Liz Diamond
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Liz had dreamt of being a writer since the age of six, and although it took her until her early thirties to start to write consistently, the dream never left her. Poetry was her first choice of medium, mainly because she had always loved it, but partly because writing poetry seemed easier to fit into a busy life, bringing up two sons as a single mother, and working as a teacher in a unit attached to a psychiatric hospital in Hertfordshire, where she certainly saw life in many of its most distressing and sad circumstances. These experiences have certainly informed so much of her writing.
Liz was amongst the prizewinners at a number of notable poetry competitions during her thirties and early forties, including the Ver Poets (twice), the Barnet Open and the Blue Nose Poets. She has been published in poetry journals such as New Spokes, The Interpreter’s House, Acumen, Iron and Poetry Durham, and a pamphlet of her work was published by Mandeville Press, a handset press run by Hertfordshire poets, John Mole and Peter Scupham. Liz eventually went on to do an MA in Writing at Glamorgan University, focusing on writing poetry under the personal tutelage of Gillian Clarke, the now Poet Laureate of Wales. The anthology of poetry entitled ‘Windfalls Weighing Down The Heart’, which was the outcome of the MA, found publication under the imprint of Palores Press, a small press based in Cornwall. After this, Liz found herself wanting a new direction and took up writing a memoir based on her difficult childhood. An extract of this won her a place on the year-long writing mentoring scheme, organised by Book Trust in Norwich and funding from the South West Arts scheme enabled her to take time out from supply teaching to work on her first attempt to write a novel. That novel - An Accidental Light - was taken up immediately by an agent and sold within three days of being pitched to the editor of Picador, as part of a two-book deal. It all seemed like a dream come true, and for a long time she was walking on Cloud Nine. The second novel - Underwater - was written and delivered. But as neither novel attracted the attention of the reviewers and therefore make good sales since then Liz has had to come down to earth. After being in the wilderness for a few years, not sure of her sense of direction, Liz is now enjoying new challenges - undergoing counselling studies, painting in acrylics and mixed media, and writing poetry again. She won the Poetry Teignmouth’s festival ‘Keats’ Footsteps’ competition last year, with a poem based on the refugee crisis, entitled ‘The Right Answer’. The same poem also was awarded ‘Highly Commended’ in the Open Competition. |
THE VISITOR
He walked through the garden
past the flowering dogwood
and the juniper tree.
His sandals left no imprint
on the ground.
She stood in the scullery
kneading dough for bread
her thin feet cooled by flagstones.
He told her his name
and what he had come for.
She hardly heard what he said,
saw the clarity of purpose in his eyes
the slim hips under his garment
the perfect bow of his lips.
She knew she had Virgin
emblazoned on her forehead
knew that this was her weapon
and her gift.
She did not resist him
when his shadow fell upon her.
She felt the thrust of her destiny
saw the blood on the ground.
He left as quickly as he had come.
She placed the dough
on a high shelf to rise
went out into the garden.
She sensed the quickening
of the dogwood, saw the wild red roses
spreading against the parched stone wall.
She wasn’t afraid. Although
she knew in the winter
that the garden would be desecrated
all the blossoms wilted and gone
even the fruits torn from their stems.
Only the ever-green of the juniper tree
would keep its faith and its silence
with what had happened that day.
VISIT TO A CATHEDRAL
Like the blind girl in the Rilke poem
Pearl’s turned mystic, stands transfixed
before the stained glass
eyes rolled heavenward.
She doesn’t see the sea-blue wave
of the virgin’s veil,
the child cradled tenderly.
Yet something has moved her.
Perhaps she feels the gravitas
of stone beneath her feet,
hears in the cathedral’s vaulted void
the centuries weight of prayer.
I wait, hesitant
to disturb her reverie
and remember how after Yoga last week
she woke from meditation,
turned to me, clutched my arm –
My body’s turned to light.
Her voice breathless, rushed with joy.
She wakes, turns to me again.
