6. Tracy Dawson
A poet steeped in the life, heritage and tradition of the South Yorkshire coalfields
Tracy Dawson was born and bred in a small village in the Dearne Valley in South Yorkshire where both her father and grandfathers were employed as coal miners. She still lives close to her roots, having relocated only as far as the nearby Don Valley. She has been an active member of Read to Write since 2017 and was a founder of the Lippy Women poetry performance group.
Black Nore Review recently featured her poem Blackout. She has also been published in anthologies by Maytree Press/The Poetry Village, Ripon Poetry Festival and Calder Valley Press and will have a piece included in the forthcoming edition of Dream Catcher. Tracy has also contributed to several published pamphlets/collections by proof-reading for typos/errors and other basic editorial tasks. She has delivered workshops on Gjertrud Schnackenberg and Edward Thomas’ Household Poems.
Her poetry combines a sense of heritage and tradition with an eye for the detail of the life that she observes going on around her.
Poems
Grassroots
Sunday’s sacrificed. Today we worship on the hallowed turf of our local park. This is how it begins – six and seven years old. Boys and girls in their football boots, the trampled clay and Spring’s green shoots. They’re giving it their all and their best shots. Dads on the touchline re-living their youth, they say they could have played for Rovers but… It’s a game of hard knocks, learning the rules of life and offside. Wearing golden boots like slippers on glass bones, future stars shine on the centre circle. They pass the ball and their mate crosses, scores the winning goal, it’s all about the team and taking part. The seasons pass by – freezing in the low divisions of Winter snows and Spring rains we pray for sun and the Premiership. These are the days of glory we live for. Now, they are still followers; travellers of the kingdom doing the ninety-two. It takes more than skill to cook a Sunday Roast while cheering and jeering from the side lines. We’ll never get our Sundays back – but then, there’s always the action replay. <<<
Dark Room
She was accustomed to the dark but flicked the switch anyway, turned on the safe red light. In that monochrome world she looked beyond the flat square of the transparency. A slide held between her finger and thumb. Life through a lens – the magnified eye. Was hers a life lived in colour, or black and white? Beneath silver liquid her latent image revealed then fixed on the other side. <<<
Typist
She turns the winder and a fresh leaf rolls around the spindle. ‘Dear Sir…’ From her hands life stories revolve around the barrel as her fingers stroke the keys to life. Ink runs across the page until the bell rings at the end of each line. Speed matters - the carriage clatters along at the force of each strike. She tries to make it right first time. Everyone makes mistakes but it’s hard to erase full lines or whitewash a page in Tippex. She sets her margins to stop words falling off the edge. Her thumb thumps space between letters before they tumble over the drum. She drags the lever to return. ‘Yours sincerely…’ Ink dries and letters fade at the end of the spool. Time to unwind a new ribbon. <<<
Honesty
We used to grow Honesty in gardens, where seeds of truth ripened in paper moons. Visible in translucent silicles – so flat and fragile. The sun-scorched circles’ skin peels. Revealed and naked, holding tight to stems, suspended above what now lies on earth. The fallen fruits of autumn sour, covered by a deep whitewash of snow. Dormant through a cruel winter, seeds cling awaiting a change in climate. They hang on, biding time through the changing seasons until the right moment to sow themselves. <<<
Men Don’t Pause
After fifty years men don’t pause to think about a visit to the moon – don’t even pause to look at her. They saw her as one-sided, flat, but now watch as her full curves fall over the hills and vales. Her light may dim in hazy mists. She sinks as darkness tries to swallow her. Some nights she is only half there. A half of herself that doesn’t have strength to pull all oceans. So she tugs and tows what little sea she can. The blood moon comes less. Rare. Is saved for special occasions. Stars wink, she blushes hot and cold. She takes her lipstick, paints her lips bright red. <<<
Fake
If all writers’ wives looked like you. Your face is all I want to see. The sun peeps in through the window. Deep fake tans your raw hide dirty. You come on TV, and excite viewers, present cheap naked lies and show how to whip up a storm. It smacks a slap in their faces. They adorn stars with your image. One day all women will be you. <<<
Charm Bracelet
it was love at first sight a gentle blow of silver sent it spinning i love you charmed and chained love heart padlocked my love for the church fell out with the lord’s prayer <<<