.jpg)
Poems and Microfiction
Read some examples of Jane's poems and microfiction below. There are further examples of her work in the News section of the site:
Mary Macarthur's Visit
Cradley Heath, 1910
On that dark, mizzling afternoon
I took a bone-rattling ride past
stinking canals, heaps of black soot, sunken creatures.
When we pulled in at Cradley Heath, I looked down
on a long, low shed
where through an iron-grate, I glimpsed
the molten rage of a forge fire
dim shadows of toiling workers
a torture chamber from the middle ages.
I pulled the blind, closed my eyes
but heard the ghost voice of a little boy
I dolly, ommer, blow. I've med chains since I wer four
and like a flickering Pathe reel
on a loop
I saw a baby kick and scream
inside a wooden crate
beneath the anvil
where red-hot sparks
lit on her pallid arms and face
her mother sweating at the forge.
The train trundled on
twisted links, swivels, hooks
a scrap of ash clung
inside my mind
the sweating trade sets jeth in the folds of a babby's robe.
Note: mizzling - raining; blow -blowing the bellows to keep the forge fire going; ommer - hammer; dolly -a pivoted tool used to finish off the chain-link;, jeth - death; babby - baby
Mary Macarthur was the Scottish trade unionist who led eight hundred Cradley Heath women chainmakers to
victory in their 1910 strike for equal pay.
Like a Hokusai Wave
Just off Bayerischer Platz, in the Jewish quarter,
morning light diffuses the boudoir
of the tall, pale young man in a silk kimono
His finely drawn profile reminds me of a bird
in a piece of Japanese embroidery.
With a slight deprecatory gesture of his hand,
he offers Earl Grey tea and warm crumpets
and in beautiful English asks after my family.
He pours the tea with nobility; his body still
as a carved ivory figure in a shrine.
Dark eyes potent with the kindness of a child,
he shows me the twelfth century sandstone head
of a Khmer Buddha at the foot of his bed,
keeping watch over my slumbers, he explains
and in that moment my courage swells
like a Hokusai Wave.
Ersatz
Sweep through the wide lime-
tree avenues, the stucco-coated squares
past the Ku'damm with its window displays
of ermine and mink, to the outskirts
of the city where the air is grey flint. Here,
frostbitten potatoes and ground acorn coffee
are doled out from makeshift kitchens
to endless queues of grey men in tatty threads.
Breathe in the nicotine-steeped smoke
of their rancid cigars rolled from cabbage
leaves. Mark the men's narrowed eyes
and marked faces as it starts to rain
one hundred thousand Reichsmark notes.
The Weightlessness of Love
—After Promenade (1917) by Marc Chagall
He flew me like a bamboo kite on our first date. Buoyed up by two glasses of Beaujolais and a slice of amaretto cake, I took his outstretched hand, spread my arms wide, and soared. As he gently let loose the line, the wind caught my petticoats, clouds rushed past, the earth whirled in a kaleidoscope of viridian and malachite. How light I was!
There was no stopping me after that. I asked him to fly me on all of our dates. High above the harbour of the quaint coastal village where we day tripped, I floated. The fishing boats below me shimmered like jewels on glass. In the magnificent gardens of the Versailles Palace where he proposed, I hovered over fountains and paths, their intricate patterns a brown, green, and blue Maori tattoo from my birds’ eye view. One time, audaciously, I asked that he fly me over the big cats’ enclosure at the ZooParc de Beauval. With the gossamer breeze in my hair, the lions’ roars were mere kitten purrs, their snapping jaws mechanical wind-up toys. How I loved the thrill and romance of it all!
I guess he liked to boast because word soon got round about the man and his amazing human kite. People in our neighbourhood started to ask favours. Would I replace a broken roof tile? Unblock a guttering? Rescue a cat stuck up a tree? The excitement of flying began to wane.
My man tried to cajole me. Took me to Paris for the weekend and promised to fly me from the Eiffel Tower at sunset. But my heart wasn’t in it. We took a deadly dull night cruise on a bateau mouche instead.
In a last-ditch attempt to ignite my passion, we visited the Alabaster Coast. As the pink sun rose over the chalky cliffs, he once more unspooled my silky cord and watched with pride, as I lifted high on a thermal. I reached into my pocket, took out my dressmaker’s scissors, and snipped.
His cries soon blended in with the squawks of gulls, the rush of squall.
Story first published by MacQueen's Quinterly, March 2022; nominated for 'Best Microfiction 2023', October 2022
Image: 'The Promenade' (1917) Marc Chagall
courtesy of marcchagall.net