Five Poems by Susan Wilson

 

Every Ten Years



Her yesterday was just another yesterday

she had fallen asleep as herself

body and mind, one listening

as the other spoke

both hearing the voices outside

and today her mind awoke, alone

an ask to stand, an answer, no

to raise her head, another no

the room was sick as it revolved

and she cried out, a fainting voice

she listened to the cupboard door

an opening of fizzing aid

the outside voices energised, yet

energy was everywhere but here

escape exhaled through the window’s gap

a cool breeze into young sunshine

far from the bed and its ageing heat

her body shook, each effort muted

her head a thickened voice and mind

a begging sleep, as work began

if only she could wait

 

City Lunch Rendezvous

A lunch in the City with friends, together again in

a room, crowded like our office at the law firm.

The business of fingers chattering over keyboards,

voices sliding past computer screens. I flex my chords,

so rarely used in empty rooms. It’s easy to overtalk:

everything comes out of storage, one box falling

onto another. Could an underuse somehow create

an old body soundtracked with a young voice?

Strange how ‘phone calls with past friends bring

memories of their younger faces. I remember Paul.

He would telephone her every day. Sounding nice

meant young and attractive. Their lunch in the City

meant old and disappointing. Would I be like her –

old and disappointing – on a lunch in the City with you?

 

I’ve Been Listening to ...

like

like like

like like like

like like

like

it’s everywhere

copied and pasted into every sentence

a discomfort on the downward beat

a compulsion to fill a natural space

feel the nervous scrolling

scrolling

scrolling

such unease with the tiniest silence

like

it’s the clearest word and

the greatest disservice to intelligence

because there is no similarity between anything in those phrases

none

an ‘erm’ might quirk an atmosphere, suggesting thought

but preference aims for a simple pause

to add some strength to the words on either side

how you do like to

like

like

but why absolutely?

a ‘yes’ would suffice

 

One for Sorrow

A marble headstone

listening to the magpies squawk

of joy in duets

 

Weekend Working

A pavement digger

cranes next to a bus stop as

Sunday pays double

Susan Wilson lives in East London and began writing poetry following the death of her mother in 2017. Her poems have been published by Lucy Writers, Snakeskin, Runcible Spoon, Dreich, Areopagus, Streetcake, Rue Scribe, Amethyst Review and Lothlorien. Prior to the pandemic she was a regular performer at “Spineless Authors”, a local open mic event. Her debut chapbook is “I Couldn’t Write to Save Her Life” (Dreich, 2021).