poems

The Book Bag – The Language of Bees

Welcome to a new feature on Paul Writes Poems. Every Sunday, I’ll be sharing the poetry pamphlet, anthology or collection I’ve been reading that week! Each week will feature a different book and I’ll let you know how I enjoyed it.

On a week where the only weather I didn’t have was snow, I spent my breaks and downtime reading; 

The Language of Bees

  • Author: Rae Howells
  • Press: Parthian

After reading Rae Howell’s, This Common Uncommon (which I recommend if you believe that wild spaces should be kept and not built upon), I wanted to read more. Her characterisation and smart word-play in This Common Uncommon had me going page to page and almost devoured it in one sitting.

In my opinion, The Language of Bees is an outstanding collection, (an opinion shared with lots of others, including the judging panel at Wales Book of The Year 2023) that talks about the importance of bees to humans and climate change in an engaging way. The way insects are used to discuss personal themes including loss, loss love and other deep human tragedy is tremendously done with care taken over each word. 

I’d highly recommend reading this if you’re a fan of poetry that deals with nature and has very personal and broader themes packed with smart language and incredible imagery. I would say to have some tissues handy as some pieces are highly emotive.

Favorite Poem:
A bit of a cheat here but my favourite is a sequence of poems that are sprinkled throughout the book with the title Dying Bee in a Takeaway Box. 

Find out more about Rae Howells at https://www.raehowells.co.uk/ where you can find links to her other books.

Next Week’s Read

Looking ahead, here’s what’s lined up for my book bag next week;

  • Title: Street Sailing
  • Author: Matt Gilbert

That’s it for this week one. If you’ve read any of the books I’m sharing or have recommendations for what poetry I should be reading, drop a comment below. 

Take it easy

Paul

Community Orchard Picking Party

pears are dangling
silvery earthen-green earrings
inviting to be removed from leafed ears
some have rotted in the intensity of the sun
                                                                     sheen dulled to clay rust 

damson plums nestle into branches
like amethyst hiding in rock
only smoothed
precious stone                          fruit hiding
                                                                    emerald green flesh

braeburns have fallen
comfortable in the flame-kissed leaf beds
and honey golden late summer grasses
                                                                   orbs of sweet promise

the kids are dressed as pirates
wandering with small baskets
ripe with wonder
they gather their               treasures
before a couple of cavaliers
                                                                   spoil their bounty.

Carnivale

rum-wide spacehopper eyes 
staring up at midnight Malagan sky 
discoball stars  glistening 
like a dancers skin 
my bloodstream inferno 
ready to set my beachgrass bed ablaze 
voiceless flame amidst the pulse of revelry 
the forest of ravers surrounding 
                                   will welcome the fire 

I raise myself 
but remember my legs are lost 
to strong liquor and            fatigue 
stumbling into a dance 
floating on the breeze of          second wind 
rotor blade arms almost                take me away 
and what goes up 
must come down 
I’m laughing at myself 
backing track of Faithless 
and howls and cheers 

when I wake 
I want this feeling to be            my cure 
                                                        my comfort 
                                                                  my soul.

Footy Down The Rec

To be twelve again 
drunk on the scent 
       of summer-sweated privet 
eventful walks to the pitches sometimes  
a dog jumping from a garden-strewn manky sofa  
                   or fly-tipped washing machine  
and husbands fighting with wives 
binliner of clothes next to them on the pavement  
                           comedy in tragedy when you’re that young 
we always took a few balls 
best to - if some of the older lads were around 
on lighter-fluid highs - lacking sense 
but the nights of Wembley 
three hours of pelting leather against bare legs  
ball bobbling       along the clumped surface 
bodies skimming the field like           lawnmowers 
     making outrageous crunching tackles 
 ankles twisting like Maradona past Reid
rabid rapture at curling a Mitre Delta into the top corner 
      and green-kneed, mud-stained wanders home
a magic that can never be imitated 
           unlike the knockoff boots and shin pads 
give me that innocence back 
               - that simplicity of fun 
                          with friends.















Tribute

Helios had painted the sky
that night – lipstick pink –
his chariot pulled the heart-crimson sun
lingering for moments
while I enjoyed sips of retsina

I wondered if he was trying to emasculate
all those below
because how can mortals compete with gods – 
when it comes to creating special moments
like that first dinner of a honeymoon

but I was caught between the earth of your eyes
and the horizon, colour of romance
and realised it was a tribute to you
to us
to our love.

Lost & Found

Two Northern harvest-mice
with hawk-lit eyes
we slinked around London
from Kings Cross to Trafalgar
without hedgerow or hay to hide in
only plateaus and towers of grey

we had no map
so followed the route of bus stops
resting only a couple of times
trying not to inhale too much oil-slick air
smouldering under June’s sun

after the fifth wrong turn
tedium began to shriek
like car horns
but you smiled and said
“we’ll try around the next corner, you can’t get lost when you’re in love”

a composure in your voice
that buried the tumult
chaos collapsing
into
calm

we found ourselves on a busy London street.

Exile

I crawled into the carcass
of your scavenged legacy
stitched a cocoon from the carrion
of false epithets bestowed
on your name.

sepia-brittle and crumbling I clung
pupating in a squall of anger
until I sliced my way out
a katana soul-drawn
from the scabbard of my heart
a ronin now
banished for freeing myself
from the collective.

I carry our memories
in the whetstone
that tempers blade
exquisitely fatal.