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01792 203514   /   07974391251

Instagram: SUE_MANN_CUPBOARD_OF_COLOUR
Poets are sought to start Concrete String open poetry circle. 
Supportive poetry sharing and criticism.
​
If interested send an email using the contact box at the base of this page.


Picture
Talking The Hind Legs Off A Donkey
£
6.60    




P O E T R Y
               
WALKING HOME

 
pidgeons flap Monday out                                          
squinting at writers
between scrolls


air gentles over ridges                
from atomic day                                                                                                                 
to evening rustle                                                                                                      
   
                           
airborn they slide                                                                                                                         
playing the mist                                                                                                                                
in heels and long feathers

                               
I don’t just go out in suburbia                                                                                     
I have to aclimatise it on                                                                                          
feet thumping regimental pavings                                                                                       
I sink between cracks
where city flows

                               
fearing they‘re headstones                                                                                       
for the creative                                                                                                    
I rush on                                                                                                                                   
stretching time                       


you are MY Swansea                                                                                                        
I, no forms attached, claim you

                               
if this is greedy                                                                                                                                   
chase me down Caswell beach                                                                                                
or to cockle beds                                                                                                                                    
before floodrise


where dirt lies in families                                                                                                          
conversation pipping                                                                                                                    
between beaks                                                                                                                        
of temporary residents

                            
that old sea, she knows I own you                                                            
a marker bell              
in solemn dong                                                                                                                    
where toss and tell chime               
                               
catch YOUR paper horizon                                                                           
to  hear screaming views I lost                                                    
So many drowned afternoons                                                                                   
drinking my mother’s ocean



DAWN RHYTHM

magpies burst dawn out of branches                                                                                              
in squeaking mattress bounce
                                               
next in section                                                                                                      
come robin, wren                                                                                                                             
wily baritone rook

            
milk van trickles past                                                                                                        
to not crack my window,                                                                                               
nor creak my floor


still lofty pines                                                                                                                                    
cackle carrion lie-ins

                               
slowly radio joins thoughts up                                                                   
walking ground about

                
till the bit at the bottom is shoe                                                                
and the rest is poet



 


                               
DOWN
                  
Its so quiet I hear                                                                                                                       
the house drop                                                                                                     
                         
energetic beetles                                                                                                                       
chewing our descent                                                                                        
                   
slowly enough to not notice                                         
above swelling drains                                                                                                   

the dismembered rat
in the relationship u-bend

unless you’ve marked a tree                                                                                                    
with the previous position                                                                 
                               
unless the tree is also sinking



Wrong Because Different

          
remember me                                                                                                                                                  
the lame daughter 

          
crippled with art                                                                                                                     
wrong because different


still black
as original sheep                                                                                                                    

my scrawls pervert                
the family line                                                                                                                    
              
smear our slate


to recycle the stony face                                                                                                
that crushed my weightiest draught                                                                                   
              
the smirk
that patterned home

                
I flush in earth’s breath                                                                                                 
and begin again

               
recycle dawn walks                                                                                                                        
and tipped by the last miner                                                                                                                
plunder silver spill


then sit hours unexploded                                                                                                         
to paint on marsh

               
happy with the warning                                                                                                
“live shells” 

               
we artists, unique and cunning                                                                         
like dandelion in seed


wisps storming strongholds at our pick                                                                        
luminescent in May glow


beneath, harvest waits        
to crack our fertile crust

                
inevitable                                                                                                                                              
but seldom spectacle






These poems copyright© Sue Mann published in "Talking The Hind Legs Off A Donkey," by new small press Concrete String. 



For workshop and or reading enquiries telephone 01792 203514 or 07974391251


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