Tuesday Poem: At Night in the House - Jean Sprackland
It's my turn to edit the main Tuesday Poem blog. If you don't know about the Tuesday Poem group, you might like to take a look - there are 28 of us from around the world and every Tuesday we try to post a poem on our own sites and take turns to edit the main hub. The idea originated in New Zealand and spread to Australia, America, Canada, the United Kingdom and Europe. We're a very diverse bunch!
My choice for the main hub today is a poem by the UK poet Jean Sprackland - winner of the Costa Award for poetry with her first collection 'Tilt' and nominated for all the major prizes since then. I like her poetry very much - particularly her latest collection 'Sleeping Keys'. I chose the poem At Night in the House because it gave me that shiver of recognition when I read it.
At night in the house
a river runs through her
carrying its burdens
the golden barges the dead griefs and the quick fishes
She lies alone
wet at the mouth
and between the legs
and it runs not always placid
sometimes angry
rough as old rope
dragging its way
between the receding banks
the old wharves worn smooth
by all the moorings made there
the scrolled barges
with their forgotten cargoes
of sugar tobacco raw silk
and the illicit little night boats
tied up swiftly
while the moon was behind a cloud
the twelve slithery steps
cut into the dripping wall
When the river is running hard
she speaks only its own tongue
not the dry-docked language
of other people
and in places
the trees lean in
like conspirators
and the water is smeared
with whispers
and in places
the bank
melts into the water
roots and all
roots and all
even an unlucky heifer
risking the edge for a drink
In the night house
she is nothing but riverbanks
all she can feel is river
drawn through her
like a green rope
scouring the banks
with restlessness
hauled
towards open sea
taking its freight
of corpses
and drowned silverware.
Copyright Jean Sprackland - 'At Night in the House',
from Sleeping Keys
Jonathan Cape
With Permission
Why not click over to the Tuesday Poem blog to read my review of Sleeping Keys and find out what the other Tuesday Poets are posting?
At night in the house
a river runs through her
carrying its burdens
the golden barges the dead griefs and the quick fishes
She lies alone
wet at the mouth
and between the legs
and it runs not always placid
sometimes angry
rough as old rope
dragging its way
between the receding banks
the old wharves worn smooth
by all the moorings made there
the scrolled barges
with their forgotten cargoes
of sugar tobacco raw silk
and the illicit little night boats
tied up swiftly
while the moon was behind a cloud
the twelve slithery steps
cut into the dripping wall
When the river is running hard
she speaks only its own tongue
not the dry-docked language
of other people
and in places
the trees lean in
like conspirators
and the water is smeared
with whispers
and in places
the bank
melts into the water
roots and all
roots and all
even an unlucky heifer
risking the edge for a drink
In the night house
she is nothing but riverbanks
all she can feel is river
drawn through her
like a green rope
scouring the banks
with restlessness
hauled
towards open sea
taking its freight
of corpses
and drowned silverware.
Copyright Jean Sprackland - 'At Night in the House',
from Sleeping Keys
Jonathan Cape
With Permission
Why not click over to the Tuesday Poem blog to read my review of Sleeping Keys and find out what the other Tuesday Poets are posting?
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