Helen T. Curtis is a poet now living on the borders of Derbyshire and North Staffordshire where she roams outside as much as possible with camera and notepad - and frequent café stops for jottings. As well as the countryside, she enjoys and finds inspiration in, art and folk music as well as in visits to the coasts of Wales and Scotland. Her work has been published in Artemis, Dawntreader, Canon’s Mouth and in Mother’s Milk and Hysteria anthologies. In 2013, her poem Owen was put forward for the Forward Prize. She has also been placed in competitions run by Wild Words and Fosseway Poets. Curtis is a member of Second Light women’s poetry network and is currently enjoying exciting new work with Oxford School of Poetry with the intention of working towards a first pamphlet.
Crucible
Oak-framed
the barque to bear you
boards carved
where the green-crowned king bowed low;
offered himself,
a vaulted ark, big-hearted.
Within,
limbs of willow cradle your bones
sister-fingers braid a creche for you;
with memory of water, peel and shed
the unsuitable suit;
lie in lattice-weave, bassinet
rocking, lapping, weeping.
Extinguished
as your glorious hour receded,
burn again in frankincense
harvested from your red-bone desert
Boswellia
Salalah
the trees’ dripped tears
coil smoke around you, tendrils
soothe, soothe - balm for your flayed skin
almond flowers for your lips
blue hibiscus for your eyes
so your children will know you.
Your essence rises, rich and fragrant;
oud of agarwood - born of corruption
Aquillaria
precious resin from black infection
in the heart-wood
now transmuted.
Breathe now, rare brother
the air in here is sweet.
Rest now, oak bears all
blood, bone, breath and grace.
Through the Woods
Blood in January, the hunter vanished
spoor dropped here, and here, in bare white wood
and hemming the edges of city spoil
sweet, dark wine for women of the road
restless light teases the keeper of the keys
rusting bunches hang, heavy on winter bough
thicket dark and deep, bow-bending
conceals and guards the secret cleft
spindle, elder, ash and yew.
yellow-gold of Celtic coast
gutters and sparks a crackling blaze, flame of furze
railways embroidered purple-stitching
never say die – never say die – never say die
Strong arms raise up his broad, green crown
all hail staunch king, big-bellied host
on little floats and barks of silver grey
usher the weepers – sweep them downriver
gorse, buddleia oak and willow
Lemon lambs’ tails, bright on blue
wand-waving, dip divine for water
from the mountain, mantle of berry
feast for hungry flocks, journeying
virgin promise, demurely petalled
blushes moist and pink in modest leaf
ladies grey in full-frilled skirt
rustle their young uphill in husky shade
hazel, rowan, apple and beech
Too-sweetness of brief life, a swoon
flute of Pan, brown-sickening
gossip with the water, little games
of cones and twigs-in-ripple
thicket of thorn, catch the felon
keep him there, make him swear
night-shining, gateway to winter
white bark peels, shivers, platinum
lilac, alder, prickle-eye bush, silver birch