A Bike Ride through Thame on the Anniversary of his Death

At first, there’s nothing but M40 snarl. Nearer,       
hollow town voices, crisp leaves under wheels,      
a quick rustle of wings, a baby’s wail, a click of gears.     
The equinox is past. The old sun blinds. Cold wind steals     
body-heat, freezes my face as I force legs to pedal uphill.  
There’s no birdsong. They’ve queued up on roofs, targets                                            
on a shooting range; mobbed, resettled, chattered. Now,  
shrill rain erupts, old ladies scuttle. Rain batters the market.  
Stallholders shrug, clasp hot mugs, watch the tartan trollies scatter   
into gift and coffee shops. They’ll pull up paper masks from throats,  
peer at ornaments, cakes, through foggy lenses. Above chimneys  
and shopfronts, the bruised sky swells. A gust knifes my coat.  
This town was too posh for Dad. Full of rich sods, 
he’d say. Not meant for the likes of us common clods.

…

Pen Kease used to be a secondary school teacher but now writes poems instead. Pen has a recent MA in Writing from the University of Warwick and her poems have been published in a range of literary magazines and websites, including The Interpreter’s House, The Recusant, Militant Thistles, and Prole Magazine. She lives in South Oxfordshire with husband and cat, and cares for a scattered family as best she can.

Flicks

We never believed it, not really. All
that Technicolor. Searing purple pinks
of jacaranda splashed on whitewashed walls,
speedboats peeling foam through turquoise ink.

We sniffed in the dark with bundled coats, sighed
with sore knees, steaming slightly from the rain.
Didn’t want our own grubby Wedgewood skies,
oily grey streets, black-flied runner beans on sticks.

We yearned blues, greens – intense as actors’ eyes,
salacious as a lover’s kiss. We took it all home,
that Glorious Technicolor, every dream and lie.
And it kept us warm. On the bus. With chips.

…

Pen Kease used to be a secondary school teacher but now writes poems instead. Pen has a recent MA in Writing from the University of Warwick and her poems have been published in a range of literary magazines and websites, including The Interpreter’s House, The Recusant, Militant Thistles, and Prole Magazine. She lives in South Oxfordshire with husband and cat, and cares for a scattered family as best she can

Pissabed [1]

They’d said not to pick those dandelions –
but she did. A tiny bunch tied up
with daisies, buttercups and string,
a bright reminder of his garden days
among weeds and roses, carrots and bees.

Today, wreaths and crosses are laid,
a coffin lurches on big boys’ shoulders.

Never pick pissabed, it brings bad luck –
she knows that now – awake and small, squashed
under blankets, coats on top, between
big sisters, in the middle, in a panic –
pants, vest, petticoat, black wool stockings soaked.

When the big ones leave for the factory,
she’ll dress. Make tea. No school. Again.

 

[1]  The folk name given to the dandelion. Children were often told that if you picked it, you would wet the bed. It does however, have diuretic qualities.

Pen Kease holds an MA in Writing from the University of Warwick. She is currently interested in family myth and 20^th century social history, some of which is reflected in her poems. Currently, her hair is pink.