Nightclubs in Russia – poem published

My new poem Nightclubs in Russia and accompanying spoken-word (also by me) was published this month in the awesome Canada-based Galaxy Brain magazine.

Head over and take a look, as well as my own piece, there’s loads of fantastic content there.

Link to Nightclubs in Russia by Claire Doble

Claire Doble

cradle to grave

I’m afraid

I am not brave

fingers move

over stitches

bump, bump, bump

tiny precision

treadle, needle, spindle, cradle

what good does it do

to share your opinion

say fix it

my way

drink and pass out

in front of the TV

when every night

I imagine

swimming out

scarred, unscared

because

I won’t return

to worry

about courage

unaired


Photo: Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash

Magpie

I could stay on this train all day

because the memories

are not even about drinking

or maybe they are

trying

flying like

magpies swooping

make me afraid of all birds

for a time

remembering

how he

came sauntering

out of an angry office

to laugh with us in the afternoon light

his best work, unpaid

sun through window panes

shines out from

amassed clouds and

glimpses of bowl-blue sky

oh, excitement

the dangerous world

outside

tucked in behind

with music and disease

dirty balconies fleet

from the carriage

safely watching

stacks of old things

forever-unwanted

spilling

from too-small rooms

where corner cobwebs

are never cleaned, then

a ragged white rubbish

plastic bag or cloth or thing

flutters like

a cloud-water dog

on the side of the tracks

I’m emptied out

like an undersized room

and refilled to the brim

with

memories of old sunshine

mixed with new risk, it

sparks my magpie eye

once again

life takes wing

 

Photo: Claire Doble

treadmarks

 

I am the watcher

the runner

unofficial custodian

alone

non-partisan

my feet pray

to mother earth

my breath

synthesises

salt-sea molecules

of sky

and my eyes

monitor

the ways

in sweeping surveil

from mountain

to ocean

and over there

the horizon

mine not mine

owned only

in a global

internal

knowing

tread the land

stomp the sand

it’s yours, ours, no one’s

take care

 

Photo: Claire Doble

Tottenham

The sound of birds

and soft air

made me think of

cottages in Tottenham

all those ago years

 

I was the only one

who saw them

well, the only one who walked there

traversing miles

with a sleeping child

music in my ears

mid-green haze

dappled English sun

never blazed

quietly rolling through

knife-crime enclaves

and weird parks

no one used

the way I-

stepped the streets

keeping on-side of sane

and baby

entertained

 

Now a smooth Jenga piece

that slots in my brain

time out of mind

small corner of terrain

untravelled often

fond and strange

tunnel-vision place

 

new seasons carry

old memories’ trace

 

Photo: “Seven Sisters Snail” by Claire Doble

it’s happening now

sometimes think I’m going to die

I mean, of course

I am going to die

but that’s nebulous and

post-menopause

post-cancer, post-covid, post-relapse, post-deathofparents, post-divorce

post-pleasenothingawfulwiththekids

post-life

I’ll die

and

it’s ok

because

I will have done it all by then

right?

But sometimes

there’s a fizz in my chest

and I think

what if I’m dying now

I mean, of course

I am

 

 

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

Bell Isosceles

It chimes me back

to a string of tinkles

beside my bedroom window

brass-notched with

mouse-foot marks

their tongues of brass

rough and rarely

put out for noon

but thanks Emily

for that memory

while She thought

the hat was stripey

it was all-black

soft and so long

hung with a bell

a velvet isosceles

still ringing in

half-forgotten song

 

Photo by Arturo Rey on Unsplash

 

 

Stormwater

Stormwater makes gutters exciting

clear and fast and rush, rush, rushing

sticks and leaves and grass and concrete

fresh puddles are new lakes

around a drowned playground

the waves offshore huge and brown

with denuded earth from headlands

floating and crashing

flying to shore

soft and high like Tara Brach’s hair

rain, rain, rain for days makes mirrors

everywhere

then it drains like snow disappears

and you wonder

what happened to all that extra stuff

the world absorbs

enfolding elements, renewed

and we observe only

an iceberg-tip of all

 

 

 

Photo: flooded forest by Claire Doble

Wow, it has been more than a month since I last posted, that is a long time for me. I have felt a bit flat and non-poetic lately I guess. I hope this changes!