I am noodling with a word this morning. Sometimes I just have a word introduced to my consciousness and later  explore its etymology. Lovely things etymological dictionaries! It was floated as a potential middle name for my husband. He was one of twins. But this was back in the day before you had scans. He was literally the “Oh my goodness, Miz Cuckson, there’s another one here!” baby. I’ve struggled with poetry practice this morning and am not entirely happy with it. Even a little happy. But I offer you a luscious digital collage by Gregor Wright seen in Glasgow Museum of Modern Art as a featured image. Consider it a consolation prize. In the meantime, I must be off to a classroom of eager 10-12 year olds who attend a gorgeous two-room school in the uplands of West Cavan. 

This poetry practice is not all about triumph. It just keeping at it, chipping away at a monolith with mind and words.


A turn up with a gasp

or blast from your long dead past.

Like a prodigal plant in the garden

that is an exotic,

possibly problematic,

or a baby delivered in the cabbage patch.

It’s the seizure following the long siege,

the tremors when facing the final attack

and soldiers evacuate

the wooden horse.

It’s being shaken right down

to your very boots.

The earth quakes. Or you do.

But hey! You still have boots!


Boots and limbs, beating heart and face.

It was never meant to be a party.


having survived it

is also


Copyright 2019 Bee Smith

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