How to Be a
Moon
Own your own
celestial sphere
your air-embraced curves, your shape.
Pulse your light into the darkest skies
but do not fret when clouds obscure you,
your heart is still clear and bright.
Allow for nights when you wax and wane,
when your gibbous self is all you can give
to your onlookers or to your luna lovers.
Embrace your magic strength, your force
to turn tides. Smile when
silhouettes of owls
pass over your countenance.
Keep the Old Man in the Moon at bay,
he is a myth from men’s mouths
intended to undermine your female might
and mercy. Cheesiness is your antithesis.
Please shine kind,
yet searing, moonlight
towards our racked earth.
Why?
Why do you walk,
cawed the crow.
I don’t really know; I suppose
I could try to fly, like you do.
But then, I remember Icarus
and his melted wax-wings.
I do like to swim in open water,
save getting tangled in weeds
or worse, raw sewage. I used to
run ahead of others but found
myself alone, with arthritic knees.
As a child, I leapt; once, I spun over
a low box-hedge and broke my ankle.
Why do I walk –
maybe because I like
to move but remain safe and grounded.
Ruby, the
albino rat ...
Ruby, you nestle
under my daughter’s jumper,
peep above her navy v-neck, your pink-red eyes
offset by your pure white fur. I stroke your brow
with my forefinger, admire your rodent beauty.
Your neat and tiny digits, four on each paw,
inspire affection. Then my daughter says,
Mum, here, you can hold her now.
With tenderness she extricates you
from her clothes, and I try not
to notice your scaley tail.
It repulses me:
you
repulse me now,
I cannot help it.
I squeal and retreat from
your innocent, caudate body.
My daughter’s pained as she reclaims her pet.
Her lovely eyes proclaim disdain for me.
Non Sequitur
In my dream, last
night, I stopped
at the top of a sloping, garden-path.
It was nothing special, until
a small girl appeared.
She toddled towards me –
her hazel curls caught the light.
She looked at me and smiled,
her baby-eyes bright with the wisdom
of ages. I could not leave her gaze;
she giggled, showing tiny milk teeth,
then turned and said,
with unlikely sophistication,
Please, rest on the lawn, by the rose bush.
Even now I see her face
every time my mind surrenders
to cloud-gathering. Her ringlets
spring
with joy and I know
I need not fear growing old.
We ghosts
we balance on
bollards in the road
we slip down chimneys like sozzled Santas
we whisper in the ears of Springer spaniels
we chant mantras in Catholic masses
we fly on cumulus clouds not broomsticks
we ease the shoulders of arthritic elders
we bubble the giggles of impish children
we raise the hairs on black cats’ backs
we search for kindred like we did in life
we remember the lost taste of mince pies
we hold hands with abandoned gloves
we drive from the back seats of cars
Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon, [MA Creative Writing, Newcastle 2017]
Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies; these include Northern Gravy, Sylvia Magazine, Ink, Sweat and Tears, London Grip, Tears in the Fence, The Lake and Southbank Poetry. She is a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee. Her first chapbook 'Cerddi Bach (Little Poems), was published in 2019 by Hedgehog Press and her pamphlet 'Scrambled Lives on Buttered Toast' is due to be published by Hedgehog Press in 2024. She is developing practice as a participatory arts facilitator, mainly working with elders and intergenerational groups. She believes everyone’s voice counts.
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