These poems are from a new book by Katy Naylor “Postcards from Ragnarok” her debut chapbook available under Alien Buddha Press find her online at http://www.voidskrawl.co.uk and on twitter @voidskrawl
Katy Naylor lives by the sea, in a little town on the south coast of England. Recent publications in Selcouth Station, Roi Faineaant and Expat Press.
Kraken
Danger is curled in small beginnings The lock of hair that sparked the feud the first soft sprig of mistletoe The first disturbance in the water before the splintering prow and the torn sail the spear and shield dashed into the waves It’s hard to unravel the thread trace ourselves back to the first papercut the first white lie, the first joke that turned sour By the time we noticed the ripples we were already in its grip and a great eye had blotted out the sun Bunker I will hold my joy lightly, lest it be crushed in my hands the world would just as soon stamp down with spiteful feet dock my tail for having the temerity to wag as grant me an inch of grace The gathering threat howls through the alley and the bus queue sandpaper wind prying cold fingers through the cracks in the plaster. Hope lives one lungful at a time look further and it will escape my loosening grip a sad balloon rising lonely to the clouds and so I light my small candles in a bucket week by week Synchrony The gentle tuning of reeds shot-silk movement of the waters this company of stars held in perfect tension the breath before the curtain rises I am ammonite, rigid, curled at the foot of the hillside bitter at the heart of the spiral the melody unreels, resonance melting soft into each brittle point of pain I shake as I unspool, notch by notch note by quivering note into blue-black calm
Visiting Hour I find it hard to separate you, now from the hospital bed, the tubes the work of each breath the words I use to write you out you are swaddled deep in your pain we tell ourselves you can hear us as we would of a much loved dog look, that flicker of her eyelids she can understand everything I say, she really can we tell ourselves: she went surrounded by family we tell ourselves: it's almost a mercy your eyes tell a different story when you were 15 you lied so you could volunteer to nurse wounded pilots as the bombs fell on London when I was five you took me on the train to town we found fish, in a concrete pond by a tower block you sat for hours with a magazine while I watched them swim in the afternoon sun your hand squeezes my fingers I tell myself: at least I could bring her this comfort crossing the car park as I leave the air is still cool on my cheek the leaves on the trees still smile at the unseeing dark Shallots Monday! Tuesday! Wednesday! Thursday! you serenade your stew You are starting to anchor yourself in time you lace it through your fingers like a cat's cradle I am counterweight and shuttle, complicit once those threads are woven there's no unravelling them In this moment the web still floats wide wide as your arms, flung out as you wind the bobbin up and clap, clap, clap https://alienbuddhapress.wordpress.com/author/alienbuddhapress/ 2 poems by Katy Naylor “Reflections” and “Flight”
Fevers of the Mind 