Tag: poet

The last rose

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~there is beauty in death

I remember seeing an old episode of ‘Tales of the Unexpected’. It is a British show based on the stories of Roald Dahl. The show ran between 1979 and 1988. This particular episode, ‘The Sound Machine’, is set in a sunny suburban summer before the Second World War. Mr. Klausner develops a box which amplifies the tiniest sound. It records the screams of flowers as they are being cut. I was 11 years old and very disturbed by the idea of plants feeling pain! This memory stayed with me. I am now 55 and always feel sad when I see flowers in a vase. Although they are beautiful, I am much happier to see them in the garden.

I wrote this poem as I was gazing at a vase of roses on my living room table. The blooms had wilted and there were petals on the table, shriveled and pitiful. A saddening sight.


Rose

How proud was this rose. Its deep
pink petals were velvety and rich.
My hand brushed over a swathe of
suitors hurling bouquets at my door.

The gerberas, all sunshine yellow, resonate
with optimistic women; yoga mats and chai lattes.
They cling to life, fronds of petals falling.
The table littered with near death.

Now the rose shatters, though my
gentle hands cup its parch-dry petals.
As though love can bring back the broken,
like Jesus and the old bones of Lazarus.

The deep pink has faded to the lips of a
dying woman. She waters the garden
every evening, yet still the flowers
shut their eyes.

©2022 Sarah Drury














Poetic Reflections on Time and Nature

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Death of a swift

I am a clock.
How many chimes
until I am

a swift?
A blackbird?
This is a fine song.

I weave blue ribbons
in my hair to catch 
dragonflies. 

Their lace wings
shroud my eyes.
A womb gorged 

with embryos waits
til the next time 
I die.


©2024 Sarah Drury

Blackpool Tower

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Many, many years ago I had a very frightening experience. I was young – around 14 – and my life pretty much revolved around playing the cello. I joined an orchestra in Lincoln, which is a fair drive away from my hometown. An older man, must have been sixty-plus, used to give me a lift there. There were usually several of us, but this one night I was alone with him on the journey home. He stopped his car and made a very inappropriate move. It was dark, and he had pulled his car over to the side of the desolate country lane. I screamed and went ballistic, which must have taken him aback, as he quietly drove me home.

That is the backstory for this poem. Blackpool Tower is a metaphor, but I won’t explain and ruin the images your mind will weave as you read!

The layby takes me back 
to the lanes not lit up 
like Blackpool Tower, where I fell, 
illuminated by blown bulbs.

I should not have been hitching rides
with dirty men, him telling me 
we couldn’t make babies 
with his thing choked in rubber.

His death would be better.
I would prefer a cadaver.
Stiff fingers, curled, like questions.

His wife.
Evenings, he slipped into her.
The usual in, out, in, out.
Nothing in it for her. 
Never is.


Copyright © Sarah Drury 2022

When the Sea Was Origami

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The leaves on the tree shimmer,
catching the breeze, casting
my mind this way and that.

I have words circling my head,
clattering around - flitting
between memories and dreams.

What did I have?
What would I like?

I want it all and none of it.
It is all inside, cloaked in smiles.
The sunshine cannot let

the moon control the tides. 
The sea is calm, tacit; it ripples.
Wavelets are origami ships.

My dreams are beneath 
an ocean heart. 
Blue. 

Serene.



©Sarah Drury 2023

‘Am I a Poet’ & ‘Working Tax Credits’ live performance

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Here is my live performance of my poems ‘Am I a Poet?’ and ‘Working Tax Credit’, at Away With Words open mic night, November 21st, Off the Road Live Lounge, Hull.