peel and portion a tangerine
claire.ewbank
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Prades Mountains
White falls down on my woollen hands
and my pink nose, and is gone;
Before me, on tip-toes behind the glowing
houses – tall and slim and leaning over,
shutters heavy and paint peeling into
fat cacti and from warm wooden doors –
the Mountains spread their snow-covered selves
out, like a roof for the town,
like a layer of heaven come tumbling down,
like a superman crest they bare
their chests, proud of their pine trees,
their pure white, their evergreen.
When the sun rests in the centre square,
she and the blue sky lie summer down
and my multi-coloured wool is knotted and knitted
sometimes wrong, sometimes right, the colour
slides through my fingers
like the lady’s smoke as she smokes
and the wind in the snow
as it breathes on the mountains.
Birdsong
There is birdsong outside
perhaps the fairytale didn’t die
when I was younger.
That man’s two hands clasped his children’s fast,
So sure. So secure.
Roses grow in this garden,
they are more red than the stories could tell me,
more red than the T.V screen, more red
than what as been.
I cannot lie, my memories are not enough –
I cannot remember if your lips were as red
as these roses are.
I cannot remember how you made me feel
when you made me laugh.
But that man’s hands clasp fast
and roses grow even when I cannot remember.
Things are true, even when truth dies,
I miss you, but there is still birdsong outside.
Accent
Like a missing tune
your voices, your choices of words
and lilts, the way your tongue
moves in your mouth-
the way we each dance
or shout. These letters hold roses,
the stamps you’ve chosen,
the way your pen trips like your lips
on their side, these words are you
here, like your tune by my side.
Home? A home made of paper
and sent over the sea, an address
that’s been read and sent you, to me.
You’ve seen these shit covered streets,
perhaps you tasted the thick wine
and drank that sun, your letters like
little people: they follow me,
spelling out you, one by one.
I almost hear your accent, the
spilling of your tea and your drawings:
now I see what you see.
A mustard seed
A mustard seed woke up in the ground,
Stretched his roots and looked around,
“Oh the mountains so tall!
What’s the point,” he said, “in me being here at all?”
And the day died and the night fell,
Mr Mustard seed didn’t feel well,
The trees shook and the birds howled,
And the large-eared animals were out on the prowl.
And then one by one the stars came out,
Each one blinked and gave a shout,
And Mr Mustard looked up in glee –
“Those jewels ain’t no bigger than me!”
Softly they began to sing a song,
And Mr Mustard couldn’t but sing along,
His body grew and his roots held fast,
His bark was ugly but built to last.
And sometimes when the dawn arrives,
Mr Mustard falters – and starts to cry,
‘Till he remembers that the stars will appear,
And the mighty mountains are not made for fear.
Why, a mustard seed could move those slopes!
They’ve got no roots and he’s got hope!
in each other's clauses
Here we are in standing
in talking, in conversation,
tea wet on my lips and keys
falling down when I knock them
and your legs folded on the chair’s arm
like your arms could be on your chest
but I’m sure you’d tell me psychologically
that would suggest you were closed,
and you’re not: your hands are moving,
you drink some tea.
Nope, I don’t know what it means ‘to be’
but the grammar interests me
and the way we put our days and thoughts together
like letters and sentences
in an order which most probably doesn’t make sense
but hey, can be beautiful nonetheless.
And God? Well he made me the way I am
and that’ll change as I go
but we meet in each other’s clauses
and cause beginnings, conjunctions and pauses,
and as confusing as that can make our phrases,
thank God that that is how life is.
Hey England Town
Your shores are far away from me
It’s only in the quiet of the night
That I can come back and dream
Of you
The way your roses wrap their arms
Around our warm stone houses,
Festive lights alight in summer and in spring,
The way your red post-boxes stamp
The corners of our streets,
The way your beer makes us sing!
Oh England Town
Where tea flows abundantly
And mixes with the rain, where dialect
Meets chips and gravy love
And we are proud to say your name.
