Spinning Mule 2
The mule spindle sings click-clack click-clack
All the way down the row and all the way back

The thread that it pulls slick-slack slick-slack
Is from cotton piled high in the poor picker’s pack

The break in the thread snip-snap snip-snap
Draws a boy to the belly of the loom slip-slap

The spindle carriage roars clip-clap clip-clap
The boy reaches in tip-a-tap, tip-a-tap

The machinery judders, 
the boy’s body shudders
The dusty air eddies, 
the boy’s breathing steadies

He catches the weave second time – a reprieve
Then he’s off to the edge tick-tack don’t look back

And the mule spindle sings click-clack click-clack
Yes it sings as it spins click-clack click-clack.

Spinning Mule 2

A response to Mid-Term Break, by Seamus Heaney

I remember the first time I read this poem in some anthology 
Of modern work. I embarked on the reading, thinking to myself,
“I don’t really ‘get’ Seamus Heaney” – when from nowhere, I was crying.

I don’t think – in that moment – I had Alex in mind,
Although I can’t read the poem again without remembering
His four-year-old face, blue-eyed and expressive, holding me to account.

I think it’s simply that Heaney built up in me that queasy unease,
The grown-ups all behaving all wrong towards each other and to him, building
A weighty sense of something wrong, which broke as a wave on the last line. 

Even now, in reading the poem again, the sudden tears prick my throat
Right as I’m telling myself that the impact has slackened
Given the benefit of familiarity with the sucker punch of his reveal. 

I love the simple words, the inconsequential detail about 
The neighbour family’s car, the awkwardness of a school boy, 
Always treated as a child, now finding himself greeted by his elders as a man.

I wonder whether I “catch” the tears directly from Heaney’s own sensibility.
I wonder how his view of his parents, crying and overwrought, altered then.
I wonder about shadows lingering at the cot of the laughing, surviving baby.

I have three nephews, no children of my own, nor step-children either.
The well-being of these boys is the focus of my inter-generational care, 
For hoping the worst ravages of climate breakdown can be turned aside.

But this poem tells me – the bite of bitter loss survives the intervening years.

Responding to Mid-Term Break

Rage is the thing with wings

Rage is a real oddity. 
Rage is nocturnal and solitary.
Rage occupies the same 
Home range for many years. 

Rage is mottled, moss green.
Rage forages on the ground 
And climbs high into trees. 
Rage often leaps from trees 
And flaps its wings, 
But at best can only manage 
A controlled plummet.

Rage is entirely vegetarian. 

Rage’s diet includes: 
Leaves, buds, flowers, 
Fern fronds, bark, roots, 
Rhizomes, and bulbs, 
Fruit and seeds. 

Rage’s diet varies seasonally.

Rage breeds in summer and autumn, but
Only in years of good fruit abundance. 
Rage is a lek breeder, 
A breeding system 
Characterized by 
Aggregations of 
Sexually 
Displaying 
Males.

The males are visited by
Receptive females 
Who appraise 
Male displays 
And actively 
Choose mates, 
Yet receive 
No direct 
Benefits 
Such as assistance in parenting.

Rage is critically endangered, 
And is therefore the focus of 
Considerable conservation attention. 

It is very unlikely that any rage exists, 
Other than at a few managed sites.

Rage usually freezes 
And relies on cryptic colouration 
To hide itself from predators. 

It is a completely ineffective strategy 
To avoid predators that hunt by smell.

Rage has no close relatives. 

Grief and anger are the only species 
With which rage might be confused.

Image is sourced from Kakapo Sirocco / Wikimedia Commons. Image file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

Rage is the thing with wings

Third time happy

I missed my first graduation ceremony – deliberately.
I couldn’t bear the thought of all those eyes
Weighing me up as I tried to walk
The ever-extending length of 
The aisle dividing the hall. 

I attended my second graduation ceremony – reluctantly.
I flushed scarlet at the thought of those eyes
Weighing me as I tried to edge up
The ever narrowing width of
The narrow chapel aisle.

