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Janice Fixter  (         - 2012)     about Janice      back to Janice's page

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pages at June 2008    

A More Fluid Way of Being               Earth Mother

         Driftwood           Walking the Hawk


A More Fluid Way of Being


Driving past a sign that offers

sea shimmer plants for sale,


we do not stop to ask, but wonder

if these plants always remember


the language of ocean.

Through granite, sandstone, basalt,


volcanic hardened lava flows,

emotional geology,


we learn that roads must bend and curve

through shale and landslip,


that we exist between rock

and rock.


We pull off road

to glittering sea. Ripples


remind us of a more fluid way of being

quicksilver light and water.


Gannets dive and plunge,

sparks of sun falling from the sky.



Janice Fixter

published in Agenda;

in collection, a kind of slow motion, 2007,

tall-lighthouse, ISBN 978-1-904551-30-0




Earth Mother


My children grow in flowerpots

with crocks of Gaudi mosaic,


volcanic glass. They thrive

on leaves from English autumns


dug around their stems.

Bamboo stakes teach them ritual,


the way to compromise,

guide tendrils along the wall.


They absorb acid rain,

Sahara drought and warfare,


surging radio waves.

The text of frontline reports,


explosions, spatter unfurling leaves.

They twist towards the light,


sap still rising, crack the boundaries

of their terracotta homes,


release scent of green and cordite

from strange blossoms.



Janice Fixter

published in nth position;

in collection, a kind of slow motion, 2007,

tall-lighthouse, ISBN 978-1-904551-30-0







A whisper of Old Norse on my lips,

I can feel the island language floating inside me


pieces of driftwood in my blood.


With my back to the sea,

the colours of blackened mountains,


the purples, the yellows

and every shade of sky


absorb me.


There’s a glacier, almost mint green

in the clarity of this light.


I want to lick it.


It will seal my tongue to a language

from which I can create only a small fire,


barely enough to warm myself

when the snow comes.



Janice Fixter

published in Poetry Salzburg Review





Walking the Hawk


January is at its best


damp and greyness

stroke my bones.


I climb through barbed wire

by the Darent surging foam,

frothing full mud


and we walk along the tufts

and earth of the bank,

along its ancient track.


On my hand,

close to my body,

a darkness of feathers


talons own my thumb.


For a moment there is only

the hawk, the grey light, me.


A twig snaps underfoot

and he is away,

cast into the air.


This is the wolf of the sky

circling, restless.


He swoops and settles

on the limb of a beech.


I am walking on,

looking over my shoulder,


trying to pick his form

from the twist and clump of branches


I am never out of his sight.



Janice Fixter

published in Wandering Dog;

in pamphlet, walking the hawk, 2005,

tall-lighthouse, ISBN 904551- 16- 5;

in collection, a kind of slow motion, 2007,

tall-lighthouse, ISBN 978-1-904551-30-0


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