Where Pimm’s slips slowly down our throat
Even when the sun is lost in France,
The refreshing cucumber, the background
Music, the strawberries…
We start to dance.
In your villages in May
That Merry Merry Month of May
The children grow like daffodils
The adults remember forgotten skills
And we celebrate
In England Town
For today is a new day.
Upon the counter, scones,
And jam and flapjack covered plates,
Your family at my side,
Our friends, your lads, my mates,
And around a fireplace
You’ve made me,
The cold outside and the heat within,
Like the touch of whisky
You burn me, revive me
Oh England Town
Your shores are far from me
But it’s ok
Because in the quiet of the night
I hear the sea
And I remember what it’s like to be
In England Town.
No-words
You lift up your palm,
green marks and imprints from the grass,
we just look
because our German doesn’t have the words
to explain
these strange patterns which don’t hurt
but two minutes ago were not there.
This time it was the no-words
we enjoyed listening to,
the French words I hungrily flicked through
whilst you found cloud-words amongst blue,
all grammar-less
all time-less
wir genießen es,
wir hören zu.
Golden Hands
My hands are golden
In the sand, in the sun,
Washed clean and made beautiful
By the blood of your son,
Here where the boat waits
And the sea waves me in,
Here are you - ever constant,
When we end, when we begin.
drawing
It is here when your hand makes a whistle
And the thimbles on his fingers beat stitches in the bars
That my feet start to wobble and my fingers twitch
And my scarf sways a little and my body follows suit,
Your voice is ascending - you pull at my roots
And with these strangers in this new room
I’m tap tap-ping my boots
You’ve got the bass strumming, humming his hot melody,
It walks casually around us, oh so confidently
And the drums slide pass, sidle by on a whim,
Like it’s teasing the piano whose fingers wear thin
You’ve changed your hair and your dress
But your voice is the same,
It trickles and pours,
You sing without shame,
It is here where we are
In this moment of sound
When all is forgotten,
No feet on the ground,
Time is a word
And end is one too,
So we stopped with the letters:
With music, you drew.
A matter of perspective.
You can eat scones for breakfast, lunch and tea.
When you’re in England you’re so aware it’s an island; you can’t just quickly drive over the border into other European countries like Italy and Germany.
People in England have busy lives: pressés
Smoking inside buildings isn’t great, but then if you don’t smell of smoke in a club you’ll smell of sweat or alcohol.
London is the heart of Europe.
France is the country of apple trees, green fields, cheese and wine.
France is the country of figs, lemons, pomegranates, cheese and wine.
The level of language learning here is very good.
The level of language learning here is ok.
The level of language learning here is pretty poor.
They can speak French fluently.
We’re still learning.
It is COLD.
It is pretty warm.
Woa that storm is amazing!
Don’t get out the car, there’s a storm outside.
Fashion is something that should be individual for every person. You can wear what you want.
When you say ‘story’ you should round your lips.
A cathedral is a place of peace: when you walk in it’s like the whole world stops and you meet with something great.
Germany is our neighbour; we’re closely linked with the nation.
Austria is a germanophone country.
I cannot understand a word he’s saying.
Perpignan is a beautiful city and there are lots of places to explore; the region itself is stunning.
Why did you choose Perpignan?
The English love their beer.
Guinness tastes good.
Maman. Mama. Mum. Mutti. Mom. Mother.
The mountains are my favourite place to be: they’re always changing and their vast scale amazes me.
The sea is never the same and even if it’s raining it’s worth going to the coast.
My mum doesn’t cook this meal with sugar.
You shouldn’t eat anything else after having eaten this course because it’s sweet.
Do ré mi fa sol la si. E D E F G A B.
We’re right/ wrong.
Poetry
Words Sword(s) Do(o)rs
Claire has been writing ever since she can remember. She was commended in the Stephen Spender Poetry Translation Competition (2009, 2010) as well as in the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Competition in 2008.
Claire speaks English, German and French and is currently enjoying exploring Arabic and Kurdish. Writing is like a game for Claire and the more words she has, the more fun there is! Over these pages you will find some of her experiments from the last few years.