On Reading War Poetry while Listening to Jazz

Across the grass the stumbling
sax spills grace notes into my lap
painting the sky red. The almond air
 
curls round the honeysuckle,
the poplar’s long shadow
a finger pointing.
 
Twilight: the ghost of a mother
stroking a baby’s brow as he dreams.
When he wakes she’s gone.
 
Is it separation, or fear, or the power to kill,
that makes men lonely, each in the shell
of his skull, the fallow deer haunting his dark?
 

Janet Fisher

in collection Life and Other Terms, 2015, Shoestring Press,
ISBN 978-1-910323-27-4

 
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Blast from the Past

Are you still in those boots,
knee-high with fringed flaps
and fishnets? And the shorts!
                green for Robin,
                                 blue for Aladdin,
                                                 silver for the prince.
Pantos close quickly these days.
Perhaps you’ve moved on:
provincial productions –
Vagina Monologues, The Crucible.
You’d make a good witch.
Or out-of-town previews,
ignored by the critics.
Did Tinseltown never beckon, or Holby?
Or are you resting,
flipping burgers, jigging on poles
in a theatreland pub, eyes alert
for chances, keeping your hand in?
 
I caught you on Five the other week,
dressed as a bear.
 

Janet Fisher

in collection Life and Other Terms, 2015, Shoestring Press,
ISBN 978-1-910323-27-4

 
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Birthday

As I turn the tap
fruit-flies shiver
over skin and core
 
scent of grass sifts
on the breeze
                an open window
 
cool June
a voice from next door
summoning
 
this time of year sweet
air melts sense into singing
words I can’t follow
 
water from a blue cup
soothes my tongue.
                A ripped nail
 
torn to the quick:
‘that could put
someone’s eye out’
 
my eyes are out
of sync blurring
sight with symbol
 
fruit-flies settle     clouds
                deepen
                                 into thunder
 
my heart stretches,
a landscape
soaking up rain
 

Janet Fisher

in collection Life and Other Terms, 2015, Shoestring Press,
ISBN 978-1-910323-27-4

 
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The Moon and Arlo

The harvest moon
in a scarf of cloud
whitens the fields.
 
Jupiter rests by its left flank.
There’s a lot to think about.
The stars are humble, waiting.
 
Sheila’s eggs are small moons
naked in the Petrie dish ready
for a strange act of love,
 
the best to be picked,
implanted in their warm bed.
It’s the date my mother died.
 
After four weeks
my son texts ‘heartbeat!’
The moon’s full.
 

Janet Fisher

in collection Life and Other Terms, 2015, Shoestring Press,
ISBN 978-1-910323-27-4

 
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