Here are some poems that made it to publication in August 2024.
East Anglia bylines colleague Kate Moore drew my attention to the imminence of Poetry Bears' Picnic Day 2024. I responded with an article showcasing poems I had written at various times between 1985 and 2018 on the subject of bears. Some of them had featured in this blog already.
Allow me to present a couple that haven't.
BEARS
True, bears are solitary and not lovable.
True, I stopped buying teddy bears as the window sill filled up.
True, we did not meet the bears we saw in their sunken field at Whipsnade.
True, most bears live rather a long way away.
True, bears do not cater, and cycle only under duress.
True, 'The 59th bear' by Ted Hughes includes a cautionary tale.
True, Christopher Milne's story casts shadows on tales of Pooh.
True, Britain's way with foreigners, in 1958 and in 2018, adds to the implausibility of Paddington.
True, my childhood behaviour jars on my childhood identification with Rupert Bear.
True, confusion may arise from saying bear to mean lover, partner, or on that spectrum.
True, I wearied colleagues by the conceit.
BUT
It also remains true that Clare rhymes with bear.
I like this sort of bear.
Bears was written in 2018 as my response to prompt 26 in Jo Bell’s book 52: Write a poem a week. Start now. Keep going. The brief was actually for an erotic poem, but as chapter author, Neil Rollinson, went on to explain:
Let’s write an erotic poem that’s about other issues: illness, growing old, familial and domestic disappointment perhaps…Let something else carry the focus, or energy, and let the erotic take a back seat.
So, that’s what I did. The conceit in the final five lines explains the other poems presented here. I do not have a fetish about bears, but they supply a vocabulary. Clare, as most readers of this blog will know, is my wife, the lecturer and science writer Dr Clare Sansom.
CLARE CONTRASTED WITH A BEAR
Bears do not cook the food I eat;
bears have enormous claws on their feet;
bears dance to the pain of a metal beat.
Bears cannot bike, or teach, or write;
bearskin offers no gleam of barelight;
and an ursid bear would not incite
a poem to compete.
The idea of exploring the contrast between a bear in our sense of a lover, partner, or on that spectrum, as in the first poem, and a genuine ursid bear, came about after Clare suggested I enter a Valentine poetry competition, I think run by BBC Radio Three, in 2007.
If you read the article, you'll see that Clare herself contributed a recipe to it, for flapjack to feed to participants in such a party as was envisaged. From the golden brown of flapjack and most teddy-bears it's a short step to the gold of jubilees.
Ledbury Carnival celebrated its golden jubilee in August 2024, and Robin Fortune-Hiseman, who was responsible for designing and printing the programme booklet, asked if I had any poems about carnivals or gold that he could use. He wasn't commissioning a new poem, just asking me to search in my poetry back catalogue. I sent him this from 2012, which was written originally for the Keats-Shelley Memorial Competition and satisfies the requirement for gold if not carnivals.
BUS HOME FROM WORKING SUNDAY
A golden purchase:
honey cashews bought to draw
pound coins from a note,
with first-class stamps included
as if to be virtuous,
and tweets from the bus
about rules against working
Sunday and against
writing self-impositions.
Twitter's golden not guilty
for exploration
of the gold in little things,
gold found while thinking
of something else; grain harvest
by-product of the searched earth.
Some of you may discern a kinship, in the use of the 'gold' motif, between that piece and Robert Horan's poem 'The queen's face on the summery coin', known to me through Samuel Barber's setting. I believe my use of the motif is different enough for this not to be a matter of plagiarism.
