Poetry

The Book Bag – Street Sailing by Matt Gilbert

Welcome back to The Book Bag. Last week, I shared my thoughts on The Language of Bees by Rae Howells. 

This week, between Sax practice, attending my first writer’s circle and some bitter cold temperatures, I’ve been reading…

Street Sailing

  • Author: Matt Gilbert
  • Press: Black Bough Poetry

I was lucky to meet Matt at 2023’s Black Bough Poetry Party in Neath after reading his poetry on Twitter/X for @TopTweetTuesday. By all accounts, he is a decent, genuine chap and a very talented poet. It was a highlight meeting him. 

Street Sailing was released in 2023 and is an exquisite debut collection of poems that provide sensory portraits of daily life across a span of settings, full of imagery and texture. 

The bustling market of ‘Ridley Road’ is vividly brought to life in the pages, bringing back memories of when I spent a few months working on a market stall selling fleeces and coats (in the middle of summer – a job I didn’t excel in), is a prime example of this. 

Matt brings his emotion to the pages in the poem ‘Father’s Day’ revelling in his parenthood and in ‘I made a mess of my own pathetic fallacy’, he gives an introspection that combines tragedy and self-deprecation.

I’d highly recommend reading Street Sailing if you want to see life captured through an inventive and rich lens. Don’t just take my word for it either, it has plenty of strong reviews online and one of the poems, ‘Foxed’, was nominated for a Forward Best Single Poem prize. I loved reading this.

Favorite Poem:
‘Undercliff’. It brims with rich language, vivid imagery, nostalgia and achievement. 

One More Thing…
The cover artwork by Ben Pearce perfectly matches the urban poetry that is dotted throughout the book.

Read more about Matt Gilbert at https://richlyevocative.net/ and https://www.blackboughpoetry.com/matt-gilbert 

Next Week’s Read

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

  • Title: Consolamentum
  • Author: James McConachie

That’s it for this week’s reading roundup! 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

An Affair of Pipistrelles

Shrouded in the half-light 
of a crow-dusk sky and ruby streetlamp blur 
I observe hidden lovers 
tango in mid-air 
wings outstretched ready to hold the earth  
                                   in their lust-love 

time is stolen by the passion of the near-night  
                          and silent melody of the harp-moon 

until the crackle of burnt leaf-beacons
warns of a stoat’s prying eyes
               
         endangered by discovery
         the paramours bow into the shadows 
leaving only the gentlest echo of their romance 
                                                           
                                                                           to the dark.

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

Autumn From The Kitchen Window

Maple leaves are falling        like          flames
touch-paper thin and crisp dry
perfect kindling for burning 
              the last vestige of summer.

Brambles bruised as a boxer's eye
are being wrangled by magpies and jays 
blue tail-feathers glisten 
with every blood-spattered                     bite.

 Furnace-chested robins stare menacingly 
        their smouldering coal claws 
seem melted to the gatepost 
soul-bound guardians 
                      - a comforting presence. 

The arrival of a delivery van 
steals my view
       -      ambushes my catatonia.

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.















Grains of Memory

Your table is a real table
sliced oak and oil-dressed
uneven surface                                          like the road leaving the village
grains swollen from drowning emotions
                  - and spilled cups of tea

so many hands have smoothed it
over so many years
some anxious
some happy
           - all loved

a few splinters are bulging from the corners
each a memory
some good
          some bad
some probably just about the times the ashtray was missed
and maybe one where the beer bottle exploded
resting like a stained glass window
         - the table ready to hear pre-night-out confessions 

if it could talk 
how many stories could it tell 
 - too many to worry about 


next time we’re around it
we should give thanks
drift palms gently over the lines
a loose embrace
that clings tightly to the seams
              - like the roots of our friendship.

Ryūjin

devour the sand 
plunder every grain 
horde them in your golden keep 
conquer this land fleetingly
    – rise triumphant 
spread your scales of quicksilver 
under the feathered winter sun 
retreating only 
–  at the moon’s blunt counsel. 

This poem was created in response to the Imagist Poet Hilda Doolittle’s poem Oread as part of TopTweetTuesday on X/Twitter.