Poetry Showcase for Marie Little

woman in black shirt portrait
photo by Javad Esmaeili

Another Metaphor, Unclassified

This cinema was a long time in
the making: they strengthened important 
parts, ensured just the right balance of darkness 
and light. Paid little attention to 
escape routes. Then they came in
slow messy queues, some to watch
movies, some to dance on the seats, some just to see 
if ice-creams were still served 
in intermissions.
Others stood outside too long, picking
holes in the posters, on their way 
to someone else.

Night Echoes

Everything echoes at night:
the opening of a wrapper
the crunch of stones
the breath of the wakeful. 
Screams 
that are only
in my head.
 
L in the Gin Dictionary

It fell out at
Long Pedlar and Louching
their illustrations not as colourful as 
Lime or Fruit Cups –
your bus ticket, primary-coloured with 
McDonald’s money off
biro’d with
I couldn’t do it.
I used it to mark the Bitter Lemon page
to measure a Long Pedlar into
evening
a shot of knowledge in my glass.
The cocktail was 
no Bramble 
no Gin Rickey
but your words
lingered like bitters.

What's all this about  Hawthorn blossom smelling of sex?
A Found Poem

The hawthorn hedges 
of the acre
weighed down with
memorable swags
musky
with sexual
undertones
snowy flowers
swoony, heavy.

Along this shore
lop-sided branches leaning out
from the ditch 
away from westerly winds and
withering of seaward buds.

Gnarled and twisted trunks 
vigorous 
virtually everlasting 
centuries of sinews within their roots
with which to start
again.

Sow them in a row 
so close they nearly touch
earth pressed tight around them.

Hawthorn blossom 
smelling of sex.
My rural English mother wouldn’t let it
in the house.

Source: Sexy Smell of Hawthorn by Michael Viney in The Irish Times online, June 6th 1998

Lanes
Today I walk inside an old attitude
the thought settles like talc.
Diary pages spread out into flapjack fields, sticky up close,
the tunes of a hundred unchecked birds
wound into hedgerows like tangled ends in the knitting bag. 

                  Parked up in the lane
                  raw flesh
                  hot sweet smoke
                  bent over headlights
                  I imagine a garden gas tank full of wine

At the boggy end of things, a swing, held in the crook of a tree’s elbow
tempts a five-bar gate into a clumsy embrace –
over                    away                      over                       away
rope squealing a hamster wheel rhythm as
two boys share the tyre seat, each pushing at each other’s edges.

	       Scratting for urgent space 
               in the boot with blankets
	      clamping my smile around a cider can.
	      Not the first to make tracks
              here

The lane twists into a final choice,
two curled paper horns of a bread bag.
Sparrows drip-drip through branches,
the past scratching like brambles.
Snowdrops hang their heads.


First published in Cool Rock Repository’s Inaugural Expo

2 new poems by Marie Little : Portrait & What the Others Know

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Marie Little










By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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