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?
POKER PLAYERS
POKER PLAYERS
Magnolia time,
Each tightly folded and curving bud
Glittering palely in the street lamp’s light.
No-one walking out,
Not this early in the morning.
Only magnolia shadows awake,
Playing tag with rain puddles
Catching the moon.
What a game,
Both players hidden from sight,
Flicking joyful flashes of silver
Into the grey morning,
Into the quivering air.
Hiding their great strength and skill.
Poker players!
Both of them.
Holding winning hands,
Slapping them on night’s waiting table,
Challenging each other in storm and fury,
Until they fall out.
Lose patience.
Let’s hope they play nice tonight.
© 2023 Gwen Grant
WINDFALLS
THANK YOU to everyone who has been posting while I’ve been ill.
The Posts have given me a lot of interest and I have greatly
appreciated them. They also encouraged me to get to grips with a new
poem! Thank you again.
I have seen crows attack birds in the garden. They are ferocious and
seem to move around in groups of two or three when this happens. As
fast as I am getting into the garden to stop them attacking, they often
don’t seem all that alarmed by my presence. They do fly away but with
a definite reluctance.
WINDFALLS
Pheasant on the fence,
Setting the cold air on fire
With its coloured glory,
All darkness and burning flame.
The little flashing magpie scoots
Out of its imperious way.
Sober dove takes cover in the leaves
Of the apple tree.
Jealous of this Autumn beauty,
Furious at its greed
As it gobbles windfall apples,
Round and green,
Leaving nothing but a scrap
Of apple peel.
Watch out,
You two,
Those tree-top crows
Are hungry, too.
©2023 Gwen Grant
YESTERDAY’S DREAMS
The dark red dahlias seem always to be the last flower to give in to the
onset of winter with their big shaggy heads, firm stems and dark strong
leaves, yet often when they have given up, one small daisy appears,
sometimes even with pink tingeing their tiny petals, as if in complete
defiance of the frost.
YESTERDAY’S DREAMS
This garden is in retreat,
Dark red dahlias heralding the end.
Yesterday’s dreams already lying down
With their heads on the pillow.
A hard frost killed the pale roses.
But this garden acknowledges no retreat,
Defiantly flowering one final daisy.
Today’s dreams already on their toes,
Waiting to get a move on.
©2019 Gwen Grant
Poems by Gwen Grant 