53. Jane Sharp

A poet with two poetry collections, two novels and nine lives

Jane Sharp has been writing poetry since 1966 when she fell in love with her English Teacher, at Settle High School. She has self-published two novels and two collections of poetry. More recently she won the Nine Lives Slam in Sheffield and has headlined in Wakefield, and Morley. She has been published in The Dalesman, The Yorkshire Anthology – Valley Press, Dream Catcher, Voices for Change, and the online zines Fig Tree, 60 Odd Poets and The Starbeck Orion and broadcast on BBC Radio.

Her books, the latest of which is 'Cretan Whispers' (available from The Vault bookshop in Barnsley or direct from Jane herself), Tears From the Sun - a Cretan Journey and other books available online both as in digital and printed formats.

Poems

Barrel of Words
Church Mouse
Anything is Possible
In Transit
The Library of Kelsus
A Cretan Love Song

Barrel Of Words

This barrel holds words. Words that jostle, joust
nudge, bump, prod, combine, make perfect partners
hook up, multiply, string together, live

This vat of expectations is full of
words that are shifting amoebas seeking
white space to blot, a blank canvas to scar;

to colonize, inhabit, mingle, mix,
play mind-tricks. Words that long for the skilled lips
of a poet to de-mute them; dispute 

analyze, fantasize, criticize, prize.
Tap the barrel, pour a long, lingering
line of words, savor the joyous taste of 

sounds that wrap around the tongue. hot, spicy
words that prickle, prick, irritate. Warm, words
that comfort, calm, relax. Soft, tender words

words of love that shape our world; words that bring
happiness, pleasure, gratification
contentment, serenity, joy and peace

Choose the best words from the barrel; use them
to create a beautiful, peaceful world

<<< 

Church Mouse

This man, who reads the scriptures, wraps his hand
around his wood, his fingers feel its strength
its grain, his chisel finds the mouse within
It makes him smile; it makes the angels sing

This pew, delivered by his hand, is place
beneath the Norman arch in open nave
forever set in rank and file, a zone
now safely packed in coloured glass and stone

This tinted dust falls down in filtered rays
on row on row of Robert Thomas pews
like Terracotta soldiers hard and caked
they wait the sound of Christian Men Awake

This woman sits in silent prayer, her eyes
closed tight, her cracked hands clenched, her double chin
pressed down upon her chest, her un-creased coat
her warden’s best, takes on the scent of oak

This yellow duster in her hand, she takes
and makes a palm-sized rag, finds the bees’ wax
in her bag and carefully begins to seek
each creature, rubs until she makes it squeak

This mouse darts through an age of psalms and hymns
across the pulpit, lectern, window trims
and those who want can understand its braille
by feeling for it on the alter rail

<<<

Anything is Possible

In a universe of infinite possibilities
I am a green budgerigar trapped in a metal cage
Fearful of that other chirping birdbrain in the mirror
Saying Joey’s a pretty boy: Joey’s a pretty boy

I am a green budgerigar trapped in a metal cage
Not the greenest of poets flexing invisible wings
Saying: Joey’s a pretty boy; Joey’s a pretty boy
I’d rather be a yogi seeking the meaning of life

Not the greenest of poets flexing invisible wings
I am the person standing here reading this odd pantoum
I’d rather be a yogi seeking the meaning of life
pondering the bespoke incarnation I have been dealt

I am the person standing here reading this odd pantoum
Fearful of that other chirping birdbrain in the mirror
Pondering the bespoke incarnation I have been dealt
In a universe of infinite possibilities

<<<

In Transit

It’s in the minutiae of the moment
when a flat plane becomes swept-upness
when toes urgently search for ground, legs
dangle from the parachute-harness of
mother’s arms, stomach hits mouth leaving
part of you temporarily detached

Internal body fluids start to spill over.
Maybe it’s the wash of the moon, uneasy,
fidgeting, but you hang in, trickle urine,
dribble breast milk, listen to the drivel
of mother’s tongue, goo-goo ga-ga. Then,
down you go. Not lowered, dropped.

Faster than a bungee off the Forth Bridge
your insides still balanced round the nipple
your eyes still focusing. And the next thing – 

You’re strapped inside a carriage, swaddled,
stunned, looking up at the ceiling feeling
your existence in two places. Part of you
still rocking in the cradle. So, it begins.

You are in transit trailing atoms,
moving space after space after space, until
you’ve pushed aside the world and are floating
to the moon, floating to the stars.

<<<

The Library of Kelsus

I am outside the library at Ephesus,
where the bones of Kelsus, safe from splitting
stones, once rattled in his sarcophagus:
where Zephyrus toppled pedestals, fanned
wisdom-hungry flames through the façade, left
a pungent odour of charred papyrus.

And what of the words on that papyrus
gathered by the governor at Ephesus?
learned texts slowly inscribed to be left
for generations to ponder; splitting
the atom, it may have been a thought,
fanned by Zephyrus round the sarcophagus.

What was written on that sarcophagus?
Here lies Kelsus, keeper of papyrus.
Was he treated like royalty, cool-fanned
by virgins of Artemis, at Ephesus?
Did he read about Christ? Was the splitting,
Armageddon? His library destroyed, left

to overlay the ground with ashes; left
to flutter around his sarcophagus.
And on that day, the day of the splitting,
could no-one save a single papyrus
out of twelve thousand scrolls stored at Ephesus?
I blame Zephyrus. It was he who fanned

those flames, those intelligent flames, he fanned
the all-consuming fire, till what was left
was a quantum word tripping round Ephesus,
here, then there, around the sarcophagus.
Did it really need to be papyrus,
that idea? Was it lost in the splitting?

Did a hot centurion with a splitting
headache, curse the maelstrom of God that fanned
those foul-smelling pieces of papyrus
in his face, until the only thing left
was abstract, around the sarcophagus,
calling from the atrium of Ephesus.

Arete, not papyrus, words splitting
words at Ephesus, the worthy Kelsus fanned
by ashes, left on his sarcophagus.

<<<

A Cretan Love Song

How intricately dance the fingertips
while playing out our love on every string
and we are so absorbed within the sound
our bodies so in tune we’re bees in spring. 

Now picking up the pace swift lyra bow
states loud intent to note – It’s ten to three;
to pin the exact place where two hearts fall – 
this table underneath the olive tree

where shadows on the blue-white check shape-shift
the leaves. The last refrain decelerates
the melody now fades, the bow content
each note recalled, reeled in, the work complete.

Blue eyes connect; we share a wine-soaked kiss
the taste of Cretan music on our lips.

<<<

A Cretan Love Song appears in Jane’s latest book - Cretan Whispers