51. Val Bowen

An accomplished poet long awaited by the Sixty Odd Poets

Val Bowen has been a member of the Read to write poetry group for a number of years, she enjoys creating watercolour art and amazing drawings, but is sometimes reluctant to recognise the quality of he poetry. It has taken some persuasion to persuade her to join the fellowship of the Sixty Odd, but her writing speaks for itself as a testament to her creative ability.

Poems

Catlike
To Africa and Back
Coach Trip to Whitby
Intercession
Lorca's Rose
Sunlit

Catlike

I yawn, I stretch awake, investigate a sudden twitch,
habitually scratch my ear, rub spittle round my face.
Enough for now. A quick scout for any others prowling 
near. I must be sure to move away when dark comes 
to some fresher ground, a secret place I’ll discover. 
The bowl and I stare emptily at each other. My hunger 
says it‘s later than it should be. Two things are very clear.
One. They have forgotten me. Two. I must fetch them 
here. I head for the quiet where they rest, raise my paws
to peer at the long creature’s face, then look aside for
a landing spot, leap carefully into the space, tiptoe to 
and fro, stop, start to play, purr loudly a lot, stay patient,
toy with laying down, if all else fails claw and/or sneeze.
They know to keep to my routine. I know how to please.

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To Africa And Back

The watercolour wings,
perceived as far too 
frail to cross the ocean
width, in millions take
flight like thrown confetti 
hails and ride the wind .

A merest gram of
common Painted Lady
weight  descends to 
bask and contemplate
in warmth revived,
another continent.

She sets her wing heart
course to where the nettles
and the thistles thrive. 
Her larvae yet to come 
will all be undeterred along
the way, by any passing

shadow whims, will shelter
from the darkening skies, will 
learn where tongues unfurl 
will sense a pulse unheard,
an urge to fly, that beats them 
here, to Africa and back.

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Coach Trip to Whitby

If it wasn’t for the yellow Rape
the fields would fully dissipate 
to white washed, eerie , soft.   
The trees are huddled 
in a flock or stand alone
and pressed with no horizon left 
to separate  the earth and sky. 
Mother Die has let loose
Umbel froth across the green. 
I could stay and lose myself in this.
But loved ones, long since
disappeared into the mist,
 are urging me Get Up! 
Get Up! Somehow
I find the strength
to carry on
to lift my legs
to place them by the bed
and stand.
I will travel narrow roads ahead
remember how the verges pushed
the all encompassing aside,
hold on to find  the  absent sun
and say I tried. 

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Intercession

Along your grain
I feel my contour flow 
colours emanate
streak and blend 
into the magnitude
that never ends

We commune, align
as one, are sanctified
certain of our place
pure. And I would 
break bough first 
just to remain 

I will watch the clootie
cloth I pressed against
my chest and tied in offering,
disperse to wind and earth 
and nothingness
to free me from my pain   

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Lorca’s Rose

I wake
and scorn the gold
ceiling of day, so 
worthless to me.
I stay
within my window 
panes of almost sleep,
surrender to the dancing
scenes and shudder
at his stamping feet 

The circling beams
of heat and light 
that peep repressed
behind the slight 
of blind , tell me 
it’s after noon.
And only then
I pray. 
And only to 
the Moon

Selene, ride.
I wait
like Endymion waits
for you, in his repose.
Return to cloak me in
your purest white
so I may lay before
his feet tonight,
my confession
of a rose

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Sunlit

The cure all azure blue
illuminates your branches
hacked for winter walking sticks
now suddenly shot through 
with perfumed white abundance
as delicate as tracery of lace.
Is it the weight of all your flowers
that gently tip the sunlit hours 
into over brimming this first day
when you appear in a bouquet 
lovingly tied with bee clamour ?

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