Four Poems by Wendy Webb

 

Eden: Birds and Beer



The garden is simply beautiful now,

full of vibrant hope (a Platinum spell).

The crow/rook/jackdaw/pigeon speak of hell.

I pray for bluetit/robin/wren, and how

these sunshine days are passing by so slow.

One Mother (in her cell) might say, ‘All’s Well…’

as women writers/Anchorites still tell,

there’s nothing beyond Eden. Time to mow,



your seeded plugs are in the Veg Plot. Watch

that heaven’s not for slugs nor snails nor earwigs.

Drown them in beer or salt, else (cruellest-kind),

environmental pasta’s coloured swatch

hidden beneath the sod of sweet earth-gigs.

Radiant rainbows blossom for humankind.




TO THE PEOPLE OF A HUNDRED YEARS’ TIME (revised)

First published in eTIPS, 2010-04/EZINE



We care about the world, we know its worth,

papyrus-rich to nature’s forest span.

Impressionistic death throes of dull birth,

no blueprint grows a bright-lit world to plan.



Papyrus-rich to nature’s forest span

of vanishings of animals and plants,

no blueprint grows a bright-lit world to plan,

their colours gone where torchlight dark recants



of vanishings of animals and plants.

The sight, the smell, the harsh and strident sounds:

there colour’s gone where torchlight dark recants.

We stand upon the tide where surf rebounds.



The sight, the smell, the harsh and strident sounds,

shrill seagulls cracking sand-salt fat with fish.

We stand upon the tide where surf rebounds,

inhaling sting-deep salt in sweat-dried dish.



Shrill seagulls cracking sand-salt fat with fish,

blind howls of mobile phones and MP3s;

inhaling sting-deep salt in sweat-dried dish,

nude parchment brushes tingling on bare knees.



Blind howls of mobile phones and MP3s,

we kiss the earth in hardy PC rooms;

nude parchment brushes tingling on bare knees,

deliver paper chapels draping tombs.



We kiss the earth in hardy PC rooms,

impressionistic death throes of dull birth

deliver paper chapels draping tombs.

We care about the world, we know its worth.




HEAVEN’S SMILE (Glosa)


Quote from Poems 1891, XIII, Emily Dickinson – in italics. For modern use of the Glosa, I have excluded the quote from the beginning of the poem. 2010/07/PUBLD Metverse Muse/Issues 29-31



I hoped, though not content on earth,

through hellish turmoil in life’s pace,

that heaven’s whimsy would still birth.

A smile suffused Jehovah’s face;



it beamed the friendly sun to shade,

his dark side shone with morning dew

and breathed an infant chill, late-made;

the cherubim withdrew.



And as the organ piped false notes,

wrapped close in paradisal pity,

I mourned where holy absence floats.

Grave saints stole out to look at me,



and sprinkled shooting stars in ink,

where Pluto’s cosmos churned and flew

to poets’ deep-enchanting brink,

and showed their dimples, too.



I could not listen to the spheres

that paced quink-pale as darkest night.

Spilt caverns blotched in torchlight meres;

I left the place with all my might, -



and wished God’s beaming back would turn

askance: his light side into day,

where angels incense as they learn.

My prayer I threw away;



it ebbed and flowed upon my tide,

until foul Neptune filled his cup,

to lap on shores an ocean wide.

The quiet ages picked it up,



and bladderwracked the dross to feed;

sea creatures chanting seraph dew,

enchanting grace to every creed;

and Judgment twinkled, too.

 

 

BENEATH THE OAK IN SUMMER (Palindromedary Sonnet)

First published in Star Tips, 2016-09

 

Such weeping, weaning bliss wrapped in first love,

raw consummate completeness in a glance.

What pregnant hope, expectancy above

conjoining of sweet flesh in fickle chance.

 

Such long-drawn plans, so quiver-full, un-taut

as Cupid’s bowstring plucking bees to stars.

White bonnet, booties, and a lace dress, bought,

slow window-shopping prams; child-friendly cars.

 

Such cradled infant gurgled prescience, charmed

by family-shared news that cannot wait,

when all the world hives honeycombs unharmed

like Rock-A-Byes’ pared buzz-flight, stinging late.

 

Dull aching emptiness, slow sickness eased:

poor breaking-screams of waste where love-flesh bleeds.

 

Pour breaking-screams of waste where love-flesh bleeds

dull aching emptiness, slow sickness eased.

 

Like Rock-A-Byes’ pared buzz-flight, stinging late,

when all the world hives honeycombs, unharmed

by family-shared news that cannot wait.

Such cradled infant gurgled prescience; charmed.

 

Slow window-shopping, prams, child-friendly cars,

white bonnet, booties and a lace dress.  Bought

as Cupid’s bowstring: plucking bees to stars.

Such long-drawn plans; so quiver-full, untaught;

 

conjoining of sweet flesh in fickle chance.

What pregnant hope, expectancy, above

raw consummate completeness in a glance?

Such weeping, weaning bliss wrapped in first love.

Wendy Webb: Born in the Midlands, home and family life in Norfolk. She edited Star Tips poetry magazine 2001-2021. Published in Indigo Dreams, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Envoi, Seventh Quarry) and online (Littoral Magazine, Autumn Voices, Wildfire Words, Lothlorien, Meek Colin), she was placed First in Writing Magazine’s pantoum poetry competition. She devised new poetry forms (Davidian, Magi, Palindromedary); wrote her father’s biography, ‘Bevin Boy’, and her own autobiography, ‘Whose Name Was Wit in Waterr’ (title inspired by Keats’ grave in Rome). She has attempted many traditional forms and free verse. Favourite poets: Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins, John Burnside, John Betjeman, the Romantic Poets (especially Wordsworth), George Herbert, William Blake, Emily Dickinson, Mary Webb, Norman Bissett, William Shakespeare, the Bible, and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.