Chess Game

This week we are very sad to tell you all that the talented poet and author Jill Gardiner passed away recently. Jill was a prolific writer, a meticulous researcher and a generous friend. She will be missed by all. In her honour, we are reposting one of her remarkable poems. 

Jill once explained what inspired today's poem: 'Early on in our relationship, when we could not wait to get our hands on each other, we also used to play a lot of chess. My partner, a past contestant in London chess tournaments, would almost always win, but I still enjoyed the challenge. As the game is so often viewed as a mainly male preserve, this autobiographical story also appealed to me as a metaphor for seduction.'

 

Chess Game

Shall we play chess or go to bed?

We can’t make up our minds

so you get the chess set,

I fetch the wine, and we both

slip out of our clothes.

This bed is big enough for all of us:

you, propped up on a pillow

too far away to reach:

between us, queens and kings,

their armies of retainers.

A clock ticks.  Your pawns advance.

My knight prepares to pounce.

The curve of your hip.  Two moves

and I’ll have you in check.  Too late.

What is your bishop doing down there?

You tell me I’m beautiful: this is not 

the time, now you’ve swiped my pawn, 

gone up a piece.  Oh your skin

and you so at ease in it

as if you went naked everywhere.

I must concentrate, this is serious.

Your breath so close, your body

out of reach.  I could stretch...

You must be joking.  Not my queen.

Your breasts.  I resign, I concede.

This poem appears in With Some Wild Woman – Poems 1989-2019 (Tollington Press), described by Rosie Bailey as ‘a real page-turner’ and by Jackie Wills as ‘starting with bosoms, bras and crushes, it explores all aspects of lesbian love’.

Jill Gardiner was also a social historian, author of From the Closet to the Screen – Women at the Gateways Club 1945-85 (Pandora Press). A former Chair of Brighton Poets, her poems were published in various journals, including Artemis, and commended in competitions, including by Jackie Kay in the Cardiff International.

I saved the afterbirths...

This week we're very proud to showcase another rich, complex poem from After Babel by Christine Webb. Hope you all enjoy a bit of juicy dark humour - we certainly do, but we're inclined to agree about the grapes.

The Midwife’s Tale

I saved the afterbirths for Mr FitzHughes –

Don’t forget, Sister, whenever you’ve time –

plum-purple, plum-plush-soft… though what with blood,

water, cries (some women shriek like pigs –

It’s good pain, I tell them) and then the soft

head appearing, screwed up face, the tiny

soles of the feet… and that first high wail

strung out on a breath like the bloody cord –

there’s enough to do without packing up placentas

for Mr Mighty FitzHughes. But I usually did.

It’s his research, I thought, important, maybe.

Twenty years he was there. You must come to tea,

Sister, when I’ve retired. Not many say that:

flattered, I admit. And the house – full of small 

expensive things. Now, Sister, the greenhouse

(while his wife made tea) – I especially 

want to show you the grapes. Black, full –

cut me a fistful.  Try these, Sister… and look

down: see that rich soil? Fertile, aren’t they,

those afterbirths you saved? Foot of every vine –

nothing beats them. 

The grapes were almost

bursting in my hand – purple-red, swollen.

I thought, Mrs Jones’s placenta… Never

fancied grapes since.

 

by Christine Webb,

from After Babel, pub. Peterloo, 2004

The War Memorial

It's Remembrance Sunday here in the UK and round the Commonwealth. Sylvia Daly has kindly allowed us to share this thoughtful poem from her new anthology Before I Go...

THE WAR MEMORIAL

It says “For the Fallen” –
as if they had stumbled
in their haste to reach the enemy.
How silly they were 
to have lost their balance -
no mention here of chaos,
gore, carnage, slaughter.

It says “They Gave Their Lives” –
wrapped in cheap khaki, this
precious gift prepared by
grieving mothers.
Grand theft from
a generation that would
never recover from such generosity.

“Age Shall Not Wither Them” –
Their figures should be used
to scream
“We were abused!
Never do this again.”
Their dying cry,
breathing peace with their last sigh.

Veil of Tweed

We're re-posting this wonderful poem by Maria Jastrzębska today, as Maria has a new anthology coming out in October 2022, Small Odysseys (click the title to order a copy from Waterloo Press). She's a Polish-British poet, editor and translator, the author of sell-out drama Dementia Diaries and a founding member of Queer Writing South. The poem is from her collection Everyday Angels.

Maria says: 'Can you imagine, or do you remember how little information (let alone anything like positive images) there was about the lives of women who loved other women (or women generally) back in the 60s and 70s when I was growing up? This poem references two classics: The Killing of Sister George a play from 1964 about a “slightly sadistic masculine woman” adapted into a film in 1968 and made nastier and also more explicitly lesbian and Les Biches a French film from 1968 about bisexuality, “tortured” relationships, etc.'

VEIL OF TWEED

 

 

Behind a veil of tweed, through a smoke-screen 

of bravado I know too well, pouring out gin 

in your jodhpurs or PVC, Sister George

you don’t scare me, but you did once.

 

I fled from you into the arms of a biche

with long lashes, sulky lips. At least 

her hair was long, even though it all ended 

in tears. It might as well have been me 

 

slumped, sobbing face pressed 

against a bathroom door, behind which 

Anouk Aimée made love with a real man.

I wouldn’t cut my hair. Wore a frock 

 

to the hairdressers in case I looked like you 

when I walked out. At eighteen 

how afraid I was of being mistaken 

for a man. How afraid of being old.

