Lynette Craig

This poem won first prize in the Ottakar's/Faber Poetry Competition, Banbury Region.

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

She squints into the sun,
to watch this man,

not one of her enemies this time,
not a soldier
who will pull up her skirts with his spear,
breathe beer into her face �

no, she unclenches her fists,
this man�s the gardener.

She follows the tap and scrape of his hoe
as he frees grey tufts of grass,
scatters seeds onto the grey earth,
dribbles water from a leather bucket,
heels them in �

something about him,
the way he hitches up his coarse robe,
the turn of his neck when he straightens,
� he is tall, this man �
his look towards the sun.

She calls to him,
his back stiffens at the shock of her voice
and then he is walking towards her,
she knows him now �
blinded, she stumbles,
flailing her arms,
calling his name.

This poem won first prize in the Barnet Poetry Competition.

NUMBER 47, MALE, HAIR DARK, BURIED AT SEA

Sent back, your White Star ticket, third class,
with keys, wallet and an English phrase book.
My aunt says she saw a fob watch
but she was born ten years later
and old when she told me � maybe it�s true.

Your brothers in London thought you were crazy,
but you wanted more than a salesman�s
bag of samples and a sharp wife.
They gave you a few sovereigns
to give you a start over there, little brother.

On the ship you would have made friends,
earned a few dollars �
you were the one who could fix things,
and keep secrets
� that young Jew, the locksmith �
your hands smooth, cool and restless
as you listened and dreamed in American.

When it happened
I bet you were watching a card game
� you�d know who was cheating �
no place in a life-boat for the likes of you,
but you thought you had a chance
on an ice floe.

No breath left for shouting �
he was dead, the man beside you,
your fingers froze to his dress suit,
the old prayer numbed your lips �
Shema Yisroel Adonoy Eloheinu Adonoy Echod �

adrift in the black Atlantic ocean,
you were back home, out on the lake
with your brothers, fishing and joking �
you heard voices calling
Eliezer, Eliezer, we can�t hear you,
Eliezer, goodbye and send for us soon.

This poem won second prize in the special category entitled 'Beginnings', Barnet Poetry Competition.

A HUNDRED BUTTERFLIES

It�s what she wanted, after all the shouting,
that visit to the hospital and finally Dad giving him
cash to start over, something new,
maybe a garage.

My job to hand out butterflies,
painted ladies, Mum�s idea, from an Indian legend,
she said she looked it up.
I�ve kept them safe all day.

What�s a sister for? I made the cake,
sewed all the bridesmaids� dresses � butterflies? no problem.
Just as they reach the car, then,
just as he catches my eye,

we let them go, a hundred butterflies
from the Florida Monarch Butterfly Farm,
each one a wish fulfilled,
so they say.

This poem was Commended in the Barnet Poetry Competition.

I REMEMBER

I am standing on the step watching girls skip.
I do not want to join in because I am fat.

I am hot in the kitchen, baking buns for brothers.
I am a good cook, they tell me.

I am silent in the classroom.
I hear the teacher shouting at unruly boys.

An evacuee, I am in a stranger�s home
where she serves pudding before the meat.

I am driving for my father.
This is a good job for me, they say.

A cheerful young man asks me out.
I marry him.

These are not my memories. They belong to my mother.
I have inherited them. They are part of me.

A robin makes her nest. It is not like other birds�.
She has inherited a memory of how to do it.

This poem won £100 in the Spread the Word competition.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Cc

Subject: school


I wish you could see me in the blazer
black and pink stripes, like a blushing tiger
uncle says
and a tie
we have to ask permission to take off the blazer in class
I can do up the tie in ten seconds
I practised all through Eastenders
which uncle says I can�t watch
half term tests
top in maths
top in IT, Physics and French
not so top in Latin
bottom in English
uncle finding me a tutor
his partner�s son has tutors for everything
football great
I support Arsenal
rugby
bruises on thigh, shoulder and bum
uncle says I�ll get used to it
PE bloke asked if I bowl spin
so all that practice you gave me will come in handy
thanks

went on The London Underground for the first time
The Royal Academy
we�re doing colour
I�m painting those big red flowers
outside the veranda
can you send me a couple of old photos
of the back of the house?
Miss Edwards said she�d like to see them
Miss Edwards is very thin
uncle says she is a widow
and has fabulous legs
she�s my form teacher
she asked me if I missed my brothers and sisters
I said No
sorry

forgot to press send
history before break
The Victorian Empire
I wasn�t listening properly
she was sitting on the desk with her legs crossed
you could see right up her skirt
she asked me where I come from
Shepherds Bush
everyone howled
it was awful
bastard Gregory followed me round the playground
paki paki paki yeah yeah yeah
I�m from India
you�re an Indian paki then, aren�t ya?
Daniel told him to shut up
uncle has bought me a guitar
will send now
uncle taking me to Temple
love

KALDA'S DREAMS

A few dinars to clean up the place
sweep out the sand, wash floor tiles
streaked with pigeon shit.

Ark doors hang off
an empty Torah case wrenched open
the scroll hauled off to keep it safe.

Today she should be making the Seder
laying a white cloth on the table
grating bitter herbs, mixing sweet charoseth.

Too hot to sweep, she presses her forehead
against cool stone, hears her mother's whisperings
Keep your skin soft for a husband.

She stands beside him, misty,
her cheeks warm beneath a lacy veil
a white, satin canopy over their heads

he slides the ring along her finger
kisses her wine-stained lips
a crack of glass -

she is miles away now
thick coat, tall buildings, rain,
her nieces and nephews hugging her legs.

The khamsin drives dust across her feet
a scrawny cat darts across the door
the imam calls, her neighbours hurry by.

She walks home like a bride
her head quite still -
she must not spill her dreams.


ON THE STEPS OF ST MARTIN-IN-THE-FIELDS

A pigeon shudders, pressed into a black cloth
and smothered
its beak and throat just visible

a black pigeon with a few white specks
it must have decided that stillness
is the best way to survive this unusual imprisonment:

another bag lady on the steps of a church
well-dressed though, good skirt and coat, leather shoes,
a blue umbrella to hide behind.

Has she noticed me? I step well back,
feign interest in a sculpture under the portico:
baby carved out of the surface of a granite block.

Muttering and with another wrapping ritual
she lays the bird into a shopping bag, pats, soothes,
her large hands turning the neat package over and over.

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