Jesus died. And I’ll die too.
She says it easily, unafraid.
Her eyes are shining.
SOMEONE WALKED OUT
(For Raymond)
He walked out that evening
saying he wouldn’t be long.
They let him go. It was a Sunday.
There was Heartbeat on the television,
gossip from the changeover staff.
Heartbeat was followed
by the nightly ritual of baths.
Pills handed out, washed down
with Ovaltine or hot chocolate.
Someone looked at their watch.
Someone mentioned his name.
Someone worked out how long
he’d been gone.
No one thought that he wouldn’t come back.
Patients went missing.
Patients were lost and found again.
No one was to blame.
There were no psychics here, no one
who could see that he had no future.
Someone answered the phone.
Someone reported back to the staff.
He lay half hidden by brambles at the foot of the bridge.
No one knew whether his mind had been fixed
on darkness or light when he jumped,
whether he thought he was flying or falling.
Someone talked to the sergeant
who came routine calling.
Someone wrote a report in his case notes.
Someone opened the cabinet and filed it away.
In the morning someone mentioned his name and what had happened
to the changeover staff, who came bringing in the outside world again,
along with the rain and the morning papers.
He walked through the garden
past the flowering dogwood
and the juniper tree.
His sandals left no imprint
on the ground.
She stood in the scullery
kneading dough for bread
her thin feet cooled by flagstones.
He told her his name
and what he had come for.
She hardly heard what he said,
saw the clarity of purpose in his eyes
the slim hips under his garment
the perfect bow of his lips.
She knew she had Virgin
emblazoned on her forehead
knew that this was her weapon
and her gift.
She did not resist him
when his shadow fell upon her.
She felt the thrust of her destiny
saw the blood on the ground.
He left as quickly as he had come.
She placed the dough
on a high shelf to rise
went out into the garden.
She sensed the quickening
of the dogwood, saw the wild red roses
spreading against the parched stone wall.
She wasn’t afraid. Although
she knew in the winter
that the garden would be desecrated
all the blossoms wilted and gone
even the fruits torn from their stems.
Only the ever-green of the juniper tree
would keep its faith and its silence
with what had happened that day.
VISIT TO A CATHEDRAL
Like the blind girl in the Rilke poem
Pearl’s turned mystic, stands transfixed
before the stained glass
eyes rolled heavenward.
She doesn’t see the sea-blue wave
of the virgin’s veil,
the child cradled tenderly.
Yet something has moved her.
Perhaps she feels the gravitas
of stone beneath her feet,
hears in the cathedral’s vaulted void
the centuries weight of prayer.
I wait, hesitant
to disturb her reverie
and remember how after Yoga last week
she woke from meditation,
turned to me, clutched my arm –
My body’s turned to light.
Her voice breathless, rushed with joy.
She wakes, turns to me again.
Jesus died. And I’ll die too.
She says it easily, unafraid.
Her eyes are shining.
SOMEONE WALKED OUT
(For Raymond)
He walked out that evening
saying he wouldn’t be long.
They let him go. It was a Sunday.
There was Heartbeat on the television,
gossip from the changeover staff.
Heartbeat was followed
by the nightly ritual of baths.
Pills handed out, washed down
with Ovaltine or hot chocolate.
Someone looked at their watch.
Someone mentioned his name.
Someone worked out how long
he’d been gone.
No one thought that he wouldn’t come back.
Patients went missing.
Patients were lost and found again.
No one was to blame.
There were no psychics here, no one
who could see that he had no future.
Someone answered the phone.
Someone reported back to the staff.
He lay half hidden by brambles at the foot of the bridge.
No one knew whether his mind had been fixed
on darkness or light when he jumped,
whether he thought he was flying or falling.
Someone talked to the sergeant
who came routine calling.
Someone wrote a report in his case notes.
Someone opened the cabinet and filed it away.
In the morning someone mentioned his name and what had happened
to the changeover staff, who came bringing in the outside world again,
along with the rain and the morning papers.