Poems by Martina Evans
Lying in bed in Balls Pond Road with Dora
The wind’s travelling forty-five miles per hour
wisteria blossoms fall and flood
into every corner of the house.
I shouldn’t leave the basement casement window open
after what happened to the bathroom window in 2013 –
but I have to smell the lilac before it passes on.
The children are screaming from De Beauvoir
School playground like they’re being turned
on the spit of a rollercoaster.
Dora jumps on the windowsill
her beard streaming like Jeremiah the prophet.
The wind lifts its fist every few minutes,
pillaging the Fuchsia Riccartonii
throwing the terracotta pots around.
I would go out to save my Cheyenne Spirit Echinacea
if I wasn’t trying to write a poem.
The Engine Running
Soft Morning City! Lsp! I Am Leafy Speafing
in the twingling of an eye… - James Joyce, Finnegans Wake
I heard a song
and when I peered out, I knew it was
eight o clock because
the light had entered the old porch through
the cracked glass in the six-inch window.
The man on his steering wheel
filmed Donny on his iPhone
when we went out on the front step
the grey tent of sky sagging with rain
a seagull screaming on its rope
of air and an ambulance
and a fire engine, all screaming
while the traffic rumbled on
a low earthquake of cars
and omnibuses for more than a hundred years,
and horses here in Hackney before that.
Will it ever stop and flood
like that dream I dreamt
when I opened the front door
and there was nothing
but a canal
the Balls Pond Road
like it was Amsterdam
and someone said
the book of depth is closed
step out of your shell.
Martina Evans is a poet and novelist, the author of ten books of prose and poetry. Burnfort Las Vegas was short-listed for the Irish Times Poetry Now Award 2015 and The Windows of Graceland: New and Selected Poems is published by Carcanet in 2016. She is an associate lecturer at Birkbeck University and Royal Literary Fund fellow for the Reading Round 2014-2016.