Author: gwengrant

Growing older and having survived cancer at 40, a long time ago, certainly focuses the mind on the future and I was very aware of this when I wrote the poem FUTURE TENSE. I've always loved writing and still remember the excitement of the first longer piece of work I did. It was very experimental and I was certain it wouldn't get published. It probably wouldn't have but one of the small magazines, who did such great work for new writers, took that piece and many others. But that wasn't all they did. With infinite kindness, they often pointed out where I could improve my writing. My first book was a picture book, MATTHEW AND HIS MAGIC KITE, but after that, I started wanting to capture the humour and interest of where I lived, so PRIVATE-KEEP OUT came next followed by KNOCK AND WAIT and ONE WAY ONLY. They're not biographies because all I wanted to do was to catch the spirit of those times. It would be good if everyone wrote an account of their lives so their times are not lost. So many valuable histories unwritten and unread. When I was a girl, I loved the American writer, BETTY MACDONALD, with her very funny accounts of her family and her life in the 1940's. But NORMAN MAILER's, 'THE NAKED AND THE DEAD' spun me up to the stars when I stumbled across it in the subscription library I belonged to at fifteen. ERNEST HEMINGWAY's 'CHRISTMAS IN PARIS 1923', was so sublime and beautiful it was like a torch for writers and the Toronto Star Weekly must have published it with joy in their hearts. I wonder if there still is a Toronto Star Weekly?

TEN MINUTES TO ANY TIME

TEN MINUTES TO ANY TIME

The last time anyone heard a nightingale sing,
It was in the middle of the big field
At about ten minutes to midnight.
It was bitter freezing cold,
Pinching and snipping and biting
Any bare bit of skin it could find,
Turning every nose into a raw soreness
Until it was painful to be out there.

The frost was thick on the ground,
Still drifting down when they heard the singing,
So clear and beautiful it sounded like the voice of God.

Which was when someone said,
‘That’s not a nightingale, that’s the little stream
Sending its clear water over tiny stones.’
Forgetting the frozen river.

Then someone else said,
‘That’s not a singer of songs, that’s two owls
Calling to each other.’
But no-one thought so.

Finally, someone suggested it was a fox
Keening for another fox to keep it company.

The truth is, it didn’t matter who was the singer.
For those who want to, at ten minutes to any time,
They can hear a nightingale singing.

 ©2024 Gwen Grant.

                 

TREE IN WINTER

TREE IN WINTER

The winter tree is full of birds,
Each snootily ignoring the others.
Concentrating on disappearing
Into small bundles of feathers.
Fierce little eyes threatening
Anything that attempts to shift them
From their bit of branch,
From their tiny hiding place
In amongst the twiggy darkness.

At least until the seagulls come
With strong bodies and hungry winter eyes.
Always on the look-out for a sustaining snack.

Then they’ll have to think again,
Have to hutch up until they entirely vanish
Into crooked black lines bleak drawn on the sky.

For they all know it’s only
When those hard beaks have moved on,
That the seagulls will go hungry.

                                       ©2024 Gwen Grant.

PURELY EDUCATIONAL

PURELY EDUCATIONAL

The expert talked at tremendous length
About history,
About sculpture,
About ecstatic revelation
Through painting
And surprisingly, about knitting.
Or, maybe, it could have been weaving.
She’d lost consciousness for a moment there,
Lulled into sleep by his steady voice.

Of course! Weaving!
Well, whatever it was,
That scrap of gold cloth
Was ancient and beautiful
And should be languishing in a museum.
Exactly where it was now.

Without pausing for the expert
To catch his breath,
The little group found they had moved on
Into the room full of Roman heads.
Meeting all sort of ears and mouths.
‘And this!’ the expert gently intoned.
A finger hesitating over a perfect marble nose,
Then sliding down the air.

Not touching the lovely curving lips
That disturbed the smooth and shining face.
‘With, look!’ the expert breathed,
‘Look at this tiny indentation of the chin.
This,’ he went on, ‘is why I love them.
‘Love them,’ he repeated huskily.
For these heads are the most beautiful
That have ever been.’

She woke up then.
He loved them? He did!
She could see the tears in his eyes,
Feel his passion for that unsmiling marble face
She was hungrily gazing at,
As it caught her in its eyes.

In the end, it was love at first sight.
Ignoring the yelp of the expert
She cradled that cool face between her warm hands,
Leaned in for a kiss
From those curving, sensuous, waiting lips,
That she swore, kissed her back.

They had to make her let it go.

 ©  2024 Gwen Grant

                 

WORDS RISING

Going through a difficult time, thoughts of all those we loved
helping us back to a much needed balance, brought this poem.
They bring with them prayers, some spoken out loud, some
spoken in the heart. All we love, cherished.

WORDS RISING

Hope,
Tough as old boots,
Flowering
In the hardest places.

Stem,
Leaf and colour
Defeating
Time.
Demolishing
Distance.
Bringing Love.

Making it new
All over again.

                   © 2024 Gwen Grant

THE TOOTH! THE TOOTH!

THE TOOTH! THE TOOTH!

To my certain knowledge,
I have never done anything
To that tooth.

Never bitten straight down
Onto a walnut shell,
Never forgotten to clean
The wretched thing,
Brushing on brand new toothpaste
To keep it clean and shining.
And this is the thanks I get.

A devil with a pitchfork
Prodding its pulsing perfection
Into flame and furnace.
Laughing when streaks of pain,
Volumes of agony,
Pour into this demented molar.

‘Bit sore, eh?’ smiles the Dentist,
Holding over me the longest needle
The world has ever seen.
‘A sharp sting,’’ he grins and plunges
This vicious implement straight in.

Which is when the Road Mender appears.
DuhDuhDuhDuhDuh, he drills,
And my whole body freezes,
Until I hardly dare move for fear
My face will fall to pieces

‘All done!’cries the cheerful torturer.
The pain has gone and I’m up
And out of that chair in a flurry.
In case he finds something else to do.

But I’ll tell you one thing,
I won’t forgive that tooth in a hurry.

                             ©2024 Gwen Grant.