches, birds.

Perhaps my roots and yours, my gifts

and yours, my span and yours are one;

perhaps, after all, we’re the same.

© Harry Owen

Highly commended in Poetry Space Competition 2011

From Green Spaces anthology published by Poetry Space Ltd, 2011

The anthology contains the winning and commended poems from Poetry Space Competition 2011, chosen by Rose Flint.

The Kindness of Strangers

I

Pete cuts my bread roll

butters it, and

spreads the marmalade.

I expect you’re not supposed to do this, I say.

No, but... I think

If it was me

I would want someone to do it for me.

My eyes fill,

tears run down my face,

and drip onto my plate.

Pete looks so anxious - that I lie

 I’m fine, I say

It’s just the pain in my arm.

He moves on to the next bed.

I cried - because

this man I do not know

was kind to me.

II

My Weetabix comes in a plastic bowl,

the yellow wrapper bright and shiny.

Brenda unwraps it for me.

I went to town on Friday, she confides,

and bought some new boots.

Milk is sloshed onto the Weetabix

islands marooned in a white sea.

They’re brown suede

and have lovely stitching ‘round the top.

I nod

Got them cheap I did ‘cos they were last year’s style,

they couldn’t sell them - too tight they were on people’s calves.

I’ve got lovely slim calves, she says

raising the hem of her uniform to show me.

They’ve got furry lining

so I won’t have to wear tights with them.

I start spooning my cereal - now sloppy

in its white disposable bowl.

Tea or coffee? Brenda asks me

wielding the giant teapot over the cups

Tea, I say.

Half price they were, she continues, a real bargain.

She looks pleased.

Brenda stirs my tea for me,

and places it in reach

You’re trouble you are, she says - and winks.

She moves her trolley on to the next bed

Tea or coffee?

© Sylvia Perry

From A Kindness, published by Poetry Space Ltd in 2013

Footnote: The ward domestics – “Pete” and “Brenda” 

Bosom Friends

                             

                        From Saigon’s bright bustling

                        into an Aladdin’s cave,

                        shelves of silk in strata

                        of sapphire, emerald, ruby.

                                

She flows soft rivers through her arms,

across the rush-matted floor

over my shoulders

hands dancing

framing me with chosen fabric.

Sweat sequins her brow

jet eyes twinkle beside

an ebony fall of hair.

A bonsai woman with twiglike arms

tiny trunk, swaying

in an imperceptible breeze

slim legs

two downward strokes

of a calligrapher’s brush.

I dwarf her.

She clambers onto a stool

calling figures to an assistant,                                      

passes the tape around me

across my bust - looks at the number

hesitates

checks.

Our eyes meet -

words rustling like leaves

she says, Nice big titties!

cups them in miniature fingers.

I’d rather be your size, I reply

and we laugh and hug.

                       ©  Margaret Eddershaw

From Catching Light by Margaret Eddershaw, published in 2013 by Poetry Space Ltd

More information

Aubade

There is a moment when the song begins,

when light peels back the darkness and I sing,

when leaf by leaf the tree assumes its shape,

when I reclaim my throne within its crown.

I sing because the lifeforce tells me to,

because there is so little time to sing,

because my heart is full and fit to burst,

because… because I must, because I can.

You wake to hear me, drowsing in your bed.

You wake and think of how you woke before,

awake in darkness, everything quite still,

awake and waiting for the night to end.

You fall asleep and I become your dream,

become the music you are following,

become a forest where a river flows,

become a glade where you can rest at last.

There is a moment when the song begins.

© Philip Lyons

From Like It Is, published by Poetry Space Ltd, 2011

Shades of Midnight in Summer

The moon

illuminates the edges of clouds

in the darkness

Silence fills the night

except for faint cricket sounds

continuously in rhythm

Stars twinkle

deep in the dark blue sky

Silhouettes of trees outline the horizon

A warm breeze flows

gently in the air

Heat rising from the ground

Smell of freshly cut grass

The aroma of eucalyptus leaves

Scent the air

The last bird calls

were three hours ago

Shades of Midnight in Summer

© Richard Bell

Published in Poetry Space online showcase - November 2011