Frances-Ann Norton: Poetry

Thanks Lark Books, this was one of the first places to publish my creative works.   

Very pleased for my Three Poems on Loss and Grief accepted as part of this amazing exhibition.  ............................. Three Poems on Loss and Grief:  A Sounding Voice, Coming and Going & Pleated Heart. A Sounding Voice   The feet of my child, the mind of my child, the voice of my child. Yet I am on my own in a room. The feet of my child, the mind of my child… upstairs all the beds are made. The voice of my child… the whole building is quiet. Tear a piece of me away, that is what it is to lose that life, which was inside me. The bedspreads are flat and neat… the ache in my soul of the disappeared baby. The concrete grey, mint green and raspberry room, that now stands empty, Is ringing with singing, resonating with the voice of a woman who might have been. The colours in the room melt in a haze of cloudy diffusion, watercolour pathos. …………………………………. Coming and Going   Every breath is different and every breath hits differently ...

Silence Poem:   Let me scream and rage rend my clothes, sob my heart out in pure frustration.   Let my tongue be cleaved to the roof of my mouth with the wordlessness of my fury and despair.   Let me smash priceless porcelains. Rip costly canvasses. Fling myself into the torrenting vortex of the sea in the thunder storm.   Let me throw all the furniture from an upstairs window to splintering crunch and splitting asunder.   Let me bloody my knuckles punching time on the kitchen cabinets.   If you need me not. If you want me not. If you love me not.   If this be so…   Let me dive to bell-depths of the ocean floor deaf to sound. Let me close myself in a silent sauna of tears. Let me bury my head in the sand of peacefulness.   Let me become another self, a silent one. Half bird, half snake, half woman. To fly the somber skies, shunned by every other creature.    First...

Willow Pattern:   Snappy handbags and porcelain ginger pots The lovers banned from the Spar Local For smooching in the aisles.   Why are Dads such a pain in the ass? What do they know anyway? Were they ever really young and in love?   The boat is waiting A banged up beater of a boat They have paid the captain two crates of Newcastle Brown. Their destination? Love Island, In the Melanesian Pacific.   The edge of the pattern is theirs to create anew The snapped willow, the kicked in fence, the smashed pots the shattered mirror where the motif runs out, what happens there?   This is where their story begins The old repetitions are left behind, forgotten in the amnesia Of true love The pattern is changing, mending, re-growing, piecing itself back together The willow, the boat, the fence, Set sail and don’t look back. First published in Magical Women Magazine , October 2020  

Curled in the Nautilus of Herself:   Curled in the nautilus of herself, she dreams in polynomial time, multiverse. Each night a different life, crystal clarity. Playthings in a painted ladybird tin. Vertebrae of a fish, single portion of ground black pepper Tiny matryoshka, from tight in the middle of the mama dolls. These things she takes out one by one, each with its own tale, talisman for the first day of school. Tokens of her nautilus world. Inside the Fibonacci curves she is beyond reproach or recall. Full of potential, myths and future lives, waiting to be born, gestating in rose coloured dimness. The pink light making a fingernail home. First published in Magical Women Magazine , October 2020  

Potential in a Pandemic: In this time of Pandemic, my eye catches your eye and a moment and eternity passes in recognition, in understanding, in possibility. A future telescopes in vacant potentiality, what if I were in this relationship with this man? who would we be, how would it work out, what would we say to each other?   A flick book of stances with each turn of the page. Vignettes of occasions and milestones slide by in stop frame transitions. Our wedding day, the birth of our first child, standing our new house, first day at school, first argument, first separation, living in separate worlds, end of story.   All this goes by in a flash as I stand in the yellow light of a doorway and you pass by in the darkened hospital corridor. Our meeting of eyes, total conception of the entirety of a human life, a human relationship in a moment as we pass. First published in Dwell Time Zine November 2020.

Lockdown Canticle of Thankfulness: O most inventive creator, all good maker and author of my being. Praised be you O Originator, with all your creatures in Lockdown. Especially our Sister Time, who is the context of my day, Who flies and drags in equal measure.   Who gives moments with loved ones, a pause to think and be. Who calendars a season to put things right, a heartbeat to say goodbye. Who offers space to make plans, a stretch to be friends in and a season in which to plant and germinate.   Who encourages a period to connect as family. Who reveals an interval to rekindle stories and creativity and a stint for games and play. Who gives a duration to hold our breath waiting for the pandemic to pass; and a while to find a new normal.   Sister Time bears likeness to you, without shape or form. You give her to us so we know when to rise and when to lie down; when to fall in love and when to let go. Published on Dwell Time Blog, ...