Frances-Ann Norton: Poetry

Dream Poem 26: Screaming from the Roof. To be sung to the psalm tone tune; ‘I will sing to the Lord Glorious His triumph’ Response: I will stand on the roof, Screaming in the wind. The car goes speeding on before me I stand helpless on the roof I am always standing, hair streaming in the wind The wind carries my voice there is no sound How can I help from cry ing out? Response: I will stand on the roof, Screaming in the wind. As the miles flow under the wheels I stand always in the wind Miles and miles slip by and my pur pose is foiled My words are lost as soon as I utter them My voice failed within my mouth I am mute be fore the world. Response: I will stand on the roof, Screaming in the wind. The post-it notes on sign posts in orange yell ow and green Many layer on layer cove ring the signpost The direction cannot be read nor the post-its Indecipherable signs and instructions bar my way. Response: I will s...

Dream Poem 32: Sharon Stone Pretty, pretty Sharon Stone Slick back hair dives cleanly from the top deck of the boat Into the sea as the ship begins its slow descent engulfed by a calm sea. Before her flying fish pronouncing ‘and my name is Emma Golden’. Once lead guitarist of an all-girl rock band She’d grown up as part of the tribe beautifully. Eddie Murphy escaped, also part of the clan. But Tom Cruise – rejected, went down with the ship, doomed and frustrated. 

Dream Poem 23:  Boxes The stressful running around The arguments The fallout The accusations In each room a small pile of boxes What’s in the boxes? Nothing it’s just baggage Yet I unsuccessfully spend my energy Rushing from one place to the next Pointlessly checking the boxes Until its time to go And I’m planning on taking all the boxes – that containing nothing With me Why am I doing this meaningless act? Why am I carrying the boxes around with me? I Know.  I will burn the boxes instead of dragging them around. I will incinerate and annihilate them. Here I am again in the dream. I carefully collect the stacks of boxes from each room. I pile them up in the courtyard and with kindling, matches and newspaper I begin a fire. It catches and leaps up with Pentecostal zeal There is a pit of anxiety in my stomach Its tight like a fist until The word ‘Pentecost’ arrives. And now it unclenches and I remember to breat...

Dream Poem 9: Birds Through Water Dad was there We were at the dinner table He was shouting he had dementia “You forget stuff- you always forget stuff” I always back down, well not this time I let him have it And ran upstairs. We are in a row of terraced houses. When I get up to the fourth floor, I see that all the houses are connected making a long passageway under the eaves, lit in blue reflected light as if from snow or water. Abandoned Abject and forgotten, rotting and decayed I run down the length of the passage way, it is empty and deserted The roof has fallen-in in several places and through it I can see the Lapis firmament pricked with stars. Under each breach, Pools of azurite water have formed, reflecting the vault of Heaven. Flocks of birds are flying through water – dipping beneath the surface and rising into the roof-space. Dripping. Pearls of liquid beading, building and bleeding to the bare attic planks f...

Putting Things in Perspective Do you know sometimes I don’t even think Dad is dead? He’s not, He’s still away. I was gone once for three years and when I came back there he was. I don’t wish him back really I don’t. I know he’s better off where he is. Papua New Guinea my heart land, my mythical island. It’s time to give up the dream because the dream is not real. It’s a narrative cooked up in New York, It’s a museum story, it’s not based on contemporary reality or geography. It cannot be found by any co-ordinates of latitude and longitude. There is no civil wars, bloodshed and feuding, No malaria, spiders, snakes and leach infested rainforest. No it’s a legend. Has it been years of wasted thoughts and energies? PNG the fictional character in my own narrative. Hilda Ogden’s kitchen wall. Papered in tropical paradise paper. Three plaster ducks flying across the illusionary blue sky, past a palm tree. That simulacrum is ...

Dream Poem 22 Our Projects Kneeling,  looking through An open door at The crowds and groups of people There are always so many People there Our projects involve a Cast of thousands Trains in the distance.

Dream Poem 21; At the Merrion Centre Boys in blue sailor suits and parkas with the fish tails swish past girls With waxen orange skin. Angel fish of the Merrion Centre. Swimming round and round the interior resting by a coral patch in the centre Better to watch the tide go by. Their mouths open and close eating without eating Chewing away, batting glued on eyelashes at passing squid and octopi. Sea horses with their sea foals in push chairs, transparent dummies in their mouths, Mouthing lines from Shakespeare and ‘Days of Our Lives’ Silently to themselves. As their mothers power swim in groups Ripe and firm.  Sharp hard eyes looking from under heavily pencilled brows, Their soft Uggs shuffling and slipping, pouffing along as they walk. From the whale bus, sea life floats by Telephone box, supermarket, coffee shop,  post box, discount home store, supermarket, outdoor clothes shop,  nigh...

