Winter Beachhead

Nicholas Hely Hutchinson

Winter Beachhead

This is the starkest hour of the shore
when it’s purged and cleansed as a Sabbath door.
There’s a brim of lather when the tide’s in
as the waves go on with their day’s washing.

No valved or spiralled or saucered whelk,
no mussel or scallop quiets my walk;
but I make my count, as they cease from sight,
of a head of barnacle geese, a cell of eight.

They sail in their glory; we have to bide our time
and hold out for the fullness to come—
for spring sands merry with foxes’ tails,
or kelp tresses, for clam and cowrie shells.

Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill

translated by Medbh McGuckian

“We have to bide our time.” That’s just it. Waiting for Spring has become an exercise in long-suffering, that beautiful old word for patience. It’s March now, and there’s still snow on the lawn. I like that “this is the starkest hour”, with bare trees and no colours – it’s not just the shore that is bleak. I’m holding out for “the fullness to come”, that’s for certain.

What the Light Teaches

Steven Outram

What the Light Teaches

Language is the house with lamplight in its windows,

visible across fields. Approaching, you can hear

music; closer, smell

soup, bay leaves, bread - a meal for anyone

who has only his tongue left.

It's a country; home, family;

abandoned, burned down; whole lines dead, unmarried.

For those who can't read their way in the streets,

or in the gestures and faces of strangers,

language is the house to run to;

in wild nights, chased by dogs and other sounds,

when you've been lost a long time,

when you have no other place.

There are nights in the forest of words

when I panic, every step into thicker darkness,

the only way out to write myself into a clearing,

which is silence.

Nights in the forest of words

when I'm afraid we won't hear each other

over clattering branches, over

both our voices calling.

In winter, in the hour

when the sun runs liquid then freezes,

caught in the mantilla of empty trees;

when my heart listens

through the cold stethoscope of fear,

your voice in my head reminds me

what the light teaches.

Slowly you translate fear into love,

the way the moon's blood is the sea.

Anne Michaels

This is one of my favorite images - light from a distant window. If you’ve ever been out for a long walk at night when the air turns chill, you’ll know that nothing can make you feel more lonesome or full of longing than the light of a home window. It can be either the anticipation of warmth and welcome, or the cruel reminder that you are outside.  I absolutely love the line, “Language is the house with lamplight in its windows, visible across fields.” I have to pause and think. Is she saying that language is the hope of warmth and belonging, the invitation to relationships, to shelter? “Language is the house to run to.” How interesting. Until this poem, I had not thought of it like that. Writing, speech, language, can be a place to find yourself when you’ve been lost. It’s true, isn’t it? “Slowly you translate fear into love.” And isn’t that exactly what we’re attempting? To write out (or speak out) the darkness, the lostness, the loneliness – to work our way Home? Is Language that magic? Can words do all that?

What's That Smell in the Kitchen?

Lieke van der Vorst

What's That Smell In the Kitchen?

All over America women are burning dinners.
It's lamb chops in Peoria; it's haddock
in Providence; it's steak in Chicago;
tofu delight in Big Sur; red
rice and beans in Dallas.
All over America women are burning
food they're supposed to bring with calico
smile on platters glittering like wax.
Anger sputters in her brainpan, confined
but spewing out missiles of hot fat.
Carbonized despair presses like a clinker
from a barbecue against the back of her eyes.
If she wants to grill anything, it's
her husband over a slow fire.
If she wants to serve him anything
it's a dead rat with a bomb in its belly
ticking like the heart of an insomniac.
Her life is cooked and digested
nothing but leftovers in Tupperware.
Look, she says, once I was roast duck
on your platter with parsley but now I am Spam.
Burning dinner is not incompetence but war.

Marge Piercy


Cooking and food are such rich topics for thought and conversation. All of life can be discussed in terms of food.  After all, what is more personal than preparing the meal that sustains a human being? But then there's the cook. Does she add to the flavour? Is her mood or intent an ingredient of the sauce? You better believe it. Cooking can be love, but it can be battle just as well.  Be good to the cook.