Tag: Sarah Watkinson

Security by Sarah Watkinson


By admin

Look at the monitors. What babies these
holidaymakers and suited Pooters are.
My God, if they knew the whole they’d not be here
−    but it keeps them out of the Outer Hebrides.

Even these fools fear planes, though. Best they don’t see.
Distraction works. Once they’ve booked a seat
we show them toys to buy, that crap they eat
set up to draw them through ‘Security’.

Ah, what a triumph we’ve created there!
That snaking queue they’re shuffling along
obediently. Then they take off their shoes,
and jewellery, to have them passed as pure ̶
a brilliant stroke by that tame Oxford don!
They know it wards off doom. They daren’t refuse.

Sarah Watkinson is a lifelong scientist and new poet. Her work has recently been published in magazines including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Pennine Platform, The Rialto, The Stare’s Nest and Well Versed, and has won several prizes in open competitions.

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Hyperbolic Wishes by Sarah Watkinson


By admin

And you, have an amazing weekend too
be stunned as your three-storey extension cracks and falls
shedding that primrose render from its breeze-block walls;
watch the four horsemen churn your stripy lawn
and your yelling kids launch into space from their trampoline.

I hope it’s truly fabulous for you
with lots of harpies at your barbecue,
a whopping leviathan in your swimming pool,
dragons to drop in, turn your burgers black
and incinerate your Range Rover Evoque.

Sarah Watkinson is a lifelong scientist and new poet. Her work has recently been published in magazines including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Pennine Platform, The Rialto, The Stare’s Nest and Well Versed, and has won several prizes in open competitions.

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Postcard from the Cat by Sarah Watkinson


By admin

(after Craig Raine)

Of their many prostheses the saddest of all are forks
to correct clawlessness. So many,
and so many different. Detachable, ranked by size,
the smallest for pinning down food −
detestable, pre-killed pap. I pity

their soft bodies propped at tables, in their paws
unresponsive metal that will never retract,
never clutch and tear with the whole arm’s force,
but instead turns weakly over into a mere scoop
to push mush between their hairless lips and pointless teeth.

And these little ‘dinner forks’ are no use
to prepare a latrine. For that
they use a ‘garden fork’ in a fastidious hand.
They turn and pat the earth, toss plants aside,
but then, forgetting their purpose, fail to perform.

Sarah Watkinson is a lifelong scientist and new poet. Her work has recently been published in magazines including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Pennine Platform, The Rialto, The Stare’s Nest and Well Versed, and has won several prizes in open competitions.

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