The Writers' Hub has become MIROnline. The site remains for archival purposes but will no longer be updated. Head over to our new website to see weekly short stories, poems and creative non-fiction from Birkbeck and beyond.
writers' hub
Rosalind Hudis
Rosalind Hudis

Rosalind Hudis is a Wales based poet and co-editor of The Lampeter Review. Her work has been widely published and has won several awards. Her début pamphlet, Terra Ignota, was published by Rack Press in 2013 and her first full collection, Tilt, was published by Cinnamon Press in November 2014.


Member Link.
(http://www.rosalindhudis. co.uk/)
Click image to buy from Foyles - 25% off list price.
Rosalind Hudis Poetry


From Tilt by Rosalind Hudis (Cinnamon Press - October 2014)

 

 

Seasons May Resist Origami            

 

 

We conjured their shape,

a symmetry

like folded napkins, above

 

the heads of all evidence.

We wanted to shake them out

for our children, as keepsakes:

 

the way you'd smell snow

before it fell, the length of cold

to unroll before spring.

 

Sometimes they'd play retro

turns for the twist of it: once

iced roped our hair as we tied

 

the gulf

between blizzard

and door. My sister

 

in Boulder

flicks a text like a trick

of mind: they are watering

 

roses in December

in such heat. It settles

like a new brand of loss.

 

 

 

 

Oil in Blue

 

 

Outside this room it's summer, but Dad paints

snow, over everything, and most of it blue.

I climb the scarp of his back, peering in.

 

He's left all the people out, though roofs lock

together like the wall-mind of victims.

The traffic light is a red nerve, the street dead

 

end, no stilled cars. You'd find it hard

to move down the bone-white streaks of path

among all that blueness. There are windows

 

lit; I beat Dad's neck and ask him

what the people are doing, the people he lit.

I don't yet understand each room

 

is a past tense, has lost its keys, its hot cells 

guttering out, one after one.

 

 

 

 

 

The Women of my Childhood

 

 

as I veer out of the fog

of play in a brick-deaf yard,

back through a kitchen door,

are always bending

away into another act.

 

Their hands vanish into bowls

that loom like chapels,

or raise a coal bucket,

or wring dry the space

words have walked out on.

 

It's always their backs

that meet me, the dissolving shape

of things just done, the reel of bones

under house-coats, phrase

chained to phrase, pulled

 

ahead as I reach to grip

a pocket, laundered and empty

of the side-tracks a man might keep:

a dice, a coin, or pen-knife,

the glint, the leap, the cut.


COMMENTS

RELATED PIECES

No related pieces

POPULAR POETRY

Neil Fulwood Poetry
Neil Fulwood
07.08.15

Liane Strauss Poetry
Liane Strauss
16.03.15

Rosalind Hudis Poetry
Rosalind Hudis
02.02.15