Shorter poems (2015-2023)
I wrote these poems in the years before, during, and after my MSc in Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes (2016 - 2020) with Metanoia Institute.
Most of them happened in response to a prompt (picture, word, poem, object, sequence of movements, etc.), and within the safe container of a time limit (typically between six and 20 minutes). I have lightly edited some of poems without, I hope, losing the energy of their initial creation.
The pieces were written alongside and shared in the company of small groups of trusted others. Other than the ones that feature in some of my blog posts, it’s the first time I’ve shared them with a wider audience. It feels the right time for them to open their wings and fly.
Milk and Honey
Milk and honey,
some for me, some for me,
some for me, some for me,
some for me, some for me.
Milk and honey,
some for me, some for me,
plenty for others, and plenty for me,
some for me, some for me,
some for me, some for me,
plenty for others, and plenty for me.
Rock petal
Brittle, magical rock petal flower.
Generous, delicate rock petal flower.
Take a small piece of air-drying clay,
and roll it out thin.
Cut out seven petals. Pattern them.
Pinch the points. Let them dry.
Can you put them together? Can you make a flower? You can!
She is beautiful but she is— Oh!
You need to be careful!
You can’t press her to your nose,
rolling the petals between your fingertips to release the fragrance.
But the dampness and fragrance are there, thousands of years of it,
locked into the clay.
The Guide
I’ve walked this path,
imagining how it will be when I take you,
What we might notice,
what we might talk about,
Wondering how long
each stretch will take us.
When I walked the path, alone,
the light, the silver birch, the fox tracks –
they were all a certain way, as were
my heart, my eyes, my feet.
When we walk the path together,
the woods will have the same name,
but they’ll be different. I’ll be different,
and I’ll see things I wouldn’t without you.
Together, we’ll cast our shadows
as we walk.
We’ll scuff leaves and snap twigs.
Our voices and footfalls will vibrate, reverberate,
making insects scurry, birds fly.
We might step off the path a while.
We might jump the stream and stop to climb trees, or heave stones to dam it.
Let’s see. I’ll watch the clock.
Plantain
I saw the shadow of a plantain;
a small sundial, wagging in the breeze,
and marking the hour upon the dry grass.
This small plant was in its prime and the time, it told was the beginning of the middle of the morning,
when a child might arrive on a beach, sometime after breakfast,
bucket and spade in hand,
– light splashing off rockpools –
no sense of a before or of an ending.
big top, 2015
an unremarkable patch of grass
down on the rec has become
the circus floor
the starry walls around it
hold the shadow of the girl
on the aerial silks, her blond hair hanging
down, and her ballet-slippered feet
working the bright blue fabric
tight around her ankles
I enjoy the spectacle
of my daughters’ faces
in three-quarters profile, open and still
as they watch a burlesque dancer
ascend a ladder, pole in her teeth,
with a table on it, laid with wine glasses
she’s filled and candlesticks she’s lit
the clown insults the audience
and the bubble lady from Ukraine leaves
a trail of pop lines
and the smell of soap in the air
we leave: the sky is darkening,
the moon is out. We see
the house we used to live in, and turn
to the new walk up the hill,
to the new house.
‘What did you like best?’
‘All of it.’
this morning the camp has gone.
The grass is lighter, where the big top was
a small space, really,
where the knife thrower
circled on a Harley, and a girl
on a five-pointed star turned
high above us in spangled shoes
Earthquake
The ripple spreads to the tips of the land.
The bones in their burial places jostle.
The higher bones, the lower bones, all shuddering at once,
the bones and the ashes, shaken together.
Equally shaken: the long gone, and the not-so-long,
and with them, the dormant bulbs and tubers waiting to push up.
Clavicles, pelvises, shinbones, tubers, ribs and bulbs,
all together in the dark, shaking it out.
Serenity
She may be a stone, a milky blue, smooth stone I can hold in my damp fist,
but I think she’s a lake. Her surface can be rippled.
She doesn’t need to be entirely still. No. She can furl and dance and sparkle.
She says, ‘You can put down the knives. You can put down the nails.’
She says, ‘Come out when you’re ready.
She says, ‘We can sit quietly together.’
She says, ‘We can do what you want to do.’
She says, ‘I will wait for you.’
She says, ‘I am a lake you can hold in your damp fist. I won’t run away.’
Pan and Iris
Pan is a wild island,
of solid high cliffs and waterfalls.
His latitudes and longitudes
are currently unknown.
I would sail from his right foot,
around the cape of his heel and up the coastline of the leg, and traverse overland to his left shoulder and left hand.
Iris, the butterfly woman,
Lies deep under the sea, submerged.
Her form is seen from the air
and known to sailors.
Five islands are emerging,
South-west and South-east.
Some are just breaking the surface, forming sandbanks and skerries.
Others are rising up high,
and are as compasses
That show true north.
Pink and green coral forms
show beneath the surface
– dancer, warrior, peace-maker, sage.
© Rachel Godfrey 2023 All rights reserved.
