Chardonnay

I wrote this poem last year, after a special moment with my son last Christmas…

Wine

It is civilised,
beans on toast swished down
with non-alcoholic Chardonnay.

Generic classical music, Radio 3,
Silence from lips often throwing
flames and shrapnel.

‘This is awkward’ you say,
sophisticated words,
and we share a movie moment.

You read a poem,
and for a time, I feel 
Bohemian, and 

I forget 
that life is not art. 


© Sarah Drury 2021










Winter Solstice 2022

Hope everyone had a happy solstice and Yule, and wishing you a very merry Christmas with everything beautiful for 2023! Here’s a little poem I wrote!


The sun has slipped below
the monarchy of the moon
its cool, harsh Winter glare
clings on, a moment longer

From here, the days have turned
The daylight stretches out its
icy respiration, Pagan gods
and goddesses scatter

blessings on the crackling
mirror-glaze Earth
the sparking lanterns
lifting jovial voices into

balmy, freeze-breath skies.
We merrily turn our faces 
upwards, praise the solstice
pray for hope reborn. 

© Sarah Drury 2022
 





Ophelia (1910)

after John William Waterhouse

              Be thou as chaste as ice:       as pure as snow:
    your purity a catechism.
                 
 Flowers grace your palms, in repose.
                          Get thee to a nunnery:
                                     a virgin?      Can we know?
                                     
 Anoint your flame hair -
                                thou shalt not escape
                                     calumny:    your visage:
                   
your chaste lips, a phantom kiss
                   cheeks smarted rose with denial.

                                The trees are vessels of your        sorrow.

                                                 Ophelia,     love is a dead Hawthorn. 




Waterhouse, J.W. (1910) - Ophelia [Online] Available at: " https://arthive.com/johnwaterhouse/works/255253~Ophelia"

Shakespeare, W. - Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1 (Hamlet to Ophelia)

39 Degrees

39 degrees

 

Today I could cook my breakfast

on the pavement, spitting there,

between the doc ends and

discarded cheap-lager cans. Save

 

on the energy bills, al fresco

cuisine – dine with the homeless. The

eggs would gaze up at me like that

woman’s breasts sweating in her

 

Lycra, skimpy top. The sun has

hit pasty limbs hanging from

cheap shorts, chests bared to

the air – Men thinking that is

 

what we women want to see, as

we point, and ponder unbaked

baguettes. 39 degrees and we

are pink cuts on a butcher’s slab.

 

 

It (a poem)

My son is struggling at the moment with school anxiety. This is for him...


*It*

Another photo – kid in school uniform - 
new ribbons in plaits doused in nit repellant
Smart hair £8 at the foreign barber’s in town

*Insert shop label* (elitist?)
*Insert school* (abbatoir?)
*Insert toothpaste brand* (fake toothy smile?)

I am not allowed to refer to *it* (school) - that hellhole
I am screamed down, sworn at; *it* demonised

*it* is not a quirky grin on your face when you get home
*it* is not a spring to your heels as you see the bus
*it* is not a babble of news about your day of learning

Maybe you will stream through the door
This morning, like the sun yawned til you woke
Maybe chirp, ‘love you, you loon’…

Put on your uniform, slick your hair
Guzzle pop-tarts for breakfast, cup of cha
Smile, ‘bye mum,’ as you hop on the bus

Maybe not…