Jane Angué lives in rugged country in the foothills of the Cévennes and teaches English Language and Literature. She contributes in French and English to print and online journals such as Amethyst, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Acumen, Erbacce, Poésie/première, Traversées and Arpa. A pamphlet, des fleurs pour Bach, was published in 2019 (Editions Encres Vives).
Lack of aspiration
Hiatus.
Sounds good.
Too good.
Too highbrow for a lowly soul.
Sole lying low on the ocean floor.
And one mustn’t drop the ‘h’
as one mustn’t drop one’s pants
in polite company.
That is the problem: the ‘h’ dropped.
Not the H-bomb,
though in fact it was
a bit of a bomb
with a bit of bread
(organic stoneground, a little gritty,
Farmer’s market, Wednesdays, nice lad)
and Caerphilly
(artisan Gorwydd, of course,
made just down the road)
and green tomato chutney
(Mrs. Postgate’s recipe, matured
until Christmas in the larder).
The point is, the crux
and my cross, if you will,
and Will it was,
the core of this strange fruit,
the kernel, a tough nut
to put in a nutshell:
I ate us.
© Jane Angue
Which silence do you hear?
Suspension
of droning gnawing vehicles
that bore along the valley floor
underpinning the wind
deviating the essence of the hills.
Relief
from raucous nature-lovers
who fill picnic-wrappered afternoons
lamely whistling dogs that run amok
till panting ewes abort.
Quiescence
watching a brimstone shoulder
the thick air bouncing heavily
out of the shade of paper-lace
fingered snowy mespils.
Pause
punctuating the goldfinches’
ornate song like open-work
patiently embroidered
in linen for a trousseau.
Voiceless
in cold orchards
there cherry trees cry out
to indissoluble blindness
blossom floating unanchored
without bees.
© Jane Angue
Set in one’s ways
Another and another night
with Mercury on a high.
Wandering empty-dreamed,
pressed in mud-thick sticky prospects,
wondering
if pippins and plums will hang on
or fall, shrivelled and sour,
before their time.
Another fruitless year.
Tuesday.
Hanging on to the road,
dull-eyed in dour morning dusk,
cut and paste of dozens like it,
automatic mode. Keep on track,
not veer towards the ditch
churning drought-grey leaves,
frothing sweet and crisp bag scum
by the bus stop.
The truck’s flat face blinks,
double-mooned: glowing
through sulky pools of retracting gloom,
two stray dogs, retrievers unretrieved,
their clogged fur clings
and slack collars sway
as they bob in time with the dotted lines,
dodging cars, synchronised
in one mind, bound their way;
their purpose questioning mine.
Wednesday.
One hundred degrees clamp down,
blast like an opened oven door;
the snake-dry side road starts to slide,
melting in treacly waves.
Trotting doggedly downhill,
gait tipping, weaving,
flaccid tongue unrolled,
hanging on, those eyes
unutterably lost or searching.
I stop. And turn and search:
only one is on the road.
© Jane Angue