Poems in the Time & Tide Anthology

Solstice Shorts has been going since 2014, and has always been about short stories – sometimes flash (Shortest Day, Noon) sometimes longer, and quickly took up with poetry too – partly because poets were complaining that they wanted to play.

We are still crowd funding – a few days and few hundred pounds to go so I’ve been thinking about how to give you a flavour of the book without revealing too much, and thinking about those poetry books that index by first lines, because they are sometimes more memorable than the title. So I thought I’d have a stab at that. (If it grabs you, you can contribute to the crowdfund here – you have til Halloween!)

Starting with the poets!

Alison Lock, Sisterhood Of The Seas: We meet under the spire of St Nicolas’s church/where the waterfront used to be.
Angel Warwick, We Dig The Pig: In the hull of a silt-clad/ oyster smack, we dig the pig
Carl Alexandersson, Tulpaner Och Liljekonvaljer: The tulips made me think of you
Christine Ritchie, Clearance: Edging the darkness of the land, a gleam of grey
Claire Booker, Fisherman’s Daughter:My Dad was an artist with a needle – and How Women Came to Tristan da Cunha: Too late for second chances,/ they catch the island humpbacked on the sea line.
Elinor Brooks, Woman from North India on Bostadh Beach:
Elizabeth Parker, Overlord With Declan: At Arromanches, the Channel clouts concrete caissons,/ gaps the line of Mulberry B and The Watchers: Crosby Beach yearns,/ desiring feet, paws; hungriest sand/ churning slithers of light.
Emma Lee, Casting A Daughter A Drift: The earth tilts again and I stop. And When You Regret Wishing For Something Thrilling: “Should be frightened, I should be frightened.”
Holly Blades, Delivery: Labour was like this:
Ian Macartney, Mother Fish: and Ovčice, Croatia: On this slim torso of a beautiful man/ called Earth we slip palms/ under beaches of coin,
Ivonne Piper, No Tearaways: Son of a Greek/ disobeyed his father
Jane Aldous, In The Shadows, On The Shore, Leith: Why do they always arrive/ at such awkward times,
Jenny Mitchell, Church Mary Sounds The Sea, Bend close. I’ll say this once, tired from the weight of words.
JN Nucifera, City Of Water: I have always sailed on easterly winds
John Richardson, False Light: All is night fog.
Joy Howard, When Will We See The Sea: Feeling we know you/ we rush to your side
Julie Laing, Modality: Overarching wind/ drops
Kate Foley, Verticals: Knobbly concrete crustaceans,
Laura Potts, First Light: It is somewhere in a sometime/ that a long late light
Lynn White, Paddling: No one swam in the seas round Britain/ when I was a child.
Mandy Macdonald, Frocks Of Passage: Papyrus-white/ baby smocks of smooth Egyptian cotton,  and Half A Dozen Oranges: ‘Hexi portokali, parakaló’,/ I was taught to say
Math Jones, The nth Wave, There’s an old man who sits on a rock by the shore/ Says he’s counting the waves coming in.
Melissa Davies, Bird Wife: Otter belly brushes snow/ filling wood gaps/ with warm otter smell. Halibut:Fifty-six halibut tails. Lookout Men:Her father’s father was a lookout man on Løksøya, Seaweed: So black against the snow/ I can taste the summer tang. Værøy: It’s the weight of the mountain/ forcing them to stay on the edge
Michelle Penn, The Sinking Of Mrs Margaret Brown: Silk elbow gloves.
Ness Owen, Sea Lessons: She tells you everyone/ born by sea is brave.
Nick Westerman, Napoleon: stares at his captor the sea, calm to the horizon, belying/ its enormity
Olivia Dawson Points of Interest: Every morning I open my front door and step out into a stuccoed world.
Susan Cartwright-Smith, Open Water We are all shapes and sizes.
Reshma Ruia, Crossing the Black Water: My son he crossed the black water
Sarah Tait, Bosun’s Locker: Lots of things would be better, I think,/ than being slapped round the chops/ with a wet fish, and Hawser: rope-caught/ snake-chained/ heave-stretch/ twist-fight
Savanna Evans, On A Day Like This: She pressed every fingertip on her/ last child’s shoulder,
Simon Whitfield, A Conjuring Poem: By primal life, dividing in the deep
Thomas Tyrrell, Of Grainne Mhaol: To weave by hearth-fires she disdains,
Valerie Bence, Arrival: It starts by not sailing on a Thursday or Friday
Vivien Jones, I Nearly Drownded, Daddy As a child, one of three, play-swimming

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About Cherry Potts

Cherry Potts is a publisher/editor. fiction writer and teacher, event organiser, photographer, book designer, NLP master practitioner, life coach and trainer. She sings for fun. Through Arachne Press she publishes fiction and non fiction and runs spoken word events and cross-arts workshops for writers at interesting venues. Always interested in new opportunites to perform, write or explore writing.

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