Marc Woodward
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Marc was born in the USA but has spent most of his life living in rural England, which is often evident in his writing - along with reference to his activities as a working musician.
He has had poetry published in anthologies from Forward Press and Ravenshead Press; in various magazines and webzines including Otter, The Broadsheet, Ink, Sweat & Tears and on the Poetry Society and The Guardian websites. |
Beyond Broadwoodwidger
Let us suppose your car packs up
out here. Beyond Broadwoodwidger,
St Giles On The Heath, Virginstow.
It is night - but here a darkness
that lives on these shapeless acres.
You walk the twisted lane a mile
then seeing lights you cut across.
Fields, hedges, a dark shadowed copse.
Fields, a gate, the woodland edge.
What do you feel? You feel the quiet
brief breath of an owl; silence after the fox's cough.
What do you hear? You hear the weight
of condensation on the grass,
a vast ocean of bending blades.
A hundred rabbits knew your sound
through the earth, long before the air
announced your voice or waved your scent.
Here there is nothing to save you.
If you lie down now this wet ditch
may be your decomposing place.
Who will find you? Only strangers.
Still the dark place will keep moving,
eating, weatherbound, star stared.
Out here, in the eyes of spiders,
the fright of jays, the quick knee-jerk
of a cricket's ear, a moment
considered, passing, forgotten.
The only trace: a disturbance
in the scent blown down from the wood;
an imprint on the retina
of a cow's large soft eye, fading.
First published in 'Otter - New Devon Poetry' c. 1993
The Oystercatcher 11pm 18/7/2013
The door is open
to let in a breeze
and let out the heat.
Anne is playing a spiritual
strumming on a
left hand guitar
while a young girl
hula hoops
outside the bar
her bare feet
slapping the
warm tarmac
of the quiet street.
I've played my songs
and I'm knocking
back a beer
thinking how
odd this feels,
how tropical,
sitting here
this hot
this late
So I've made
these words
to mark the date.
And remind me
when people say
"what was it like -
the Summer it didn't
rain every day?"
'Editor's Pick' at www.poetrycircle.com 19/7/2013
Crisis
Parked up by a wringing wood
on a crack-backed country road,
I shut down the lights and from the boot
took out a wrench: unflinching, cold.
I placed my mobile on the damp black tarmac,
glinting in the light from the open car,
and laid savage into the bastard thing.
I watched its shattered face fragment and fly,
numbers flicking out across the road.
I kicked the remnants to the side.
Lying down on the ground I saw moonlight
reflecting in the oily chippings;
felt gravel grit into my cheek.
If I could drive blindfold I could go,
avoiding all the places that I know.
Like driving in a foreign land
where all the signs are free of symbols;
faces are those of strangers, simples:
blandly unconcerned.
Instead I drove home, trousers wet from grass,
gravel on my cheek, to quietly explain
how I was mugged and someone
stole my phone again.
Published in 'Making Contact', poetry anthology, Ravenshead Press, 12/ 2012
Let us suppose your car packs up
out here. Beyond Broadwoodwidger,
St Giles On The Heath, Virginstow.
It is night - but here a darkness
that lives on these shapeless acres.
You walk the twisted lane a mile
then seeing lights you cut across.
Fields, hedges, a dark shadowed copse.
Fields, a gate, the woodland edge.
What do you feel? You feel the quiet
brief breath of an owl; silence after the fox's cough.
What do you hear? You hear the weight
of condensation on the grass,
a vast ocean of bending blades.
A hundred rabbits knew your sound
through the earth, long before the air
announced your voice or waved your scent.
Here there is nothing to save you.
If you lie down now this wet ditch
may be your decomposing place.
Who will find you? Only strangers.
Still the dark place will keep moving,
eating, weatherbound, star stared.
Out here, in the eyes of spiders,
the fright of jays, the quick knee-jerk
of a cricket's ear, a moment
considered, passing, forgotten.
The only trace: a disturbance
in the scent blown down from the wood;
an imprint on the retina
of a cow's large soft eye, fading.
First published in 'Otter - New Devon Poetry' c. 1993
The Oystercatcher 11pm 18/7/2013
The door is open
to let in a breeze
and let out the heat.
Anne is playing a spiritual
strumming on a
left hand guitar
while a young girl
hula hoops
outside the bar
her bare feet
slapping the
warm tarmac
of the quiet street.
I've played my songs
and I'm knocking
back a beer
thinking how
odd this feels,
how tropical,
sitting here
this hot
this late
So I've made
these words
to mark the date.
And remind me
when people say
"what was it like -
the Summer it didn't
rain every day?"
'Editor's Pick' at www.poetrycircle.com 19/7/2013
Crisis
Parked up by a wringing wood
on a crack-backed country road,
I shut down the lights and from the boot
took out a wrench: unflinching, cold.
I placed my mobile on the damp black tarmac,
glinting in the light from the open car,
and laid savage into the bastard thing.
I watched its shattered face fragment and fly,
numbers flicking out across the road.
I kicked the remnants to the side.
Lying down on the ground I saw moonlight
reflecting in the oily chippings;
felt gravel grit into my cheek.
If I could drive blindfold I could go,
avoiding all the places that I know.
Like driving in a foreign land
where all the signs are free of symbols;
faces are those of strangers, simples:
blandly unconcerned.
Instead I drove home, trousers wet from grass,
gravel on my cheek, to quietly explain
how I was mugged and someone
stole my phone again.
Published in 'Making Contact', poetry anthology, Ravenshead Press, 12/ 2012