Dream Poem 20; Span of an angel wing Sails of yachts and horse tack. A creative charmer and a handsome goddess in A boat going down the river, Snake water, smooth sinuous water, crystal clear, Ice-blue and green. So cold and deep and strong. My body will wake with joy and we shall be saved. The span of an angel wing covers the whole earth. Time has elapsed, collapsed, elipsed. The river of memory runs down a funnel And siphons off into each of us And we shall be saved. We shall Be saved.

Dream Poem 18 - Hard Like a Lemon Grater The quivering woman in the depths of despair. The caramel coloured hare springing gracefully through the field. “That’s mine”. I said on a factory production line. A sealed pack of lard from Italy, So white and gleaming, with herbs on top and the thinnest streak of ham running through it. The thought of going without him made my heart wring with grief. Who are you? My mirror me. All the emotions and stories are inside out  And back to front and opposite of what is going on this side of the mirror. Don’t worry about us, we’ve seen you before. You are all soft and gentle but we are hard like a lemon grater. You don’t know how to speak for the fear in your mouth. We speak freely and as rudely as we like. Who cares? You smooth over and placate, We throw fire bombs of disaster among polite conversation. You are a milk pudding, we distain like lemon juice We curdle and part the liquid. We are the ...

Two Doors Down: The Arrow On my return from work covered in dust, sticky hot, a letter awaited from home five long yeas away I looked at the letter I thought, hopelessly,  I’m never going home. I don’t know these people anymore And they have taken leave of me and set me adrift in a coracle in their minds. Because even if I’m only two doors down I can only live in my house. In my skin. And whatever is happening two doors down is not what I’m doing It’s not my conversation Not my life Two doors down – two continents, five thousand miles apart. I can only be in one place at a time. and so to the letter… This time I’m writing home to England. Shirley (named after Temple) says to me – “don’t say anything negative,” She tries to vet and sensor my letter as if from prison, with black permanent marker Striking out words and phrases that displease, “Only write positive things, lie if you have to.” It was the last thing she said to me. ...

The Mother and Daughter Ladies, ladies, ladies, So much love So much compassion Spilling over from your happy lives Into the lives of others, the people you meet Every generous thing Over-spilling Abundantly flowing Every small piece of happiness gathered and collected into a Red heart shaped napkin And popped into a lady-like handbag Two beauties Full of life Givers.

Dream Poem 8 - The Hero High, high on the stairs Top floor Looking down onto the world of men The hero has to go down into the world of people To complete a task Running, weaving round market traders and shoppers He’s looking for something He’s not blaming anyone But he knows with little knowledge – this is a set up One day we will all be free One day things will iron themselves out flat But today is a running day – he must run for his life And for the life of his sister – run to stay alive The stairs spiral up And he is lost in the ghosts and the rain The churches and the shoppers The parsons and the peaceful. Why is life contradictory, Long-run and over-emotional? The contents of his life are emptied on the floor Like a spilt bag Everyone sees Everyone thinks they understand They don’t They only see their truth.

Yorkshire Rain The greenest green The green, greeneth of the day Mist of rain fall Bank after bank, after bank. Softening the edges of the landscape Tinting the colours of yellow fields. Brown ploughed earth, Lakes, Tree branches, all so softened and greened with spring and water The water of life Aqua vitae Its not at the worlds end In a cup once used by Christ Its in every drop of rain Cupped in my hand Giving me life On my tongue.

Slow Motion Under Water  Sometimes I’m just weary For no good reason And the idea of all that has happened Comes to me Resting – still – deep in greenwater Slow motion under water, And the weight of water the weight of the water Is heavy and sleepy The knowledge is a stone tied in string And fastened to my body Each movement – such an effort Each moment spent underwater Makes it more difficult to surface And the rock tied in quarters The white cotton bright against The darkness of the surface of the rock It is not weightless It is a heavy rye loaf It is made of solid porridge oats. And time is in slow motion Each movement a great effort Each blink Each heart beat Each deadened sound takes hours to reach my water blocked ears. When I hear it, it is faint Distant Lost in time Irrelevant Defunct.

