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138 x 216mm
£11.00 + P&P UK
PUB: 8th May 2020
F O R E S T
moor or less
Dawn Bauling Ronnie Goodyer
BOOK OF THE MONTH
Poetry Kit, July 2020
Cover design by Ronnie Goodyer
Bright brands today
gamboge and cadmium
blazing over the Roseland
and daffodil drift.
We have hurt eyes.
Fire beacons of gorse
singe the tops
shouting bud love
into the air’s lust,
of dandelion, cowslip,
We burn without sun.
Led down the path
to undercover Towan
quiet, in wait,
keeping its curled
close and clever
We wait for time:
its astonishing salve.
Misty Morning, Hildersley Fields
It feels eerie here on this muted chiming Sunday,
with the silvered waving horizon feathering sight.
Two stout trees, formed like weathered Yorkshiremen
stand guard to one edge of the faltering wood,
appearing and vanishing with perfidious profligacy.
The small oak bears the scattered ashes
of once-running dogs, who emerge on days like these,
to play again, enjoy the scents of happy trails
and burst the hearts of those left behind,
the devastated souls of devoted masters.
Corn stubble beckons yellow through the white,
stunted vague Van Gogh with sounds of footsteps.
Here too are the smoky conversations of death-or-glory
soldiers, billeted and waiting for the foreign fields
of 1940, in bucolic beauty prior to battles.
No crosses here, but late wild poppies
bleeding into the soil, watched over by the
land-girl crops of new generation farmers,
watched over by the wood’s intricate creatures,
their nacreous eyes holding this Sunday still enough
for the strolling love of one man and his dog.
This is true
This is true:
just as my small finger
seeks the curl of yours
in the cold night
to find the beat, beat, beat
of you living,
I know it is
that rhythms me daily,
and as I sleep, sleep, sleep
can finally sleep,
I am dancing to it.
Dawn Bauling is a graduate in both English and Library Science. She has won several poetry awards, been published widely in the poetry press and has two published collections: ‘Loud Voices in the Quiet Child’ (2008) and ‘Shippen’ (2014). She is co-director of Indigo Dreams, is editor of Sarasvati and Dawntreader magazines and with Ronnie was awarded the Ted Slade Award for Services to Poetry. She also works for the NHS as a Social Prescriber.
Ronnie Goodyer is Indigo Dreams co-director with six collections to his name. He ran his own Celebrity Management company where he handled projects for Uri Geller, cricketers Ian Botham and 'Jack' Russell, and DJ Mike Read among others. He published Uri’s first novel ‘Shawn’, Jack Russell's 'A Cricketer's Art' and poetry by Mike Read. He was on the BBC Judging Panel for their Off By Heart poetry competition (BBC2). Ronnie is also Poet-in-Residence for animal welfare charity
‘A great way to start the weekend’ – Sir Elton John
‘My weekend reading? This gem of a collection from Dawn & Ronnie’ - Gyles Brandreth
‘A joyous read’ - Literature Works
‘Vivid landscapes and seasonal changes are explored in sensual, imagistic language’ - Ink Sweat & Tears
‘I found you both between these pages is a beautiful way’ - Jim Bennett, Poetry Kit
‘Our senses fed every step of the way’ - Anna Saunders, Cheltenham Poetry Festival
‘A unique and beautiful book’ - Irisi magazine
‘A tonic in these times, like a refreshing walk in an ancient forest.’ - Nine Muses Poetry
The cloudburst by ancient Pizwell
had failed to muddy the track enough
to stop our boots and paws progressing
and the wind rustled just long enough
to flutter the lungta-style prayer flags
colouring the trees in the Lower Merripit vale,
communing with the hidden shrines
and ceremonial round houses.
The East Dart continued its story
through Bellever and sprayed the old
clapper bridge, designed for carts,
now beloved by catalogues and cameras.
And here I stand, knee-deep in September,
the sun now high and trees dripping apples.
Here you can swallow me whole
or place me with others frozen in time.
Walk me to the rise of King’s Tor
then drop me deep in the Walkham Valley.
Trace me the tracks of the Devonport Leat
to the heart of Foxtor Mires and let the call
of the meadow pipit be my only alarm cry.
Leave me here with the silence that haunts,
the heartbeat that feeds my serenity
and the wind that brushes over these words.
On things we cannot know
After another wet day
we take to the beach
for a late trickle of s u n
Down the slate track
from our borrowed home,
past the gypsy caravan, beyond.
He’s cracking slate, s k i m m ing
for a dog that’s loved twice.
His patience peels us both,
making hard layers
become known, soft, opened.
He smiles, above me,
talking of the dozen swans
he’s seen again and heard.
They are singing of things
we cannot know he says.
Perhaps in the shift we can.
In my skull’s cave
She holds my hand while sleeping,
as I lie beneath my mask of cold air,
contact safety in wherever she’s dreaming.
She rests in my skull’s cave until morning
where she’ll wake behind my eyes.
She wears red socks inside walking boots
as she sits content on her granite boulder
and with the movement of her green pen,
catches the wild in her bible notebook
until freeing it onto the page as a poem.
We walk a perfect day with Polperro painters
along stone-white cobbles and canvas,
this trinity of two legs, two legs, four legs.
weaving alleyways to the harlequined harbour.
Tonight she will hold my hand while sleeping
and in the morning she’ll wake behind my eyes.
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