Maria Jastrzębska

from Everyday Angels (Waterloo Press 2009)

 

www.mariajastrzebska.wordpress.com

What I did when I got back

We're very excited today to be able to share this evocative prose poem by Maria Jastrzębska. It has, as she says, a 'kind of end of summer' feel. It's from her new anthology Small Odysseys, due to be published in October. Really looking forward to reading more. Order your copies from Waterloo Press  

What I did when I got back

Plucked the tufts above my eyebrows. Made myself coffee but it didn’t seem worth boiling the milk. Separated my clothes into colours and delicates. Remembered to take out the handwash jumper.  Put one wash on.  Fed the cat, brushed her. Put Kőln Concert on full volume. Emptied the sand out of my smaller bag outside the back door. Wandered down into the garden where I saw the leaves were all yellow, started making a list of what needed doing – something had eaten through the gooseberry. I texted friends. J got back to me straight away, didn’t say much, just still quite low. H must have been at work. Took the overtly lesbian bits out of a poem and called it Pines Broken Below Marina Baja. It sounded edgy with, I thought, a degree of gravitas at the same time. Unpacked my books and papers, left them lying on the floor. Since I had the shower to myself I stayed under for what seemed like days. Ran downstairs naked because I’d forgotten to get a clean towel. Dressed in the softest fabrics I could find, old jeans, faded baggy cotton and linen top, aquamarine. Put the lesbian bits back in the poem. Called it Pining. 

Maria Jastrzębska is a key Anglo-Polish and European poet and no stranger to exploring heritage and archetypal figures of family. In this new work she widens her gaze. Unable – or unwilling – to settle, her speakers are nomadic. The personal is always political, the political – unmistakably human. Whether crossing borders, both literal and intangible, queering or reimagining histories, these poems urgently question the present, startle and illuminate. She is equally fluent in prose poem or lyric as well as the extraordinary and quizzical language of Ponglish. 

From Small Odysseys published by Waterloo Press October 2022

https://waterloopress.co.uk/books/small-odysseys-2022/

Be gentle

Sylvia Daly is one of our founder members. We're delighted to announce she's preparing a collection of her poems for publication this year. She also happened to have a special birthday this week. Here's one of her poems to celebrate.

Thoughts on Being 80 Years of Age

Be gentle with me please,

I can move but slowly.

Muscles no longer bunch in anticipation.

They need some warning.

Grip my arm lightly.

Skin bruises and tears.

If I was bound in vellum

the curator would wear soft gloves.

Give me space, I am not for jostling.

My compass directs but strong breezes

can blow me off course

capsizing me with tipped sails.

Feed me lightly, but with flavour,

my throat cannot cope with gristle.

My stomach rejoices to

fine, dainty delicacies.

Leave me not in the dark. I fear death 

and breathe easy in the light.

My terrors diminish

with the dawn.

Visit me less, I am leaving.

I cannot involve myself in your drama.

I am finite, and know it.

You think you are immortal

Sylvia Daly

Delicious kisses

We're very lucky to have this beautiful poem by Maria Jastrzębska to share with you all for St Valentine's Day. It's from At the Library of Memories published by Waterloo Press 2013.

                                                      Baci di Dama

 

 

Sharp as a whistle 

       her breath

 

catches your breath.

      Tang of silver-

 

berry, darkness icy

      with stars, your mouth

 

waters in her

     mouth.  If this 

          

was not your first

     kiss, it was

 

your first kiss 

  like this.

Maria Jastrzębska

                                                                            At the Library of Memories

                                                                                        Waterloo Press 2013

Just [Click Here]

The Christmas season may leave us regretting an overindulgence in online shopping clicks - but what if it's a whole life's worth? Sylvia Daly's amusing poem on the subject has a sting in its tail.

Before we slink back to the mince pies, Weird Sisters wish you all a meaningful and connected winter rest and a peaceful New Year.

Just [Click Here]

A brand new home,

A garden gnome,

instructions read so clear.

To satisfy all your desires

just [Click Here]

To find a mate,

and fix a date,

Or kickstart your career.

To make your hi-tech life complete.

just [Click Here]

Visit your bank,

have a quick wank,

you’re a modern day Buccaneer.

No messy, human intercourse.

just [Click Here]

To war you’ll go

and fight the foe,

with drones the pest will clear.

You’ll kill with reckless disregard.

just [Click Here]

You’re now apart

from head and heart.

It’s not too late, I fear

to reconnect with all that’s love

Do Not [Click Here]

 A small child’s cry,

a woman’s sigh,

soul music to your ears.

To feel the pulse of humankind

Do Not [Click Here]

He hated war, did my Dad

It's Remembrance Sunday here in the UK. Maggie Redding has shared this poem for the occasion.

War

The stories that my father told about the war

to end all wars, were tales of mud and wet and cold,

of fags, of bully beef, the roar of guns and bursting shells.

He spoke of gas, of mates, some killed or wounded

maimed.  Places listed, Arras, Ypres and Vimy Ridge.

There was a soldier boy, a German prisoner.

He fetched water for the British men in Flanders.

My father noticed that he had a limp. He moved

as though in pain.  ‘What’s up, then, mate?’

a homely phrase, so ordinary.  No hostile words,

no hate, no dread, only concern, humanity.

The fear that froze the prisoner’s face betrayed

the stories he’d been fed, that Brits they were a cruel,

 wicked race, they’d kill sick prisoners, they’d said.

The leg was wounded, bad and black. ‘Gangrene,’ Dad told us.

He had taken the lad for care.  Dad didn’t know if he went back

to Germany and lived on there.

He hated war, did my Dad.  Twenty years after that

He heard declared a new World War.

‘It makes you wonder,’ he would say.

‘Was it worth it?  What’s it for?’

Maggie Redding