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Click title to open microchap
Cover: Hall photo by JanK
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Reflections
The fixings remain
half moon screws, chrome washers.
The mirror has gone,
taken by the previous owner.
I do not mind.
I do not want to see
that crumbling face each morning.
More lines, puffy eyes,
red cheeks, thinning lips.
Gravity does its work.
Enough for me the mirror
hanging in a gloomy hall;
enough to see to comb my hair,
do up buttons in the right order,
fling a scarf.
In another bathroom
wall to wall cupboards are
mirrored inside and out.
Let the brave and beautiful
admire themselves in there.
mirror writing
a
strange
and useless
talent or skill
my mother in law’s ability
mirror writing ta eht pord fo a tah
no matter she was painter poet expert cook
hands and brain working together
what everyone recalls
is her
mirror
writing
Inheritance
Sitzendorf porcelain
two cherubs
roses lily of the valley
framing a once pretty face
a wry smile acceptance
time to hand it on
Grandmother wrapped it in Brussels lace
Years go by
youthful contours blur
skin wrinkles hair coarsens
I look in the mirror
and see my grandmother’s face
time to hand it on
I must look out the Brussels lace
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Face
Mirrored
at my shoulder
stands a pale-faced woman
like me, and yet not
grown old like me:
dead twin.
Published The Poetry Box 2012
Phenomenon
When he died
she stopped
looking in the mirror
avoided eye contact with that empty shell,
combed her hair by Braille
for two years, but didn’t realise.
Never spoke of it.
When the poet’s son died,
he wrote a Sad Book.
He stopped
looking in the mirror
Oh, she thought, not just me.
Still she never spoke of it.
When her daughter died
she stopped
looking in the mirror
One day she did speak
to her son in his grief
for his sister. He said,
I don’t look in the mirror either.
Sightless
My face is smeared with the mud of years,
as is hers, flesh dissolved.
Careful fingers brush away the dust,
resurrect a mirror.
Their speculation is mistaken.
I did not turn back light.
I let light through, gave her the sight.
Far-seeing, she grew wise.
Mist hung over the fen all day.
She failed to scry danger
tramping across the timber causeway.
No warning given, no time to flee.
A sword swung, slashed her slender neck.
I slipped from her dead hand.
Displayed now with bits of broken comb,
rusting tweezers, I am sightless.
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Diane Jackman © 2023
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Click title to open PDF microchap
Cover: Adaptation of photo by Randall Nylof - fineartamerica.com
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King Crow
See, his bill is edged with gold,
his crest a feathery flame.
Past and future come together
in his garnet gaze.
His roost in the elm is higher
than common crow can soar.
The iron grip of his talons
kept hidden from the flock
His shoulders hunch to the wild wind.
He turns his head from sight.
He folds his wings like a barn door
and keeps his secrets.
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After a painting exhibited in “A Murder of Crows”
Ferini Gallery Suffolk 2017
Magpie’s Lament
I am now the victim,
Larssen-trapped.
My cries draw down my mate.
I know his flight, his feathers.
In vain, I shriek a warning.
I am too late.
Arrogant as ever,
He hops in
Beyond my bars
And will not escape.
Battle-eve
I see raven claw
bird of slaughter
second beast of battle
with grey wolf
dewy feathered eagle
cold eye for carrion
companion of the dead
sea stallion prow
banner fowl
bonehouse scourer
waymark to Valhalla
you will greet me
tomorrow.
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Misunderstanding
Country cottage, no thatch,
two bedrooms, a garden and a rookery.
My instructions were clear.
But not to an estate agent
with bad handwriting.
His excited voice cawed down the line.
I’ve found the perfect property.
Pantiled roof, two bedrooms.
I can’t wait to show you the garden.
Ugly stones culled from the field next door,
piled haphazard, greenish water
dribbling over ersatz nymphs.
He pointed a triumphant finger.
Have you ever seen such a magnificent rockery?
Unmistakable
Dandies of the black suited race
the jay flashes blue and bronze
against white may blossom.
While from his rocky cliff
the chough clad like his sober kin,
except he sports scarlet stockings.
Idle Jackdaw
It is no hardship
for me to be
the good omen
at her wedding.
I need only fly down
from my twiggy nest
on the tower staircase
and cross the bridal path.
Tchack tchack I carol,
incline my silvery head,
and augment the blessings
of her joyful day.
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Diane Jackman © 2021
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Click on above title to download PDF microchap.
Cover Ivy art, Phil Pattinson
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Note:
'The Brigadier-General takes up gardening'
Displayed at the New Milton Arts Centre,
Hampshire in 2009 as one of 100 poems to
celebrate 100 years of the Poetry Society.
'Encounter at the tea tent'
Previously published in Poetry Space
competition anthology
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Every microchap
may be downloaded
for free
from this website.
(Set printer for landscape)
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Elderly Truant
I ought to be making chutney
not drifting down the river
in an electric milk float
trailing my fingers in the glittering water
looking for kingfisher blue flash
ducking willows pondering
people’s lives in the houses on the riverbank
I ought to be cleaning the church
not reading a book
and especially not poetry
wandering through the minds of other people
hearing their thoughts
challenging their opinions
applauding their choice of words
I ought to be mowing the lawn
not sitting in the green shade
watching the weeds grow
glimpsing the sun’s dance through
scented walnut leaves stringing words
on the frayed rope of my imagination
but there’s always tomorrow.
Encounter at the tea tent
Dried-out by July sun
and infinite herbaceous borders
we waited in orderly line.
‘Excuse me,’ said the voice
well-modulated, half-apologetic,
‘May I watch your mannerisms?
I have to play a clergyman.’
He gave me a rueful smile,
as if the job were not quite respectable.
I sat straight on my chair,
over-courteous to my wife.
Would he make notes,
store gestures in his memory,
practice them surreptitiously
behind the brochure stand?
The way I hold my cup,
and stir my tea,
and raise it to my lips,
and swallow.
I declined a vanilla slice.
Previously in Poetry Space competition anthology
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Why I have never done
what I always wanted to do...
When I was twelve I used to watch
black and white films
on wet Sunday afternoons.
How I longed to dance
the tango with George Raft,
but I didn’t know the steps.
When I learned to tango, he was barred
from Britain for illegal gaming.
I didn’t have the fare to America.
Now he is dead;
and I have forgotten
how to dance the tango.
The poet curses a fellow poet
May your teeth crumble to ash
And not in a dream.
May your winning lottery ticket
Slip through a grating.
May the ink in your pen
Congeal to slime.
May those words on the edge of memory
Stay in the shadow.
I am cursed with a desire
To write poetry
And I curse you in turn - because
I know you are a better poet than I.
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Diane Jackman © 2019
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Diane Jackman's poetry has appeared in small press magazines and anthologies, and has won or placed in several competition. Starting as a children’s writer she now concentrates on poetry. She is passionately interested in medieval rabbit warrens and Anglo-Saxon literature.