73. Rachel Burrows

A poet who works with children, but doesn't exclusively write for them.

Rachel and her stories grew up in Wales. More recently she has collected them from around the world whilst studying mosquitoes and teaching. Currently she works in the library of a school for teenagers with social, emotional and mental health needs, and contrary to popular belief there, is neither 100 or nearly dead - and doesn’t have hair made of library book pages. She walks miles through the Wiltshire countryside every day with a poetry prompt in her head and her dog, Fennel by her side. Favourite writer – Dylan Thomas.

Poems

Stifled 
Musing about Rejections during a 1:1 Literacy Intervention
Sliding Doors
Earlier
Pre-Loved
Wandering Stars
Moving On

Stifled

By the time she twigged
morning glory was bindweed,
she’d been overcome.

She’d been overcome.
Morning glory was bindweed 
by the time she twigged.

She’d been morning twigged
by the time she was bindweed
overcome glory.

Glory overcome.
She was twigged morning bindweed
by the time she’d been.

The glory twigged by.
She’d been bindweed time. She was
overcome.  Morning.

<<< 

Musing About Rejections During a 1:1 Literacy Intervention

…unfortunately…
…unfortunately…
What’s the point, Miss?
…whilst we loved your work…
It’s a waste of time!
…not too disappointed…
Can’t be bothered!
…didn’t feel a connection…
Writing’s shit!
…subjective…
…wasn’t right for us… 
This is crap, Miss!
…wish you well…
…thank you for trusting us…
Fuck off sun!
It’s in my eyes!
…unfortunately…
…unfortunately…
Can I go now?
It’s break time.
See you tomorrow.

…delighted!


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Sliding Doors

#1
When she’d finally used the door 
for firewood,
the wolf was free to come and go as he pleased.
In the dying glow,
he offered his coat
and yellow eyes.
Pelted and pawed,
she entered the night.
Left tracks
in the snow.

#2
When she could no longer keep 
the wolf from the door
she invited him in.
And fleeced him.
Degloved,
divested of fur,
he fed the kids.
She stepped out,
pelted and pawed,
warm 
and full to the core.

<<<

Earlier

There’s a skein of frosted horse-hair
by the stile.
It’s coarse 
and balances
like a frenzied signature
on the wakening field.
Dawn.
I see it sizzling on a kiln-red pot,
writhing 
and thrashing
for that carbon second
when it became
indelible.
The pony scratches his arse on the fence
and I remember 
that I don’t do pottery,
let alone raku.
But I wonder if I might have.

<<<

Pre-Loved

At the clarity shop
there’s a hat 
for every sodding home he’s laid down in.
Glad rags, red rags. 
Old bags.
Old boots, 
tired soles, 
so worn out. 
You’re so tight-laced!
Shoes, never walked in.

Ties, 
not many,
she thought there would be more.
Faded babywear,
a green-hooded bathrobe –  a monster perhaps
and a blazer.

She sees it all
laid out
in the clarity shop.
And knows 
it is tat

and time to leave.

She dumps her load by the exit
and skips next door
to the do-it-yourself.

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Wandering Stars

Was I ever a twinkle 
in another man’s eye?
The one from swimming who went to the Olympics…
The surgeon from tennis who owned his own car…
The chemist from Chester who painted her portrait…
I could have been tall 
I could have been black 
I could have been …
I could have been.
But I belonged to a Swansea man
with twinkling eyes
and magic charm.

Her own dawn was breaking
by the time I arrived - 
number three – 
and the last.

Were you ever a twinkle
in my dad’s eye?
Some of you look familiar.

<<<

Moving on

She collected her tears
in a spoon
and left them
in the sun - 
until she could see 
the facets
of her 
sorrow

and use them to flavour her eggs.

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