Blizzard | Lorna Crozier

[with-rainfall.livejournal.com]

Walking into wind, I lean into my mother's muskrat coat;
around the cuffs her wristbones have worn away the fur.

If we stood still we'd disappear. There's no up or down,
no houses with their windows lit. The only noise is wind

and what's inside us. When we get home my father
will be there or not. No one ever looks for us.

I could lie down and stay right here where snow is all
that happens, and silence isn't loneliness just cold

not talking. My mother tugs at me and won't let go.
Then stops to find her bearings. In our hoods of stars

we don't know if anyone will understand
the tongue we speak, so far we are from home.

The Sailor Who Fell From The Rigging SHEENAGH PUGH

[punkinelf.livejournal.com]

The Sailor Who Fell From The Rigging

He's a bone-hoard, laid
golden on the table,
piecemeal, dislocated

in the naval hospital
at Haslar, this casualty
from Nelson's day. Skull

a cup, eye-sockets empty
bezels for aquamarine
or jet. The carved vertebrae,

links in a polished chain
that has come unstrung
since, long ago, a man

fell, his limbs flailing,
in that last instant
when limbs would do his bidding,

before every joint
of arms and legs splintered
on the deck; made a patient

of a seaman. His scarred
bones were knitting together,
twisted, no doubt, awkward,

when the usual fever
sank him in the dark.
He is turned to treasure,

the ribs' symmetrical fretwork,
the pendant branches
of phalanges, the serpentine torc

two clavicles make. Riches
beyond price, broken past
restoring, such choice pieces
as cannot be replaced.


SHEENAGH PUGH
Poetry Wales
Winter 2011 / 2012