only a guest: Maggie Clark

It's Tuesday. If you've been paying attention, you'll know that this is the day when I post a poem by one of the writers in our new Confluence anthology. Sorry it's late – have been feeling sorry for self under the covers much of the day; my flu has returned with a vengeance (I'll blame it on my daughter's cold damp house in the certain knowledge that she won't be reading this as – understandably – her mother's writings make her cringe, especially if the word 'poetry' is mentioned! There again, it's probably more likely to be my getting up and doing stuff, especially wet cold stuff in the garden, on Saturday, 24 hours in, thinking I was better... OK, enuff. I shall be womanly.)

Today it's wise woman Maggie Clark. I first met Maggie on her 60th birthday (quite a – in fact a very – long time ago. I hope when I'm her age I have half of her guts and spirit.) She'd rolled up at the Dartmoor pub in a pony and trap. She'd not long come back from riding across Tierra del Fuego. I learned too that in addition to farming and caring for her own huge family, and later running a centre for inspirational courses, she'd offered farm breaks to troubled adolescent city boys. Since I've known her, she's also trekked in the Himalayas, published a novel, and written and had performed three plays. She is still a hill farmer on the moor. When lambing allows it, she joins us on the Isle of Iona retreat, and the first little poem was written there (I'm sure you'll remember what happened in Feb 2003). Because it's so tiny, I shall let her have a bit more space, too.

Iona February 2003

How may I celebrate in this holy place

now all that slaughter

stops me dancing?

   

Only a Guest

We could hardly wait for the bread to rise

the garlic to finish its simmering

the wine to trickle down our throats

hardly wait yet

holding on

the pleasure of our appetites

we made it last there

in that warm kitchen

forever I thought

my eyes resting on you

then the champagne

your good luck

money

no time for slow food

I’m going to clear everything out you said

flinging wide the windows knocking down walls

bright steel kitchen

I tried to keep up

my fingers longing to knead bread in a slow kitchen

when you emptied the sitting room and painted it a sort of beige

‘nothing to distract my creative thoughts’ you said

my protests, weak with realisation, came quietly rasping from my dry mouth

after all it is your house

and I

am really

only a guest

– Maggie Clark