Kitchens at Night E-Book

Dean Browne

• Herausgeber: The Poetry Business
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 21

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Kitchens at Night exists in the space between domesticity and imagination, the dreamt and the actual. A goat appears with a message. A chilli prompts metaphysical questions. A coffin appears in the flea market.In half-light, relationships falter and familiar objects are restored to their original mystery and strangeness in these spellbinding and playful poems.

Leseprobe

Published 2022 by

Smith|Doorstop Books

The Poetry Business

Campo House,

54 Campo Lane,

Sheffield S1 2EG

Copyright © Dean Browne 2022

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-914914-04-1

eBook ISBN 978-1-914914-05-8

Typeset by The Poetry Business

Printed by People for Print, Sheffield

Smith|Doorstop Books are a member of Inpress:

www.inpressbooks.co.uk

Distributed by NBN International, 1 Deltic Avenue,

Rooksley, Milton Keynes MK13 8LD

The Poetry Business gratefully acknowledges the support of Arts Council England.

Contents

Aide-mémoire

Curriculum Vitae

Memory is a Wardrobe

Rachael’s Coat Inside Out

Pine Box in the Flea Market

Quiche

Pinball

The Goatfish

The Émigré

The Pineapple Massage

Tabernacle

Polyphemus

Approach to Chilli

The Triangle

Approach to an Egg

Barmbrack

My Last Consultation

Eclectus

Fado With Garlic Crusher

Listening to Joni Mitchell’s Blue While Cooking Peposo

Self-Checkout

A storm piles up behind the house.

– Elizabeth Bishop, ‘Squatter’s Children’

I think a bird, and it begins to fly.

– Theodore Roethke, ‘The Exulting’

Aide-mémoire

A goat has been following me for hours. There is a sign

hung around his neck that reads NEVER FORGET.

That’s not very original I think but I’ll see where it leads.

‘I have no grá for you goat,’ I say, and clap my hands, say, ‘Go!’

His goat eye asks if I am half cracked. ‘Grand,’ I say,

and keep walking. He follows at a discreet distance, beard

jigging crooked as he jaws blankly at some grass he cropped

years ago, I suppose. What am I meant to remember?

Leaves are smeared on the street, a salad of dragged newspaper.

Nobody appears to notice what is following me. I detour

into a dive bar, roll a cigarette, drink a double whiskey

and try to decide where, if anywhere, all this might connect.

Goat stands by the door, NEVER FORGET dripping to the tiles.

I watch wet leaves fibrillate outside the window, think

of the small, delicate feather on this morning’s egg. Leaf, light,

leaf, light. Quick silverfish glimpses of a freedom that spooks

on approach. The goat chews on, relentless. I mash my cigarette,

touch my ear, and it comes off.

Curriculum Vitae

after Charles Simic

I’m demonstrating the excellence of this potato peeler

to an audience who could well be allergic to spuds.

I’m playing the glass harp dressed head to toe in carrageen moss

with a tin can for coins and peculiar weather in my sock.

That’s why the daffodil in my buttonhole has that drastic look.