Presence in her absence

One of the highlights of 2019 for me was having a poem Highly Commended in the RS Thomas Festival Competition, held at Eglwysfach in September.
The anthology of this year's competition poems has just been published.  Judges were former National Poet of Wales Gillian Clarke and Prof Tony Brown (Bangor University).
I was astounded by Prof Brown's comments on my poem in the introduction to the anthology. Among his points: "I was indeed reminded of the way a 'metaphysical' poet like Donne explores the emotional implications of an image." 
And: "There is a fine sense of the shifts of love here, in the slow movement, the flow and drift of the water and a moment which, in responding directly to 'Seventieth Birthday', would not have been out of place in a poem by RS himself...  And that pun on 'reflection' -- one RS uses more than once -- again shows real, thoughful engagement with his imaginitive world. But this is not in any way to suggest mere imitation: this poet has her own voice." 
Wow, gee, thanks!

If the timing had worked out I would have included this poem in my second collection 'Breakfast in Bed', in which I gathered many poems about love in all its forms (Indigo Dreams Publishing 2019). But that book went to press just before the competition.

Below is the Highly Commended poem. I used the competition prompt as the epigraph.

 

Presence in her absence

I lean far out from the bone’s bough

knowing the hand I extend

can save nothing of you but your love.

(from ‘Seventieth Birthday’, RS Thomas)

You are as two trees on the shore,

boughs engaged over water,

roots entangled through comfortable earth

and beyond, into the lake that holds

the depths of both of you.

Her currents are yours and yours are hers,

flowing in mutual quiet beneath silvered ripples.

She drifts into you and out, and back.

While you contemplate final separation,

if you offer your hand, she will take it.

As trees become still and the lake surface calms

to allow true reflection

you will feel her presence in your silence,

and you will no longer suspend your breath.

Inspirations, the 2019 RS Thomas Festival Competition anthology is published by Einion Books, Machynlleth.

Breakfast in Bed, info and ordering details:
https://www.indigodreams.co.uk/jackie-biggs/4594692749

Breakfast in Bed

I am tempted today to invite people to come and enjoy ‘Breakfast in Bed’ with me, but I’m not that bold, although some of the poems in my new book are quite bold – and I will be reading some of them out at various events over the next few months.

I’m delighted that my second poetry collection, ‘Breakfast in Bed’ is published today by Indigo Dreams Publishing.

The first poem in the book (see below) invites the reader to spend an hour or so adrift …  contemplating and reflecting on many ideas and feelings around the idea of ‘love’.

This is from the back cover:

‘Love arrives in an array of flavours, scents and colours. Taste it in food and nature: in honey, ice-cream-sundae, salt of the sea, fresh ripe strawberries.  Explore the love of a small child for her parents, a mother for a lost baby, a family for their father. Romance and eroticism, love for self, feelings encountered when love is lost, withheld or twisted are here to experience too.’

For more information about the book, including generous endorsements from writing colleagues Maggie Harris and Kaite O’Reilly, see the publisher’s website: https://www.indigodreams.co.uk/jackie-biggs/4594692749

Copies are available mail order from them, or direct from me at readings.  My main launch event is on Wednesday, October 16^th, at The Cellar Bar, Cardigan SA43 1HU. 7.30pm to 9pm. Free entry and delicious nibbles. All welcome.

The new collection begins:

Alone and together

A city that snares

slow rhythms

(Federico Garcia Lorca)

A river flows through

afternoon’s slow heat,

Lorca’s pace

                (together and alone

                juntos y solo)

babble at café tables

rises and drops into shadow

by the waterside

sun falls through trees,

the flicker of fresh leaves

in green spring

                (solo y juntos

                alone and together)

wine is red, time is yellow

the rhythm of the river is ours

for this hour adrift

Poem for Mark

We've lost a few good friends recently. This one was especially shocking and sad. Actor, director, poet and performer Mark Montinaro died on August 2nd, aged only 59. A tragic loss. His many friends and lovely family read poetry and tributes to Mark at the wake at the Dylan Thomas Boathouse in Laugharne, where he had performed so many of Thomas's pieces to critical acclaim. As I listened the words for my own tribute to Mark began to come. This is the poem I wrote afterwards.

Moments

i.m Mark Montinaro

We sat easy in the chairs in the parlour

of Dylan’s old Boathouse home

one summer Saturday

as the sea slid dark over the reaching sands below.

We chatted our comfy evening away

talking poetry, forms and frailties

and rhythm, assonance and rhyme,

just Jonathan, you, Dave and me.

And we met on my winter birthday walk

in the puddled street  beneath the Castle wall

on a dreek and windy weekday afternoon;

and again we chinwagged poetry

while rain plastered hair to our faces

and stung our eyes.

Your words rang out many nights

in the Cellar Bar, your voice large and full

to the corners of the blackdowned room.

You travelled all the way to Aberystwyth

to support our Rockhopper set on ‘time’,

and even again we prattled on poetry

and performance skills over coffee in the Arts Centre  bar;

and at our gig on Spoken Word Saturday

you were pleased to introduce me to your lovely Mam,

so proud, you and her, both together.

Now you are gone, so fast and so soon

and I listen to poets read their words about you

from the time-honoured Boathouse steps

and even more     your mother’s face

shows her pride in you.

And over and under all their voices

I hear oystercatchers keening

and curlews calling the tide

as the waters spill over

and fill the foreshore of this timeless

limitless bay.

Small change

I wrote this on a recent visit to London. It's published on the website I am not a silent poet, along with much other poetry about issues of abuse of all kinds. See link below.

Small change

When you give a beggar a coin,

a pound dropped into

a ragged cardboard coffee cup,

do you feel good?

When the guy looks at you,

nods unkempt gratefulness

for your little gift,

your small change,

does it make you feel better?

When you sit with your

fat £3 a go Americano

and carrot cake on a china plate

do you wonder how he came to be

a beggar on the ground

outside the underground station?

See his tent, there,

just under the bridge.

You think, at least he has a tent,

it looks sound.

He’s better off than those

who lie on cardboard sheets

in parks and shabby doorways.

And as you eat salmon and avocado

in a restaurant by the theatre

before going to see a drama on the stage

do you wonder how

he’ll spend your pound?

Tea, coffee, cider?

You give small change,

does it make you feel better?

And there’s another,

wrapped in a wornout blanket

on the bridge, cup in hand.

You give another £1.

And as you tuck into dessert,

your favourite strawberry tart,

you think of

a woman on the bridge

holding out her empty palm

no cup

skin brown with streetlife.

You put two fifties into her hand.

And you pay £15 to see

an exhibition of photos

by Don McCullin of 50 years

of war and poverty around the world

where you see pictures of

homeless men in 1970s England

asleep, standing up, capped heads lolling,

because there was nowhere to lie down.

And here’s another today,

along the side of Southbank centre,

in a doorway.

You drop the rest of your silver coins

on his sleeping bag,

before you go into the warm concert hall.

Big problem.

 


https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/