Member Poem

I have never been to Ireland. And
have not seen the River Liffey, in
Irish Life, that strong runner – my
river is the Adur, that hailed my late
arrival in the Sussex rapes. My forties
saw the swollen Derwent gurgle past
my front door, found me still believing
in that course I had poured into – love
had instigated it. Those years, my will
pushed me forward, convinced I’d heal
through nurturing others’ lives – what
folly. Then, I found an ally in language
and through early attempts and fails
learned to navigate the old river, to
feel its curve and flow. I didn’t know
where it would lead (don’t now) and
gradually other obsessions and needs
became pitiable, wasteful even, and to
fathom instead what I desired to say –
far dearer. I had two children. What
I could write; have written. About the
severed womb, the recovery of the body
and the grind to survive by all means –
every day was a personal holocaust. I
moved: I cursed the time it would take
to pack. The Cam. The Avon. Ever this
movement. The Sherbourne. Each sign
different yet somehow the same; and
in every house, a doorway. Patient, I
contented to hide behind them, to make
home. And now, beside la Gironde; this
time foreign water will leave its mark:
la Charente; la Dordogne; la Loire. A
whole character formed in rain; woman
made element. Alone, still writing in
the briefest gaps, at least no longer the
somnambulist I used to be, my doorway
leads straight onto the narrow street of
a provincial market town. It could be her
country, her street, her town – her house.
But, of course, it is not. I wish it were. A
prayer rises up: for land carved by a river
like the place where I was born. Soon, in
part anguish part relief, I must wrap the
remainder, sell the rest, look for a city
that will call me out of respect, out of
joy – this only. I’m not interested in her
pity coffees. I’m looking for my birth.
Perhaps a castle. A church. Grass. The
possibility of a future. The grasp of truth
on the metro or the footpath. Scent of
lilac. A place for the shocked, grieved, a
woman like me, someone who’s suffered
and is weary of setbacks. A washed life.
I’ve lived near bells and speakers. The
lack of flow is killing me. A silent mouth
is all I ask – a wide destiny, to make of
that what I can. I promise to cherish it.

(The 2020 Donn Goodwin Poetry Prize, Winner)