Till Receipt (Pudsey Leisure Centre) Cherries so glossy and red with syrup Droplets of unguent juice Cascading down a twelve scoop wonder, pastel colours; pistachio green, cappuccino, bubble gum, slush-puppy-blue-raspberry,  below the grey-green mossyness of the ice-cold North Sea, crash-crashing on the Demerara sand of a misty beach in the British summer. Sitting up on a hill in the wind blown scrub, sheltering behind a gorse in golden-yellow bloom Ice cream in hand ice cream van on the road above us. Green-sleeves never sounded so sweet. Looking down-hill at the crazy golf course. The little putts and courses, flags fluttering on miniature stone bridges and little buildings painted ultramarine and salmon. And far below the road And the funicular going up and coming down. The sea a graphite smudge in the far distance Tiny trotting donkeys Dots on the sand Are isolated family dramas Veiled in drifts of rain. The ice...

Pause to Action When I look at the page I pause… Don’t over think it Just go Start with a memory and let it unwind to the sticking point. And there Let it rest for a moment Re-live all it wants to share Re-feel all it gives Be in it. Then let it go. What comes is a gift Not given every day And yet a daily speaking Of the thought Bears fruit Insight Reflection Further pause to action. Later It’s the Pensieve It’s the wishing well It’s the drop in the ocean My thoughts, in pencil Easier to erase.

Pele Tower All the time, pervading, invading Pele View, the yellow rape smells strongly of  bitter flowers. The pollen drifts on windscreens like a late spring snowdrift. Pele Tower sits mutely, it has no bell, no voice, no alarm to say “I’m drowning”, going under, in this constantly moving mass of treacherous water. The tower once a home to sheep. Now an island, adrift, among and amidst a sea of citrus. Intense colour saturation, cadmium hue light, reflecting coldly on the warm sand-stone structure. Swallows dive-bomb insects just above the heads of zesty blooms. And all the time in the background the sound of water on rock. The Scars at Cresswell resound day and night to high winds smashing wave after wave a dull roar giving voice to the crop. Subtle prismatic greys of the sea, the changing greens of the forest, the after image of acid lemon – to neon blue, bleeding over the edges onto houses, trees, sky. Co...

The Cake I Have Eaten Oh the cake I have eaten Recovery never tasted sweet And moist and damp Sugar coated Jam licked Frosting fluted Oh the flowers I’ve received Beauteous bouquets Lilies, carnations, wild flowers, artichokes, Changing with the seasons Autumn bouquets turns to winter bunches. Oh the chocolates I’ve consumed Beautiful boxes Caskets of jewel like offerings Roses and Quality Street After eights and chocolate orange Sharing with visitors Pillowed up in my boudoir The red and white patchwork A friend for the eyes through it all. The pyjamas and bed linen, bed socks and loungewear Sitting there day after day As summer turns to autumn And autumn turns to winter And winter turns to spring And ever so slowly So slowly I don’t notice it I realize that something Big Has happened And the time passing And the clothes changing Beds made Trays of dinner Books and magazines Box sets and maths pap...

Empty Rooms After Charlotte Mew’s ‘Rooms’, “Rooms where for good or ill – things died”. P 26, Modern Women Poets The sad empty feeling I get Like stepping into a ruin of a house An abandoned room Bereft of habitation Peeling paint in an industrial mint blue A sick, gut drop I’m in it The smell of fustiness Mixed with rotted leaves. Poetry It takes me Drags me where I would not walk. A word Is removal from my bed, my armchair To this empty room. This room with splintered ceiling letting in Harsh sun light A metal bed frame Exposed concrete I’m here - I’m straight here This is my sad place This is my desolation My empty pit. Where is that child? The one I never saw with my real eyes? Apart from The flow of blood, the flood of blood Which swept her away This child Who would be now 10 or 11. Cloth of glowing colours floating in a Turkish sky The sun Making transparencies of The woven lengths In r...

Dream catcher A square block of narrative A solid story Unravelled like wool Like missing the train Like trying to catch a cat by the tail Gone.

Couch day Fresh mint tea Made with the greenest of leaves Smells so verdant  as I sit a year later in a cafe enjoying my own company in freedom, holidays, just to be. and I think back. That day Sitting from early, early, in nervous fidgetiness On my body is drawn an arrow. This one. And some writing which I can’t bring myself to read And a signature as if I am an autograph book. A memory of the last day at school All us girls had small books with a fancy pen to write with. Nervous excitement Exams over Results not revealed Future possibilities So near So present. Just like now – completely present To this moment, to an uncertain yet hopeful future Completely and positively alive And next to me Is he And our hearts beat high and quick. In this place Expectation and fear, And yet outward face Calm – be calm, Breathe in calm. Rising dread as one by one by one The ladies in gowns and thick gr...