poems from 'days of isolation': Lucy Rose Cunningham
light fades around 7pm
and all I see are lines on pages
faded lines of chemtrails
lines crisscrossed, over spaces opening to a still blue sky;
no breeze, suspended gestures.
Home is a desk; books, pens, my work never done
– a requiem to a wooden table and chair.
my sister called and spoke of
curling, the day bending round over itself,
morning swallowing night,
day’s darkness arriving late
to the party–
there was a fanfare on the streets
a crescendo of claps hot on the palms
of the people clamoring for the doctors and nurses,
for the NHS reaching for the hands of the workers
reaching for more time more steadiness, certainty
that this time would pass
that those higher up will be moved to
move beyond class;
that lost friends will curl into each other
bodies moulded to the lie of the land
and bananas will curl in a grocers again
where buyers stand close, hand in hand.
a wistful little song;
the blue hour is fast approaching.
I cried again in the night, sought
the little dent on the left side of your forehead,
running fingers across
thick bristle brows that hood your eyes,
a brown scape haloed with gold,
irises framed with the window’s light
touches your hair, a soft mass of black
sprawling, your limbs run over mine,
deep set in the bed
you rock me
and your smile, felt through tears; a warmth I cannot contain.
The morning - it comes and you stand above,
a vignette of muddled longing and hope.
Lucy Rose Cunningham is a Leeds based poet with works published in SNOW Literature Review (Journal 7 & 8), Anthony Barnett Publishing House, London; Sync, Free University of Berlin and Das Erotik Magazin, Leipzig. Working with Hong Kong based artist Hou Lam Tsui, she self-published 'From Feeling to Felt' in 2018, acquired by Motto Bookstore Berlin, before acquisition by Asia Art Archive’s Hong Kong and New York Department, in 2019. She is a collector of earthenware and words, with a rooted love for evening rain.
Find more of the artist’s work at: