THE NEW BRIDE by Catherine Smith Dying, darling, is the easy bit. Fifty paracetamol, bride-white and sticking in the throat, ten shots of Johnny Walker, and the deed is done. A twilight day of drowsing, then the breathing slows to a whisper, like a sinner in Confession. Death is dead
Teenage Room by Paul Wooldridge My mother speaks in detail, I avoid her tired gaze and stare at local headlines, folded double down the page. She talks of calls and records, staying strong and on the go. I know I should be helping, be of use, keep up the show.
Widow’s Villanelle by Paul Wooldridge Beneath the darkened upper floors you smile and wave, left on your own, with stillness waiting through each door. Redundant now, your faithful chores, that once supported fragile bone beneath the darkened upper floors. That one is left is nature’s flaw. The tiring
This is the second poem we have have published by Paul Wooldridge. You can find the first here. Paul started writing poetry following the death of his father and as a result much of it deals with death and grief. Paul is not a poet in the fulltime sense of the word,
The Soul by John Whitworth The soul is like a little mouse. He hides inside the body’s house With anxious eyes and twitchy nose As in and out he comes and goes, A friendly, inoffensive ghost Who lives on tea and buttered toast. He is so delicate and small Perhaps
Roadside Flowers by Paul Wooldridge The trees along my route are wrapped in flowers, quickly passed each day but only noticed by a few. Their colours burst then slip from view as each is lost, submerged in grey, their brightness all too quickly sapped. 23668
Japanese Maple by Clive James (who is dying) Your death, near now, is of an easy sort. So slow a fading out brings no real pain. Breath growing short Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain Of energy, but thought and sight remain: Enhanced, in fact. When
No Time In a rush this weekday morning, I tap the horn as I speed past the cemetery where my parents are buried side by side beneath a slab of smooth granite. Then, all day, I think of him rising up to give me that look of knowing disapproval
Mickey, Cormac and Cathal Mac Connell at the funeral of their brother, Seán Mac Connell When my father died The professionals cried, The undertaker and doctor. Little more need be said Of a man with a heart of gold Locked in a tabernacle of arthritic bones who could melt
In case you missed it, there was one of those stunning, magical moments on the radio on Sunday. On Broadcasting House, Emilie Blachère, a reporter for Paris Match, read a love letter/poem to her partner Rémi Ochlik, who died in Syria alongside Marie Colvin last year. Hear her read it on the
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