New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

5 poems by Sarah Davies

Circle Logo

Born in Merseyside,educated in Edinburgh and London and living in Bedford, Mother, martial artist, rabbit breeder by accident and cinephile, Wants more sun

I have been published in magazines such as Magma,the Rialto, Obsessed with Pipework, Iota, Snakeskin, Poetry Scotland, Interpreters House and Stride. Working on that collection,when I have the time



The Dove keeper


I have heard it said
that nothing
in this life
beats the return
of the bird that fits like
a message in your hand
to the loft it was hatched
And I have been underground
And I was always working
And I have been killing
And I have melted iron
And I have kissed the beautiful
And I know this bird, Love




Anatomy of an Ostrich


Chassis of an early comedian-
wore it like a crinoline to wobble
for gigs and flocked up laughs. Squids in -.
the long red spine of making sense
like a plant stalk pulled and yanked,
the snaky under belt attack,
the Half bird skull, a bony mask

Leopard skin claw protectors,
ungainly stretch of neck and feathers:
attempting to look backwards never
works. Trip over own spindle legs,
prick a finger, fly like flightless,
furniture on a tiny island, stranded
in the great adventure

Skull head rammed into the sand,
Vr goggles, heavy hats,
legs of dancer , burlesque, too tall,
picking up her skirts to dance.
And we’ll bury our heads
so we won’t face facts. So
we’ll bury our heads and
we won’t face facts




Syndrome #1-Nazareth


When I forget
Who I am, imagine
I am Jesus of Nazareth,
Neatly reported in 4 books at least

Different stories told in different voices
From other corners, angles
You can write me as a hunchback.
Or stick to the business of a few miracles

Please remember,
If I was a woman that would add to the
Wonder of this Gospel. Always the splinters in my fingers
From dad’s carving trade

I died at the weekend,
I wake, work in the Week,
Skim sea, conjure fish
Let loose tongues

A beautiful boy wraps his hair long silk
Around my tired feet
Though in your version
The book of the unknown

No doubt you’ll make him into
A weeping woman
Dabbing and sponging
From a cracked bowl of salt tears




Siam Sisters


Said Daisy to Violet
Lean sideways and I will too
Let’s see if we can come
Apart – if not, let’s fold ourselves
In like same stemmed flowers
Closing in the rain.

I remember when your husband
Kissed you in the morning
Strangers wondered how he chose between
And I would turn away
Closing my eyes, eating a green apple
The tart bite in a mouth shape

Said Violet to Daisy
Are you jealous, am I
Envious , do we each long for
The self we do not have
Each side cleaving, cleft
Like the full lip of your first love

We are dolls of paper
Cut from a strict white book
Joined at the hip, ends to end
Twin aspect stars, the answer
And the question. The shadow
On the shadow, reflection of reflection

Our dress the same
Circus and chimera
Knitting a quilt of similar bones
Between our fingers , typing up
A memoir scrawled in milk and tea and blood
The Siam sisters, the famous Siam sisters






Human bites are often more dangerous than animal bites

I dreamed the yellow dog,
hungry and desperate, as if what it wanted
might both complete and kill it,
Shiver blame came at the heels unasked

For Days long after
the wound was sore.
It rose and wept,
it puckered

I compared marks from a special book:
the tear or compress,
the Butterfly half,
rather than arch and spike

Each tooth marked a different depth,
some left nothing more than pressure,
others deep like braille,
others valuable like sore small jewels

Sorry to the dog,
the long dead dog
who only snarled
and never closed his jaws:

a pisscolour sand thing,
crouched at edge of memory.
Shiver is its name I think,
or scapegoat, blame

Yes, I was careful, scaredy, cautious
I still am. I never extended my hand
or stroked his head
or whistled wolves

Or clicked my tongue
or called the name I never knew
or called this mistake to me
and my apology is this

I told the story
how it crouched, teeth bared,
in a little troubled storm of dust-
an imagined violence,

not the man who saw me in the bar,
who cornered growled and lunged,
smearing each impression
marked his mouth upon me

the scar right here, so silver
like the stitched up truth, never quite healed
and it still makes me shiver, blame
where once some creature ate me up




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