Kitchen Alchemy
It is time to brew potions with sticky hands
feel for that plumpness which spells pick me,
pluck berries that stain lips, bruise fingertips
reach for the big pan, the one on the shelf
at the back of the cupboard, in the pantry,
time for the alchemy of the rolling boil,
for incanting Grandma’s chutney spells,
stir soups with wooden spoon. Time to forage,
cut back, bottle, freeze for those dull half-lit days
harvest the season in its proper time,
ready for the next, with you in its flow.
Flight
I imagined sitting on the roof
with hands no longer over my ears
always about to drop off
when through the wall
bullet voices exploded, stuttered
crabs snapped at each other
with codependent claws
the roof was peace wrapped in velvet
ready to fly with snoop-cat under my arm
winking our wingtips like aeroplanes
feeling the moon-pull us loop de loop
till we were ready to come back down
gently onto the cherry tree
in its full ball-gown pink
landing in silk tassel grass
that slid through your fingers
tickled your knees
as we sneaked back to bed
a trail of petals floating from our fur
they were still at it of course.
Fair Exchange
You lent me favours
paid me compliments
slipped your arm through mine
said I tipped you the wink
but it was just dust in my eye
the warmth I have for those I like
- and you the dealer of kisses
thought you could steal one
until I dinted your pride
I told you after the dine
and wine that I bat
for the other side.
It’s in the Words
words like succulence
tumescence, moistness
ripe, plump
ones that ripple off lips
smooth silky.
Yes that’s it,
but
say them softly sibilantly
sslowly
- let them ooze linger
on the tongue
juicily, tooty-fruitily
whisper them
closely
play those consonants
like strings
pluck them
pizzicato
utter them
stutter them
urgent hot tight
taste words like berries
fondle them in your mouth
till they burst.
Apple
Bite said he
I might said she
You’ve a right said he
I mustn’t said she
Trust said he
Just one said she
Mmmmm said she
Must share said she
Munch said she
Crunch said he
Again said she
Yum said he
NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF MY GARDEN
Deva
Lipstick mouth, sex-pot, hot-spot, painted pout. Plucks her strings pizzicato. Quattro Stagioni under lamplight, quick as rain diamonds spattering the pavements. This is her serenade, her swansong-abandon-moment. Her only audience - night’s echo. Her hair-fall cascades through winter, spring, summer mind-dives with swifts, makes careful footprints in snow, scoops gulps of sweetness with every crescendo, glissando; scoops it into the blossom purse she keeps beneath her ribs, between her thighs.
Overture and Praise-singers
I enter Iona with an, eek she's here!
as a guillemot tucks its inky nib
beneath the waves
saunter through overtures of sparrow cheeps
tsee tsee twisks and tooth comb rasps
filter up from marsh grass
a pair of reed buntings skitter by
him, in his black and white suit
her, in dowdy brown tweed.
On this lacuna of time suspension
even crows whistle while they work
geese graze and chuckle.
In the abbey cloister starlings chat, peck
squeeze into corbel crannies
a flock of sanctimonious white doves
flap holy wings to the heavenly heights
of St Columba's bell tower
slip through its pearly bars.
On fine tooth comb – corncrake apparently
day and night their raspy chorus
threads waves and dark in never-ending praise.
* note
www.rachaelclyne.com
‘Clyne’s poems are as earthy, rich, feral as the landscapes she writes about. Woven through all of them is the theme of digging to the bedrock, the bones – of human, of land. Her concerns are territory, boundaries, fences – and how we might slip through the wires. At times, as in the final poem, she achieves a near-shapeshift before our eyes.’ Roselle Angwin