Poems by Marilyn Hammick
| Well swept |
| NOW |
| ADVICE FROM OUR GUIDE |
| POPPIES |
| THE WIDOW AND HER DAD |
| WANTING RAIN |
| Keepsake |
| Finding a copy of Le Mur |
Well swept
Her new yard broom has a plastic, made-in-China handle,
its bristle mane sits on broad shoulders,
a deep thread seals their partnership.
She stores this one head up
-a lesson from domestic science.
Inside she uses soft locks on a head that falls away
from its wooden handle at a mere knock.
She coaxes hair, pinhead paper pieces,
snipped thread ends to their grave;
leaves this one hanging by its hook.
Sometimes she takes a feather duster
that is not made from feathers, whisks
into corners deep as the last C on the keyboard,
shakes it out, unseen debris floats, falls,
floats -goodbye, she whispers.
Outside she sweeps foot-crushed leaves, infant twigs,
bark crumbs from the deck; the dust drops,
like finely sieved flour, between the planks.
She hides the rest under bushes, ready
for the wind to scatter it behind her back.
Marilyn Hammick
2010, published in Poetry Space July 2011 Showcase www.poetryspace.co.uk
NOW
The house is quiet now
you never were talkative.
Everything has a place
everything is missing
cupboards fill with food for me
there's no milk for the visitor's
letters drop with just my name
one set of pillows stays smooth.
Sometimes, when I reach out
the absent imprint of your head
fills my hand with all the silences
we collected.
You were never talkative
now the house is quiet.
Marilyn Hammick
ADVICE FROM OUR GUIDE
Stand to glimpse the agora with a partial ornamental lake.
Scan the bouleuterion curves, count seatless niches.
Consider one pillar, three empty corners, marble shavings.
Multiply one half triangle of puzzled together Roman stones.
Raise Lazarus slices of a Doric column.
Slide aside the land, still the quake.
Listen to the bullfrogs.
Bathe in wild flower fragrance.
Navigate an anemone palette.
Tread lightly through daisies.
Marilyn Hammick
Published in Words-Myth, January 2009
POPPIES
She came to my door
selling poppies
tin round her neck
headscarf queenly
under her chin.
Today the police broke down her door
she wasn't at Church
the Guides had missed her.
Rope unseemly
under her chin.
My next door neighbour said
You do know her: headscarf, poppies.
Marilyn Hammick
Published in Words-Myth, January 2009
THE WIDOW AND HER DAD
He taught her
the difference between silly-mid-on and fine-leg
short and long dividing
that she couldn't sing
the craft of losing.
He taught her children
the difference between silly-mid-on and fine-leg
fly-fishing
two-spit digging
how to make bread pudding.
She taught him
the sense of crying
a bit of hand sewing
how to keep going.
Marilyn Hammick
Published in Words-Myth, January 2009
WANTING RAIN
Just after you died, that December morning
I wanted rain, edge to edge
completely filling
the space of every pane.
Instead I stood between
our kiss and stretched sunshine
burning early mist. Alone
afraid, marking the time.
Later that evening, I watched
as they carried you with awkward gentleness
along paths finely touched
by rain's spreading caress.
Much later in that first dark week
I also found the strength to weep
Marilyn Hammick
Published in
Sonnet Boom Issue 1, March 2009
Keepsake
In the north corner of my room
is a basket. Hoop handled,
caramel wicker, woven
with a light touch.
It's lined with the way
my arms rocked my babies,
stores the imprints of handshakes,
a paw print, a slap.
Tissued boxes keep
the licks of my lovers' tongues
as they surveyed my skin's
budding credentials.
Harder to see are the
traces of kisses blown
past my cheeks by
people long forgotten.
Marilyn Hammick
First published in Prole, Poetry and Prose, Issue 1. 2010
Finding a copy of Le Mur
I find a collection of short stories by Sartre
in an Oxfam shop. The cover
is a print of a grey stone wall.
At each end this cover turns
behind the wall. Shadows of faceless
men throw everything they have
at the wall, stretching from side to
side until their fingers bleed into the flaps.
I read The Wall, page by page,
holding each story in my hands,
weighing each one in my head
letting it settle before I move on.
The stories have little hope,
a lot of loss, no kindness.
I'm unsurprised: it's Sartre,
it's the ordinary, split apart.
Marilyn Hammick
First published in The Glasgow Review, 2010.