People poems
Widow’s walk
I noticed them today, walking,
leaning portside, not able to get
the balance right. Their handbags
swaying with the lilt, like anchors
in a storm. Feet splayed
to ground them, their heads
rooting in clouds,
searching.
Sally James
published in Snakeskin 137
Salt of the earth
These men are like that, strong capable
biceps like footballs, crawling under cars
over mountains, smelling of testosterone
and musk. Their brain in their hands as
well as in their trousers. Hearts like lions
with growls worse that a bite. Watch them
at work, shoulders bare to the sun, legs
anchored to the earth. Not a word of a poem
drips from their mouths, only the smudge
of a fierce kiss from a night of wooing.
With more action than false words from a
sweet sugar daddy, men of grit never
melt in the heat of a snatched summer kiss.
They recreate and procreate, fill the earth
with their kind, lean on their shovel from
time to time, smile and let the sweat of
their labour fall to the ground.
Sally James
Portrait of a woman
No Pre-Raphaelite ever painted me
No Madonna image reflected in my eyes
Or fallen woman begging for redemption,
I can only be found in the peaceful and tranquil setting
Of a Constable, whose rolling downs and trembling streams
Are the hallmarks of my anatomy,
Mother nature in repose perhaps?
Lowry captured my humble origins,
In his sad and lonesome matchstick figures
As they dash their weary way through street and town,
And, in my persecuted moments,
Turner captured me in his sunsets,
As the blood of the innocents splattered upon canvas.
Only Picasso knew me as I really am
As the dismembered being with the seeing eye,
Trying to make order out of chaos,
Yet, I am no masterpiece of classical imagery
Caught upon canvas,
I am the microscopic dot
Where pencil sketches begin,
To be moulded and shaped to life’s situations
By many gods, but dominated by none.
Then, when the great eraser of all time
Envelops me in her darkened mantle
And banishes me from being,
I will still remain, for those who have eyes to see,
The projected imagery of woman and the mother of time.
Sally James
(First ever published poem - published in Open University Anthology Openings 8 1990)
Shop till you drop
She never could get over it,
everything under one roof
no getting wet, no long walk home
carrying heavy bags.
Not one for gossip she
doesn’t miss corner shop talk
who is doing what with whom,
and, “Have you heard about her
next door, tut, tut, well what do you expect
from the likes of…..”
She always wanted to get home
with the butter, sugar, tea, the bacon
and a quarter pound of this and that.
It took a long time to weigh it all,
slice the meat, wrap it up, pack the bag.
She had so much to do then
the chickens to feed, the step to mop
peg out the washing. Then the children
would be home from school, her husband
from the mill, the bread to bake.
Now she buys bacon, butter, bread, sugar
and the tea all neatly packaged,
takes time to rest her feet, dream,
sip coffee in the café,
watch ringless women with smiling babies
push overloaded trolleys
clamber into cars, drive off.
sally james
Widow’s walk
I noticed them today, walking,
leaning portside, not able to get
the balance right. Their handbags
swaying with the lilt, like anchors
in a storm. Feet splayed
to ground them, their heads
rooting in clouds,
searching.
Sally James
published in Snakeskin 137
Salt of the earth
These men are like that, strong capable
biceps like footballs, crawling under cars
over mountains, smelling of testosterone
and musk. Their brain in their hands as
well as in their trousers. Hearts like lions
with growls worse that a bite. Watch them
at work, shoulders bare to the sun, legs
anchored to the earth. Not a word of a poem
drips from their mouths, only the smudge
of a fierce kiss from a night of wooing.
With more action than false words from a
sweet sugar daddy, men of grit never
melt in the heat of a snatched summer kiss.
They recreate and procreate, fill the earth
with their kind, lean on their shovel from
time to time, smile and let the sweat of
their labour fall to the ground.
Sally James
Portrait of a woman
No Pre-Raphaelite ever painted me
No Madonna image reflected in my eyes
Or fallen woman begging for redemption,
I can only be found in the peaceful and tranquil setting
Of a Constable, whose rolling downs and trembling streams
Are the hallmarks of my anatomy,
Mother nature in repose perhaps?
Lowry captured my humble origins,
In his sad and lonesome matchstick figures
As they dash their weary way through street and town,
And, in my persecuted moments,
Turner captured me in his sunsets,
As the blood of the innocents splattered upon canvas.
Only Picasso knew me as I really am
As the dismembered being with the seeing eye,
Trying to make order out of chaos,
Yet, I am no masterpiece of classical imagery
Caught upon canvas,
I am the microscopic dot
Where pencil sketches begin,
To be moulded and shaped to life’s situations
By many gods, but dominated by none.
Then, when the great eraser of all time
Envelops me in her darkened mantle
And banishes me from being,
I will still remain, for those who have eyes to see,
The projected imagery of woman and the mother of time.
Sally James
(First ever published poem - published in Open University Anthology Openings 8 1990)
Shop till you drop
She never could get over it,
everything under one roof
no getting wet, no long walk home
carrying heavy bags.
Not one for gossip she
doesn’t miss corner shop talk
who is doing what with whom,
and, “Have you heard about her
next door, tut, tut, well what do you expect
from the likes of…..”
She always wanted to get home
with the butter, sugar, tea, the bacon
and a quarter pound of this and that.
It took a long time to weigh it all,
slice the meat, wrap it up, pack the bag.
She had so much to do then
the chickens to feed, the step to mop
peg out the washing. Then the children
would be home from school, her husband
from the mill, the bread to bake.
Now she buys bacon, butter, bread, sugar
and the tea all neatly packaged,
takes time to rest her feet, dream,
sip coffee in the café,
watch ringless women with smiling babies
push overloaded trolleys
clamber into cars, drive off.
sally james