Charlotte Dormandy is about to submit her final portfolio for the MA in Writing Poetry at the Poetry School in London. She has recently had poems long-listed in the National Poetry Competition, highly commended in the Erbacce Competition and short-listed in the Anthology Competition.
4A Lyndhurst Gardens: Games at our Grandparents’
The light that fills
the common stairwell
from its noble windows
seems met and quickened
by a light that streams
from inside out
when the front door opens.
The gloomy lobby’s
luminous with a welcome
that embraces us.
Enthroned, a sibyl
flatters and indulges,
caprice kept leashed
keeping approval sweet.
Powerless to believe
the painting that commands
the shadows is of her,
we eye it sidelong – a priestess
standing tall and dealing cards.
You’d not know she was blind.
In a twilit room,
slats of light lie white across
the chessboard in the morning.
Companionate tv
chortles roguishly
and makes accomplices
of low armchairs. He folds
himself away till called
and then looms quick and gentle,
a soul resigned to servitude.
Our tiddly-winks
spring across the sprung floor
and we blink to see
our parents’ skill
at this most tawdry sport.
An older order
leaves them not quite grown-up
here as we are spun,
blindfolded and groping,
into our estate.
© Charlotte Dormandy
Snail City
the tinkerty-tonk of scaffolding going up somewhere –
the lush patch on our lawn
where goldfinches grow nyjer –
the sky so much bluer and whiter for red roofs –
cobwebs clinging to pebble-dash – and porches
snail cities
We move slowly here,
loft extensions and nippy white vans
signs not of pushing up but of digging in.
Though we ache
when we see in old books
the market gardens we’ve displaced,
we are comfy with
the compromise between openness
and walls. We like to hear our neighbours sneeze,
to marvel at poor parking, and to see
the estates of small birds stretching over
three back gardens.
As with hugger-mugger snails
on the shady side of a planter, the markings
of our brittle bubbles prove
us individuals. (Have you seen their chequerboard path?)
So we bless the profit-seeking builders
who, a hundred years ago, threw up
streets of trumpery merrieness
for our chance to cherish
clouds latticed by leaded lights,
starlings on roof ridges spoofing mobile phones,
the creativity constraint inspires,
and the fellowship of snails.
© Charlotte Dormandy
On Your Own
I suppose there is an element of togetherness
about love. If it’s mutual, you spend
a lot of time together.
Basically, though, it isolates you. And not just
because your qualms and thrills leave others cold
and pondering your preference,
but in relation to the object of your love: you must
conceal what is revealed for fear you’ll reap
a fool’s reward.
For lodging in some place you never knew existed
till it starts to throb like frying eggs, love’s
discoveries are seismic –
a tendon’s charm, the cadence of a snore – such stuff
as will not minister to vanity, does not yield grist
for compliments.
Still, it keeps you personally warm, as crooners sing,
each carbuncle adding insulation
to your sanctuary,
and in special moments of delight or stress
you bed down solo, comforted by treasures, to enjoy
the privacy of love.
© Charlotte Dormandy