SHIPWRECKED

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Published by the Lucy Quieter Press, Wendy Holborow's tenth poetry collection, Shipwrecked, contains poems written over a number of years and many have been successful in competitions or previously published in respected poetry journals. Although problems encountered in today's broken society are a common theme and many poems address such dark subjects as unrequited love, war, poverty and death, the poems themselves are anything but depressing and readers are likely to readily identify with the poet's distinctive take on universal issues.

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REVIEWS

Inevitably, the older you get the more likely you are to encounter such grim realities as illness and death. This latest collection by Wendy Holborow may centre on such themes but there is also much tenderness and universal appeal as she recalls lost love, rich childhood experiences and less personal but equally thought-provoking issues. An impressively diverse range of styles and subject matter are to be found in this collection. It's a great read.

Lucia Crothall
 

SAMPLE POEMS

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I SEE HER

I see her through a cubist’s eye

chiselled planes & angles mingle in black & white

disentangled, broken up & rearranged

in geometric form.

I see her through an impressionist’s eye

rapid dabs of paint, dots, distorted,

sparkling patches of light & colour,

incandescent.

I see her through a miniaturist’s eye

minute, modelled like a doll held in the palm

of a hand, such infinite patience,  

dexterous. 

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I see her through a surrealist’s eye

confusion, un-recognisable in shape or form,

her reality disguised in the triptych mirror of art,

instinctive.

I see her through an icon painter’s eye

dark image illumed by silver & gold, a halo

above her head, so exquisite it is considered

acheiropoieta.

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I see her through a portrait painter’s eye

perfect in every detail as she gazes

out of the canvas of imperfection, her inner essence,

unveiled,

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a slight smile, gentle contentment,

no smudges of a dark fanciful world apparent

in her reasoned demeanour as she sits,

hands apposed.

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THE DANCE

The Cha Ca Cha that was Danced in the Early Hours of 24th March 1961.  A Painting by David Hockney.

I didn’t know you back in ‘61

perhaps

things would have been different –

childhood sweethearts –

two red he(art)s instead of the br(own) upon black

black for you who cheated,

brown for me the conspirator

conscripted to       y(our) love

your name worn on my sleeve

not on my upper thigh

                        as we dance – not the cha cha cha,

          but ensconced

in each other’s arms

gentle together

                                 your voice wrapped around me

aware of the warped jealousy

of other women wanting         you

                                                  only have e(yes) for me

I love every mo(ve)ment

quavers dance across my neck