Gutter #23 Poetry: L. Kiew, André Naffis-Sahely & Hannah Lavery
In search of
(after CD Wright’s ‘ Personals’)
Under frugal moons I abandon myself to slope.
I like to eat strawberries with salt.
I have firm hips and a shedding stoop.
My favourite fruit is stone. We could rehome
snails from the allotment. It’s not their fault
they’re migrant. I’ll meet you by the gingko trees.
Shells seem impenetrable but all you need
is an egg tooth. I don’t remember where I was
when Diana died. Snakeshead fritillaries seem
perfect for bridal bouquets. I have plenty
of thyme. Don’t turn compost. Let’s subside.
I wish (like earthworms) we left casts. Aren’t
the cornflowers astray? I could always fall into
bed. If I could, I would use only terracotta pots.
The rat infestation drew a fox just yesterday.
Small bones are crunchiest white. If we’re going
to dig, let’s dig right here. Earth mounds have
great potential. Three winters I wore green
woollen masks, a yellow scarf. My second cousin
hand-pollinates. The neighbours call him Bumble.
It’s the truth that germinates at blood temperature.
That’s cute, right? I’m ready. I’ll try crossbreeding.
—L. Kiew
Memorial Day
The crows above fly in murders,
jar-heads hang their stars and stripes,
and all spring, the great war machine
has rumbled on and on. Nine thousand
miles away, herds of nervous cows
are flown across the Persian Gulf
to quench the thirst of theocrats.
A decade following the Great Recession,
the latest statistic: a bottle of bubbly
is popped each second worldwide.
When Napoleon led his soldiers
across the plains of Western Russia,
he made them tow two hundred crates
of vintage wines through blood and snow.
‘Today we drink. Tomorrow we pay.’
Not a single drop was ever drunk.
—André Naffis-Sahely
Flying Bats
I was invited here—I am sure I was
to read my poetry
that’s what the email said.
I’ve been writing a lot about trees—
Oh there is this nest I found in a hedge.
Blue wee eggs. A Starling—was it?
Aye well I was invited—that is what it said.
Tonight, for all you lovely folk
I am unpacking my poetry suitcase—ta da!
The travelling poetry salesman. That’ll be me
And they say after—they say
I love how you spoke about found nests
as a metaphor for immigration—
truth is—I’ve always been here
I was just writing about this
wood at the back of my house
about a nest I found
how at night I duck the bats
as if they might fly into my hair
even though I know—I duck.
Even though I know
they know this place
just as well as they know
I know this place. Still—I duck.