Sue Robbins only turned to poetry a few years ago. She’s been published in The Frogmore Papers, given readings for the Poetry School and for Needlewriters, and workshops her poetry with a group of local poets.
I remember experimenting with the fundamental
things, like gravity and light (higher
until the ropes of a swing go slack;
trying to marry sleep with the dark),
distance – measured through the wrong
end of a telescope,
words that might connect people, one
to the other, to see if they’d trigger doors opening
or doors being closed;
with ways a small person in a vast space
survives, trying to touch the outer edges wearing mittens
on a string,
looking for means to get the base line verified.
Imagine the simplicity of linen,
of pages roughly hemmed in running stitch
then laid together in a heap and bound
along one edge to form a wild bouquet,
of ancient tapestry whose faded threads
lean in to lend their colours to the weft.
Imagine chapters written in the green
that arum lilies breathe into the evening,
where red the holly bleeds mutely into snow
is woven through the storyline as row
gives way to row. Imagine that a phrase
can sting you with the fizz of new acacia,
unnerve you on the blackthorn’s vicious sword,
arrest you on the stark relief of hoar.
Imagine names like flowers on your tongue –
Acanthus, Strawberry Thief, Chrysanthemum –
the ease with which you’d turn each felted page
that bears no imprint of an author’s name.