Tag: Sarah J Bryson

Observations on the Seventh Day: A mature female in a domestic setting – Autumn by Sarah J Bryson


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One member of the clan, in this case the female, labours
for several hours in the preparation of sustenance
required by the family unit on the symbolic seventh day.

A heated box lights a section of animal corpse –
the release of vapours leads to verbal expressions
of a positive olfactory response from younger members

[immature adults] who then migrate, having only just woken,
back to the upper layers of the territory to occupy themselves
with small lit boxes activated by quick moving digits.

As the meal’s protein component transforms
into a brown leaking-piece the individual,
[in this observation a female called Hazel]

removes the outer skins of roots pulled from their outdoor habitat,
and trims green growths (rejecting those with small life forms)
in readiness for a timed scalding in metal pots of hydration fluid.

As she prepares she listens, via a small electrical appliance,
to a fictional community performing a worship
in their settlement’s religious structure, not so very far away.

She peels a thin layer off the secondary nourishment,
and puts small uniform pieces of the white flesh into a ceramic dish
with a sprinkle of a white granular substance –

and this in turn is covered with a crumb of fat and gluten powder
[the assembly of which requires skill and dexterity]
before it is sacrificed to the hot box, without ceremony.

The final fluster of activity, to bring all elements together,
is accomplished with the urgent summonsing of off-spring
achieved by a series of bangs on a copper disc.

The appearance of the spouse [Joe]
is met with an aggressive glance
but he deflects a verbal onslaught

by the production of a slim glass container
from which he pulls a wooden plug
and pours a portion of red fluid into a large drinking vessel

which he presents to his mate, brushing her hot cheek
with the external margins of his eating orifice, before striking
an exaggerated pose with a carving implement

and slicing the animal corpse with a smile.

Sarah J Bryson is a poet and hospice nurse. She runs occasional poetry workshops, and more regularly she works in care homes as part of a project taking poetry into residential care. Her poetry has been placed in competitions and published in anthologies, in journals and on line.

 

Catalogues for the More Mature Woman by Sarah J Bryson


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They slide heavy through the letterbox,
sheathed in plastic film, mixed in with charity
begging letters, and Estate Agents’ boasts.

The images within their glossiness entice her;
she returns again and again to feast her eyes
on the rich-coral swing coat, the double spreads

of soft cashmere knitwear (on sale at prices
never to be repeated) and this coming season’s dresses,
skirts, and blouses, in bright cotton flower-prints

displayed on slim, un-flawed models, snapped against
sun-filled backdrops of Natural Trust beauty spots.
She turns down pages at the corner to revisit each one

to play with the idea of trying them on in her mind,
colour matching this against that, considering the cost,
and when she might wear them, knowing that the wardrobe

is full already. She tells herself she doesn’t need them.
But time passes slowly, alone so much of the time
and later she gives in to temptation. She dials

speaks to a polite girl, a quiet girl who sweet-talks her,
who calls her Mrs, respectfully, not by her first name
unbidden, and she confirms her dreams in an order,

guiltily with her credit card number, then waits those slow
days for parcels, anxiously now, already weighted
with the dread of disappointment.

Sarah J Bryson is a poet and hospice nurse. She runs occasional poetry workshops, and more regularly she works in care homes as part of a project taking poetry into residential care. Her poetry has been placed in competitions and published in anthologies, in journals and on line.

 

The One That Got Away by Sarah J Bryson


By admin

We had a mouse in our kitchen. The cat brought it in;
a small soft toy with a squeak to make the cat’s tail switch.
But when the mouse had lost interest in being batted about
or tossed in the air- it escaped to the safety of the dark

right under the kitchen cupboards. It scrabbled around
and found – underneath the built-in dishwasher –
a home, safe from cats and inaccessible to humans.
A comfortable existence, most of the time.

Even a hot wash in the dishwasher above did not evict him.
Believe me, Mum tried it.

Sometimes a snout could be seen checking out the scene.
Then if no cat about, the mouse would leave the under cupboard dark
and nip across the floor, under the door – to the utility and the cat’s bowl.
One lump of ‘Whiskas’ was a good sized meal for our little guest.

Every now and then the cat would suspect and inspect.
He’d sniff around gingerly then, tail upright, he’d walk off in a huff.
But at night the mouse would explore, leaving small calling cards,
far more than you would expect from one small mouse.

We had a mouse in our kitchen. But it had to go.
Mum said. She’d had enough.

We returned from the shop with a trap and a jar of peanut butter.
The trap was ‘environmentally kind’ – designed to catch and nourish,
so the mouse could be released (far away) and flourish.
Night after night the cat’s bowl would be raided

the cardboard blockade for the gap under-the-door, left in in tatters.
Peanut butter untouched. This mouse preferred ‘Whiskas’.

The mouse had outstayed its welcome. Two new traps were set
(‘infallible’ it said on the box). The under-door gap was sealed
with extra strength tape, heavy duty cardboard, and military precision.
We went to bed with our fingers crossed.

We had a mouse in our kitchen.
But the one that got away did not get away again.
We found him in the morning: snapped,
stiff and cold, his nose poked in peanut butter.

Sarah J Bryson is a poet and hospice nurse. She runs occasional poetry workshops, and more regularly she works in care homes as part of a project taking poetry into residential care. Her poetry has been placed in competitions and published in anthologies, in journals and on line.