So far, I have missed my third graduation ceremony – 
The one I told myself I will definitely attend
No matter which eyes weigh me
As I dance along the aisle
In my shiny scarlet gown.

Third time happy?

[I already feel like this needs cultural notes - let's just say that it's based on lockdown arrangements from various points in the English version of COVID-19 lockdown, 2020-2021.]

Do not go maskless into Marks & Sparks
Lockdowners know the drill - it's Hands, Face, Space (&)
Clap, clap beside your neighbours in the dark.
 
Although 12 million doses hit their mark
Because the vaccinated still show grace, (they)
Do not go maskless into Marks & Sparks
 
Good children,  walk your puppies in the park
While daily lockdown lessons you must ace - then
Clap, clap beside your neighbours in the dark.
 
Wild men who caught the virus for a lark 
And learn too late the doctor's out of space
Must not go maskless into Marks & Sparks
 
Grave men, near death, appear on posters stark 
"Tell me you broke the rules, then - to my face" - (&)
Clap, clap beside your neighbours in the dark.
 
A few months more, to finish up this work - 
So until then, until we've run the race
Do not go maskless into Marks & Sparks - but
Clap, clap beside your neighbours in the dark.

Lockdown Villanelle (After Dylan Thomas)

Vemödalen, noun – 
The sorrow and frustration
Brewed at Instagram.

My astonishing sunset
Lost in a crowd of sunsets.

Vemödalen- An Obscure Sorrow

Prayer [Two nonets]
Will you hear me at this early hour?
Will you hear me when I call you?
Will you hear me at this hour?
Will you hear me calling?
Do you see my search?
Do you see me?
Do you see?
Do you
see?
Why
Linger?
Why linger?
Why linger there?
Why linger far off?
Why linger far from me?
Why do you delay, my Lord?
Why do you hesitate to come?
Why do you hesitate to answer?

Prayer

Stare through the window… 
And hope for inspiration
A glimmer, a spark

The white full-faced moon stares back.
“nothing to see here”, he says.

Through the window

Song: The way through NaPoWriMo
[After John Donne, but less bitter]

Go and chase that straying rhyme
Up the path and through the gate;
Tail it closer all the time
As it leads you to your fate.
Find the cave of lost ideas - 
Songs and sonnets stacked in tiers - 
Or wend,
My friend,
Slowly, gently round the bend. 

Such a pilgrimage were sweet
If you manage to return.
Keep your head and find your feet -
Poems are hot, your heart will burn.
Though you think you can control it
Sense will fly - the rhyming stole it.
All day
You'll stray
As NaPoWriMo leads the way.

When you come to April's close
Take a moment, take your time
Put your feet up, smell a rose - 
See, you're thinking, still, in rhyme! 
Was this wealth of form and structure
Just a bit of playful fun, or
A curse?
Or worse?
Now you'll always think in verse!

A song for NaPoWriMo

Cinderella at Science Club

I’m the girl that never gets your attention
I’m chunky, clunky and my clothes aren’t the THING
I’m never with the cool kids after school in detention
Don’t get to wear the ringlet-hair ringleader’s ring.

But in secret at Science Club I’m working on a rocket
And when it’s bought by NASA and the contract’s in my pocket
I’ll book my hair and makeup – so the mean girls cannot mock it 
I’ll gate-crash the school disco then my bouncer guys will block it 

I’ll be the unexpected bombshell from that movie SCENE
Where the weird clever shy girl becomes the prom Queen - 
Then I’ll make out with the science nerd – the Head Boy will be GREEN
And the mean girls (in the corner) will be sorry they were MEAN.

Cinderella at Science Club

Forgetfulness - A Pantoum.

Action research amateur using poetry, collage and pics to engage with climate crisis and other social justice issues (yes climate crisis is /also/ a justice issue). "It's Dr, actually".

Paula Aamli

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