INDIGO DREAMS

PUBLISHING LTD

 

SINGING AT THE BONE TREE

 

Rachael Clyne lives in Glastonbury where she works as a psychotherapist. Her youth was spent in the acting profession on stage and in television, a career that lent itself to appreciating and performing poetry.

She has performed with Angels of Fire, Erato and The Strange Sisters. Rachael has always experienced great joy from collaborative performance.  

 

Love of nature and connecting with our place in the family of things, plus witnessing aspects of the human journey give her work a depth and earthiness, sprinkled with humour, even in the darkest places. She puts this down to a Jewish background, which has coloured some of her earlier pieces.

 

Recent years have brought success in the 2012 Bath Acumen Competition, 2012 Sherborne Literary Festival and 2013 Poetry Space Competition. Her poems appear in several anthologies: The Listening Walk - Bath Poetry Café; Voyage Through Liminal Realms a suite of poems about the psychological journey appearing in Psychosynthesis – New Perspectives (PS Avalon). Her first poetry collection: She Who Walks with Stones and Sings; was published in 2007 by PSAvalon.

 

She has also published self-help books Cancer – Your Life, Your Choice (Thorsons 1987), Breaking the Spell – The Key to Recovering Self-esteem (PSAvalon 2005).  

 

www.rachaelclyne.com 

 

 

 

Singing at the Bone Tree

 

Rachael Clyne

 

ISBN 978-1-909357-51-8

 

Indigo Dreams Publishing

 

Publication June 2014

 

Poetry

 

138 x 216 mm

 

42 pages

 

£7.99

 

 

 

ORDER HERE 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

grass-flat

Shapeshift

 

Curlew warble in bleached sedge.

Above,

             a grey harrier

                           flickers and glides.

 

Dusk hares: liminal dancers.

A pregnant moon

            her bulging side

                           ready to birth.

 

Bone grass quivers under her gaze

The path to the shielings

            shines clear at last

                          silent humps

 

of thick heather, bog moss. The wind

having prised its answer from me

            has ceased

                          harrying.

 

I have done my volta, am blasted open.

The night hums with moon-magic

            and the

                          old ones

 

Pictish clans who worked the moors

shift underfoot as we pass,

            sense our

                         stirring.

 

This morning, torpid cloud-hang;

the mountains have done

          their usual

                        vanishing act.

 

 

 

 

Hedgewitch

 

She knows her death

the edge where she stands

the hedge where she plucks

thorn-caught wool

teasel to comb tangles.

She sips scarlet life from

bog-moss, peaty burns

whortleberry bushes

shuns the snare of lists

and other domestications

but knows each and every kin

the curlew’s curl

snipe sounds

hobby’s death dive

rabbit dreams

the wanderlust of stones.

A mind full of scudding clouds

her heart, a shieling

wide enough for clan gatherings.

 

WINNER OF THE GEOFF STEVENS MEMORIAL POETRY PRIZE 2013

 

 

“Clyne’s poems are as earthy, rich, feral as the landscapes she writes about. Woven through all of them is the theme of digging to the bedrock, the bones – of human, of land.

 

Her concerns are territory, boundaries, fences – and how we might slip through the wires.

 

At times, as in the final poem, she achieves a near-shapeshift before our eyes.”

ROSELLE ANGWIN  

Poet, Author, Writing Tutor

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Place

 

When you give yourself to a place

it lodges in your bones.

Its mossy woods remember secrets

 

you poured into its waters  

your struggles through mud,

it gave you visions, songs

 

to sing to its racing stream

oak to stand solid against your void

hazel tips to brush skin

 

wren’s beady eye to watch over you

its hearty clack for courage.

One night, years after,

 

you lie awake and remember.

You long to return to the bend in the stream

where aconite and orchids grow

 

where imagination swift as the current

is caught by stoop of alder

rooted in black loam.

 

Your heart skips a beat as you walk

over the rise, down the slope where

your grief emptied itself.

 

The stream now swollen

with winter’s drenching

its banks, a mudbath.

 

This time you stagger through − laughing.

 

Earthing

 

I am hill curved, wind scoured

with limestone fissures

thirsty for spring’s moist blessing

a fire that smoulders

bones etched with fractures

mine-shafts, burrows.

I am peopled by foxy thoughts

that sneak and badger

the wolf lair in my throat

longs for wind, for moon

wren hopscotches

my hedge-thicket brain

picks tasty morsels

with loud declaim.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Parting

 

I stand on hind-legs in a green sea

ears pricked and twitching

bronzed as a lazy burn

sleet-made, sad to leave.

I try to pack full moonrise

with my jumpers

press yellow dazzle of

marsh marigold into my socks.

Having glimpsed each other's

silent thickets, rocky coasts

we will slip back into city skin

shed thick-pelted moor

for familiar postcodes.

We must learn to whale-call

each other across oceans

tap spider-codes on web-threads

harass like wind, rattle the niceties

call soft through the night

drum our tail feathers, beckoning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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