Blog

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In a multiverse, where the red string of fate
bow ties, ribbonesque, ’round the entry points,
shallow mortals sit sipping tea and cherry cola.

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Their polar opposites in composite poses
propose alternative roles where nobody knows
if we’re up or down or Wednesday or wise

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while the madmen who pose in invisible clothes,
dispose of our funds by the hundreds of billions;
pushing us all through the red door,
                      in battle painted handcarts.

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©LorraineVoss.Sept2025

Steam swirls curl up from the cup summoning a biscuit battalion:
Little brittle squaddies waiting to be called.

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I grip one; a ginger sergeant. Granite hard in fiction
but buttery flour and sugary in truth.

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He eyes my sea of sepia tea and I whisper, ‘easy soldier!’
The ensuring plunge is perilous.

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The tea swells, its tiny tides tugging at his sides.
Dip… dip… drip… He trembles.

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Misjudge and he will liquify, see himself dismembered by the dunk.
One more dip, he’ll be sunk.

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But fickle tea says: Never mind, there’s plenty more of me.
Bring in Private Bourbon.

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©LorraineVoss.Oct2025

The words that first caught me were ‘bombazine black’. 

Truth is, there’s not much that’s blacker than that.

Not the smooth inner crease of a Jackdaw’s wing 

or anthracite chipped from the deepest mine.

Not the ring of a bell that warms of the plague, 

not war, nor grief, nor a man in his prime 

cut down by the sound of  babanau crying. 

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Not the tar running stream of bubbling hot 

hindsight that comes in a dream we forgot 

or the sky in December at three in the morning 

all ‘starless and bible…’ and lacking in hope

like mourning clothes made out of bomb… bomb… bombazine cloaks.

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Translation.

Babanau (Welsh) pronounced babban eye – Babies (English)

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Note: This one was inspired by the literary adjudicator for Llanwrtyd Wells Eisteddfod 2025 who commented that my entries for the poetry category (placed 2nd and 3rd) put her in mind of Dylan Thomas poems.

I hope I’ve not done him a disservice by stealing a few words from Undermilk Wood and painting them darker.

Llanwrtyd Eisteddfod, 2025 (2nd prize)

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Stone sits, still

and silent in the gentle pulse

of valley streams

and the hills hold hymns

hallowed and haloed

by centuries

of bardic verse.

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Caves of coal

cradle indigo veins

that pulse with the pride

of hard working men

who dreamt of rivers

and rain and rhyme

and choices with hindsight,

while wise chapel words

wound through the weft

of their worries.

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Their language lingers

like liqueur on lips;

like light in the home porch;

like hiraeth and love.

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Up top where the land is a loom

all sea thread, slate thread.

lichen and legend;

a bride and a groom

dressed in dragon’s breath

make plans for a shelf

full of memories they’ll share

when they’re eighty.

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and always and always

the roots remain,

tangled in truth

and the tongue of the land.

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The writings, the songs

the poets, the singers

the language the people

all planted boot deep

in the grain and the veins

and the granite.

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Llanwrytd Eisteddfod 2025 (3rd)

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Verses arrive (some of the time)

through the dark of soft soil

or the crackle glazed bases

of terracotta pots.

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They linger under fingernails

or sticky-weed hitch hike

on a cardi

or the woollen tops

of Auden’s

grubby gardening socks.

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They defy all the clocks,

any timely habits,

missions,

traditions

and seasonal gardening law.

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They come when they want

sprouting and waving

through cracks in the paving;

spreading their tendrils and

savouring light.

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Their roots are in prose

but their shoots give birth

to rhythmic philosophies

offered on loan

to borrowing poets

who write them but know

that the essence must hold

past the edit.

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The next seeds are sown

while we’re pruning the blind-side

lines of Virginia Creeper.

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Note: W.H. Auden, best known for Stop All The Clocks, had an explicit and metaphorical appreciation for gardening, believing it symbolized a healthy relationship with the earth. He incorporated this idea into his ‘Daydream College for Bards’, where he instructed his students to cultivate their own garden plots as an act of principled living against societal exploitation of soil.

He’s wearing his close fitting, rather special coat.

The one with the hole in the stone in its pocket

and a penny in the lining

for when the luck runs out.

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The cloth, designed by Alchemy

is threadbare but performing.

There are no proper holes

that his holey stone can fall through.

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Each ninth stitch

is a backstitch to remind him

of the benefit

of early interventions.

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But every time he wears it

he becomes a better ghost;

an apparition of his very best intentions.

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Copyright: Lorraine Voss

Slicing white and purple light

blazing fork trails to the earth.

Backlit cloud and crackling sounds

arc the sky for all it’s worth.

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A distant Reynard raised alarm!

then eerie quiet and breathless calm

followed on from stair-rod rain

which threatened more to come again.

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The thunder rumbling, distant, far.

The beating drums of raging Thor.

The ‘oos’ and ‘ahhs’ through open doors.

The pleasant scent of petrichor.

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A fox again, but less distressed.

a tired Thor resumes his rest,

and all is quiet and all is still

among the Welsh, Llanwrtyd hills.

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