all previously published in The Blue Nib
Understanding Ghosts (i.m. GWJ 22/10/1954 – 09/09/14) Hold your head up; you’ve got a pretty face Yours: reddened by alcohol in your belly. You’ve just jolted me from my memory of a novelist telling me I shouldn’t hide trace of a published poem just because the period was for stories. He thought evil lacked lustre, wanted to look at the person who saw ogres, even if told in the form of a ballad. I thought he could see my ghosts, the crippling self-doubt. His gruff impatience was saved for those who were lazy, unimpeded. He knew some writers needed nurturing. I’m weighed with the loss of a talent you will not stain by your ugly intent. The Colours of a Panther "I saw a black panther," a voice on the radio. A so-called expert repeats it. I change stations. What other colour would a panther be? Harborough's countryside is hedged green fields. The shadows merge into significance. The radio is now off. I wanted the throb of a cello undercut with yearning, not commercial pop. Cats are adaptable and secretive, content in their own company and a patch of sun. Easy to let my imagination run with the suggestion. I pull into town, run errands, until I'm caught. It should be a simple decision: a pizza. There's your favourite, but I want my choice if only I knew what that was. A man, who doesn't look like you, stares. I'm his way. I grab, stumble to the checkout and pay, slump into my car, hands, clumsy with keys, paw at the wheel. Black is never just black. I don't remember my drive home, only that I was alone. I discover the pizza I snatched wasn't your favourite as I put it in the oven. There's a shadow where you used to stand. A smear like silky fur on my cheek. My heart feels as if it's been clawed. Maybe panthers don't just come in black. A smudge of cinders My teacher looked at me as if breezeblock wasn't a word she knew. I had pushed my sock down. It was itching the scabs on my leg. A breezeblock had fallen from the stack in the yard. I splashed cold water on my scraped skin. My mother said to leave it. My teacher asked if I'd seen a doctor. I frowned. We weren't to bother him. My teacher held her pendant and ran it back and forth along its chain. I wanted to wet a paper towel and dab it to cool the cuts, but I'd been taught not to interrupt an adult's thinking. I pushed the other sock down so it matched. My teacher seemed to have forgotten me. I crossed my fingers that she wouldn't speak to my mother. I was supposed to keep my cuts hidden by pulling my socks up. Poem: Tracing a Love Song by Emma Lee
Fevers of the Mind 