Five Poems by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

 

the first cut is the deepest

 

so young   your tongue  
so newly twined   with hers 
fails to comprehend    there will be 
other mouths seeking to French kiss yours 
other hands longing    to hold yours 

there will be other eyes  
to gaze into 

today   you are solitary 

lost 

trying to suss out   the dimensions 
of your pain   of your first big loss 

and how is it that mundane life  
disregards your agonies   and presses  
forwards    in spite of your distress 

I wish I could show you    how 
one day you will recall her face  
   and smile   

your recovered self-belief   will fly high 
eager to try love again    with  
whomever   whatever the cost

 

 

Oak Tree

 

Beyond the window pane 
—your twigged arms wave  
wee kerchiefs—veined leaves 
flutter—and small green birds  
roost—let loose lazy songs 
to lullaby my warm evening— 
all natural comfort is not lost.

 

 

Imprisoned

 

Was that the wind, or was it you, dear? 
My bedroom door creaks on its hinges 
as I squeeze my raw eyes tight shut. 

Your face, stamped under my eyelids, 
sucks today from my throbbing mind,  
and fires hectic pulses that pound  
down through my sclerotic veins. 

I fear I’ll be compelled to join you, 
wherever in the universe you are. You 
super-articulate, an egotist, 
always wrote our script – 

while I waited 
for liberation, the chance  
to breathe easy 
away from your constraints. 

Now. I’ve learnt there’s no way to evade 
your shade: your essence is settled, embedded 
in my neurons. Images of our shared life unspool 
on the cutting room floor. Celluloid winds 
around my arthritic ankles 
and trips me up. I fall 

towards your outstretched, 
skeletal arms – as I see 
it’s far too late for me  
to escape  

and enjoy a brief 
sunlit future, free of you.

 
 
 

On Seeing the Photo – Abraham Lincoln’s Ghost  
Places his Hands On Mary Todd Lincoln’s Shoulders 

 

I try to feel my way in, 
the two figures resist 
access. Accomplices both 
in this act of denial. Frozen 
in forms, separated by time – 
him, her, them, me. Then 

my eyes settle on the link, 
his misted, sepia hands on her 
shoulder, where they rest. Ease 
is spoken by this gesture; 
a familiarity, a knowing. I am 
perturbed; neither of them blink. 

I turn away, but the image 
will not die behind my eyelids. 
I turn back, stare, possessed. Black- 
clad, Mrs Lincoln’s silk cloak 
hides more than I will ever know, 
no matter how long the days of my life. 

 

 

Https://www.eastwingmagazine.com/p/mary-todd-lincoln-and-the-photograph 

Hamlet, from the Other Side

 

Hamlet’s wish to live is failing, 
his mother’s guilt cannot be purged. 
He cannot rumble hidden secrets 
as unknown forces take their shapes. 

He thinks procrastination’s shameful, 
as weakness licks his pale skin moist. 
He longs to claim a warrior’s spirit, 
yet knows himself – a cowardly wretch. 

His father’s ghost lurks, prophetic, 
sad and angry – as his own life  
bears the taint, the guilt of unjust 
non-avengement. Yet wait.  

As his father’s face  
stains high heaven’s spheres 
Hamlet’s will revives. He resolves to act  
and clear his kindred’s rotting garbage.

Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon, [MA Creative Writing, Newcastle, UK, 2017] - Ceinwen writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies; these include Northern Gravy, Ink, Sweat and Tears, London Grip, Tears in the Fence, and Dreich.  Her first chapbook was 'Cerddi Bach (Little Poems), [Hedgehog Press, 2019] and her latest pamphlet is 'Scrambled Lives on Buttered Toast' [Hedgehog Press, 2024]. After a career in Mental Health Social Work and as a Practice Educator with an NHS Trust, she is practicing as a participatory arts facilitator. She believes everyone’s voice counts.