Warwick Poet Laureate 2009 - 2010
We are delighted that Marg Roberts from Leamington Spa has been crowned Poet Laureate.
Marg Roberts has lived in Warwickshire for most of her married life. She worked in the Probation Service before obtaining a Creative Writing certificate (1998), during which she discovered the pleasure of writing and reading poetry. She reads poems for a variety of reasons. For their sounds, because they make her laugh, for their emotion, and because each reading reveals another level of meaning. She writes poems to describe experiences, whether personal or imagined.
She has been a member of Cannon Poets (Birmingham) for several years and some of her poems have been published in local small presses. She enjoys writing short stories and novels. She has just completed an MA in Creative Writing and is working on a novel, ‘Wrestling with Angels’. She relaxes by walking, cycling and meeting family and friends.
on grains of sand
as if she would reclaim it before the next gust of wind
when her little pink scarf floated across the sand pit
I called her name as if she would leap from her burial chamber
when I called, ‘Violet’, the wind carried it as his own
as if he’d prised her from her swing, slide and castle
when the wind carried her name, I slipped
from garden to house
from house to fields
from fields to stream
as if, I was consumed
when I burned through our house
as if she were playing peek-a-boo
her face leapt at me among the cinders
they found her
face down in the sands of the stream
pink wellies weighted with water
Passengers on the 67 bustle passed him
Last off, the man steps down to the pavement in front of Boots
its windows sparkling with tinsel trees
his mouth as dry as cotton wool
He stretches out his arms towards the lights
red and green, as shoppers surge across Warwick Street
leaving him on the corner
The star-strung door to HSBC is shut to him
He stumbles outside the gold awning of Chinese cures
gazes at Santa’s sledge
bedecked with books and candles in Waterstones’ cavern
He swerves, (remembers the scrum)
round the holly-wreathed, smokers’ tables outside Starbucks
under the halogen glisten, the glitz of baubles
in the Royal Priors
Out of breath he leans on the balustrade
Of the ice-cream wagon
He licks his lips
in anticipation of raspberry dip
Fumbles in pocket holes for lost coins
Down the escalator he moves
down to longed-for iced mince pies
piled on Drucker’s bar
He stares beyond the crib and Santa’s grove
in Hammell’s display
to the darkness beyond
On Regent Street he searches his wallet
Finds only black and white photos
Dredges his memory
for people he can’t recall
Your mother is fine!
Is she asking for me?
Does she wonder when my sister will be back from Rome
my brother from the Scilly Isles
remember what she had for breakfast?
Has she thrown away her spill proof cup, her plate with the special edge?
Has she jumped from her wheelchair
insisted her hair is cut and permed
demanded the keys to the bungalow in Bainton Close
found her purse
phoned my dad
asked him why she isn’t living at home?
My mother is fine, is she?