Transportation Press: Featuring the Nottingham Writers’ Studio

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We’re featuring three poems by Pippa Hennessy, Project Director for the Nottingham City of Literature campaign and director of the Nottingham Writers’ Studio.

 

My Garden, Sixty Miles From the Sea

1.

this is the wrong island

2.

the MS Oldenburg bounds across the Bristol Channel

my stomach churns

an old man wearing blue dungarees

and a dishevelled demeanour

waves binoculars at a pair of guillemots

dolphins fold the waves like silk

the Rat Island oystercatchers shout

welcome, welcome, look at me, look at me

hammers on the hold door reply

we’re here

3.

red wine swells nine voices to climb

torch-beams to the glass-captured moon

a burnished beetle follows me

from the seals’ playground at the tip of Brazen Ward

to Long Roost, where ten thousand razorbills

and eight puffins nest

a dunlin trips over my feet

on its way to the next puddle

skylarks, invisible, fill the sky

five adults and seven children picnic

by the concrete engine block

of a WWII German bomber

I wish the gulls would hush

as a newborn lamb takes its first steps

two puffed-up pigeons huddle and grumble

by the one-roomed cottage where I shiver

and can’t sleep for laughing

4.

I am never more than half a mile from the sea

the sea which is always flat and grey

when I return to the wrong island

 

Author Bio:

Pippa Hennessy has published poetry, short fiction, graphic short stories and  creative non-fiction in various magazines and anthologies. She is Development Director at Nottingham Writers’ Studio, Project Director for Nottingham’s UNESCO City of Literature bid, and works for Five Leaves Publications. In a past life she was a software developer, but she’s feeling much better now.

Transportation Press: Featuring the Nottingham Writers’ Studio

800px-Robin_Hood_statue,_Nottingham_Castle,_England-13March2010

We’re featuring three poems by Pippa Hennessy, Project Director for the Nottingham City of Literature campaign and director of the Nottingham Writers’ Studio.

 

In Old Light Cottage

A threadbare armchair enfolds me

the flue howls back at the gale

that portrait of Wellington gazes

out of the window at the lighthouse.

Handwritten scrawls fill the log book

not mine, not yet.

June 28th 2000

Saw a puffin. No time to write.

Boat leaving soon. Sad to go.

August 13th 2000

Another lovely stay. Did lots

of walking.

Then twenty-three and a half pages

in one hand.

October 23rd 2000

…The electricity went off at 12:23

tonight. I had to get up to go to the loo

at 2:14. The flue kept me awake for 3 hours

and 47 minutes altogether…

That October, when he wrote that,

we were here for six days

and another

because of the storms.

Slipping and sliding

down the Clovelly cobbles, our pink labels

matched his.

Hello. We’ll be neighbours

he said, standing too close.

I turned away to laugh with my friends.

We drank and tied our tongues in knots

in the lighthouse, for six days

and another.

The girls won all the games

and I fell in love

with this peat-topped block

of granite, glued by the Gulf Stream

to the Atlantic’s edge.

We celebrated the extra day,

he complained

his train ticket would expire.

Now I know too much of what he did,

when the flue screamed.

He didn’t write that he asked me for

a safety pin

to hold his trousers up

so he could get to North Light

on schedule.

He didn’t write

that our singing woke him up

when the boat was cancelled.

His review of the garlic bread

served in the tavern

was detailed

and informative. He didn’t mention

that we sat at the long table

playing bridge

loudly while he ate, alone.

He wrote:

7:58am, I washed up.

8:13am, I took the rubbish

out to the bins.

He didn’t see

the oystercatchers digging for worms

just behind the cemetery wall

or the gravestones

of medieval chieftains standing

where they had stood for centuries.

He didn’t hear

the seals singing as they rode the storm.

He didn’t feel

the spindrift skidding like rabbits

across the heather.

A threadbare armchair enfolds me

the flue howls back at the gale

and I write

18th April 2002

I am here.

 

Author Bio:

Pippa Hennessy has published poetry, short fiction, graphic short stories and  creative non-fiction in various magazines and anthologies. She is Development Director at Nottingham Writers’ Studio, Project Director for Nottingham’s UNESCO City of Literature bid, and works for Five Leaves Publications. In a past life she was a software developer, but she’s feeling much better now.

Transportation Press: Featuring the Nottingham Writers’ Studio

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Over the next three days we’ll feature three poems by Pippa Hennessy,  Project Director for the Nottingham City of Literature campaign and director of the Nottingham Writers’ Studio.

 

Quarry Beach

Do you remember the old ladder?

its broken step halfway down,

thorns scratching hands that clung

to ropes

and rotting wood.

We climbed down anyway

to where great granite eggs

make thunder under the waves.

Our bare feet took us over seaweed

and limpets

to see orange beaks

flash past, crying look at me

and we wished we could fly.

A seal swimming southwards

as usual

stopped briefly:

why do beasts with such long flippers

refuse to play with me in the waves?

One stone on another, we built

a tower to remind the sea

we were here

for a while

I sat, warming my back, hatching

an image

of the sun and the sea

and of you

 

Author Bio:

Pippa Hennessy has published poetry, short fiction, graphic short stories and  creative non-fiction in various magazines and anthologies. She is Development Director at Nottingham Writers’ Studio, Project Director for Nottingham’s UNESCO City of Literature bid, and works for Five Leaves Publications. In a past life she was a software developer, but she’s feeling much better now.