Susan Jordan
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Susan Jordan
Susan Jordan moved to Devon in 2011, having lived in London for the greater part of her life. She is glad to have escaped from the city and loves being near to Dartmoor and the sea. She read English at Oxford, has an MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University and has always written both poetry and prose. Before joining Jo Bell's online poetry group '52' in 2014 she saw herself mainly as a prose writer, but since then poetry has played a greater part in her writing life. She has had poems published in a number of magazines and anthologies and is an active member of Moor Poets, as well as a regular attender at Poetry Teignmouth. Her first collection of poems, A House of Empty Rooms, was published by Indigo Dreams in 2017 and her second collection, I never think dark will come, will be published by Oversteps Books in 2021. |
Words
sometimes they spread like cobwebs
over gardens grown lush with looking
imprisoning leaf and colour
in their sticky
net
sometimes
they land in pairs on the table
as you eat your breakfast
R-number hand sanitiser
excess deaths two metres
sometimes they go missing
just when you need them
most
to stop
the world
slipping
away
or to say I don’t believe this
sometimes you find them spinning
grey threads from your mouth
to a head and shoulders
flattened on a pixellated screen
sometimes you can remember
the different taste they had
before you had to
speak them
from
behind
a mask
Resurrection
No one has explained
how ashes become bird
how the egg of flame
feathers molten bone
how fire solidifies
into beak and talons
how a dazzle of sparks
alights as arched wings
how flight dares upward
from the last lost ember.
‘A fin in a waste of waters’
– Virginia Woolf on beginning to write The Waves
look
a whole book
empty for you to write your thoughts in
what a dare a shark’s fin
slicing through crinkled water that
laps
and then slaps
against you you keep diving to find
those places in your mind
where writing will surface again
wait
not too late
to dive once more for the hoard you missed
the long-ago drowned kist
where memories lie half-open
pull
a handful
from the inside gently guide them up
soon they will flower cup
each one in your hand let it speak
know
how their slow
unfolding brings you closer to words
to voices not yet heard
take your pen go after the fin
My House
After Denise Levertov
She’s someone who keeps her eyes open.
Sometimes she forgets to shade them
but she guards her modesty.
She welcomes you in but lets you know
the way to her heart is narrow
and not easy to find.
She likes to dress tastefully
but maybe overdoes the jewellery.
She doesn’t shy away from colour.
Her grooming leaves much to be desired
but you can’t help admiring her chutzpah
in showing herself as she is.
She’s someone you could settle down and talk to,
a good sort, a shoulder to cry on,
an ample bosom, a strong pair of arms.
sometimes they spread like cobwebs
over gardens grown lush with looking
imprisoning leaf and colour
in their sticky
net
sometimes
they land in pairs on the table
as you eat your breakfast
R-number hand sanitiser
excess deaths two metres
sometimes they go missing
just when you need them
most
to stop
the world
slipping
away
or to say I don’t believe this
sometimes you find them spinning
grey threads from your mouth
to a head and shoulders
flattened on a pixellated screen
sometimes you can remember
the different taste they had
before you had to
speak them
from
behind
a mask
Resurrection
No one has explained
how ashes become bird
how the egg of flame
feathers molten bone
how fire solidifies
into beak and talons
how a dazzle of sparks
alights as arched wings
how flight dares upward
from the last lost ember.
‘A fin in a waste of waters’
– Virginia Woolf on beginning to write The Waves
look
a whole book
empty for you to write your thoughts in
what a dare a shark’s fin
slicing through crinkled water that
laps
and then slaps
against you you keep diving to find
those places in your mind
where writing will surface again
wait
not too late
to dive once more for the hoard you missed
the long-ago drowned kist
where memories lie half-open
pull
a handful
from the inside gently guide them up
soon they will flower cup
each one in your hand let it speak
know
how their slow
unfolding brings you closer to words
to voices not yet heard
take your pen go after the fin
My House
After Denise Levertov
She’s someone who keeps her eyes open.
Sometimes she forgets to shade them
but she guards her modesty.
She welcomes you in but lets you know
the way to her heart is narrow
and not easy to find.
She likes to dress tastefully
but maybe overdoes the jewellery.
She doesn’t shy away from colour.
Her grooming leaves much to be desired
but you can’t help admiring her chutzpah
in showing herself as she is.
She’s someone you could settle down and talk to,
a good sort, a shoulder to cry on,
an ample bosom, a strong pair of arms.