Milk Behind Glass
(after ‘Bread and Butter’ by Jo Roach)
I come from families called Lewis, Thomas, Peel and Truss
and friends called Jackie, Maggie, Amanda, Sharon, Alison and Neelam.
I come from Sindy, Patch, and Action Man; Mousetrap, Coppit, and Junior Police 5.
I come from the bobby on his bike or horse, the rag and bone man, the fish van, Fine Fare, the Co-op, Sponge Kitchens, and the butcher’s shop with sawdust on the floor you can shunt about with your feet.
I come from cola cubes, fruit salads, penny chews, flying saucers, sherbet fountains, curly wurlys, and curly-corded telephones with weighted dials.
I come from Green Shield Stamps and the Green Cross Code, and the green at the bottom of the road where we played out on our bikes.
I come from milk: in big glass doorstep bottles and in morning breaktime bottles – a clinking crate of them for every class.
I come from holiday houses in Wales, Cornwall, Yorkshire, then Kodachrome slideshows six weeks later and photos in albums.
I come from C & A, St Michaels, Ladybird, and Clarks, clothes the same colour as my brothers’, beads and tasselled skirts.
I come from Sunday School, Crusaders and Grace before Sunday lunch,
from Billy Graham converts and nostalgic Goon Show fans.
I come from a front doorstep polished red, a TV with four channels, Arctic Roll, Angel Delight, and, ‘Don’t argue back.’
I come from Mr Ben, Blue Peter, Rentaghost, and, ‘You can’t watch ITV.’
I come from a crack in the wall in my grandparents’ understairs cupboard: the bomb fell some 20 miles away, they said.
I come from children of children who signed up age 16, then never spoke of what they’d seen.
Before and after
I was the fish, I thought – the curving, darting, slippery fish
– and you were the chips – straight cut, crisp, just right.
But then you slid out from the weeds: I saw your scales shine, your fins flash bright.
I am in and you are out. Or so I thought. The introvert – me; you – the social butterfly.
But I was wrong. You ramble the vast landscape within you,
and I fly wider than I knew.
You were sweet and I was sour. That’s how it tasted. Like I was corroded, needed correcting, while you were quite the luxury – sweet and rich.
But now, we’re picked and mixed, and who knows which is which.
I thought that I was back and you were forth. Mired in memory – me; you – forging onwards.
But now you’re fro
and I’m the one that’s to.
You were the cup, I thought, while I – wide open – spilled my fears all over the place.
Now you are down and I am up;
you are saucer, I am cup.
Big Sister, Little Sister
Light a fire in the darkness and look for shapes.
My sister is with me.
We have to find out what’s there
Because nobody tells us.
My sister is with me,
a child guide,
because nobody tells us
where the edges are.
A child guide,
Big sister, little sister
Where the edges are
is scary to find out.
We have to find out what’s there,
Big sister, little sister.
It’s scary to find out.
Light a fire in the darkness and look for shapes.
Office, home
I write at a table my sister gave me,
an old wooden table,
the grain all van Gogh curves, alive.
It’s covered in a jumble of books and papers,
‘to do’ lists, receipts, lip balms, pens, notebooks and notes,
and – resting on a stack of papers –
a poetry book a friend gave me. Its bright red cover
and bright blue ribbon to mark the pages stand out.
I see how many things received make up my ordinary world.
More gifted things:
Two paintings
A geranium
An orchid
The sheepskin behind me
An Indian bag
A well-used apron, flung on my armchair as I moved from kitchen to Zoom room
The mirror on my wall,
my sister gave me too,
and looping below it,
strung on an almost-invisible thread,
stuck with Blu Tack at each end of the hand-gilded frame,
seven coloured sugar paper cranes,
made by my daughters during that first lockdown.
Angular and still,
the birds fly beneath the mirror
and over the hearth, over and over,
taking their shadows with them.
Terza Rima, Inside Outside
The branches of the apple tree are bare,
the grasses catch the breeze and nod their heads.
Small terrors wait to catch me unaware,
as deep and dark inside as bulbs in beds
that press and push to free their papery skin
as over them the weight of sunlight treads.
I have my knots and trapdoors held within:
a little girl that’s tethered and afraid,
a game of chase she knows she’ll never win.
The playground where the daily games are played
has gravel that will sting on knees that fall.
The playground where the subtle rules are made
is where she needs to plant the flowers, small
and fragrant held within a gentle wall.
To hear
To listen
to the white rabbit in my dreams,
the blue baby, the chef and the businessman,
the crystals, the hearth, and the call to prayer.
To listen
to my dreaming-self, healer-self, quester-self,
and all the dialogues they have with each other and with me,
and also the poet, the flame-thrower, and the child.
To listen
to people’s selves talking,
and then listen again for patterns, themes,
and units of meaning.
To listen
through syntax and experience
different to mine,
and still hear.
To listen
to myself and others,
and transcribe faithfully, or render into poetry,
and sometimes just to listen.