INDIGO DREAMS PUBLISHING LTD

 

INDIGO-FIRST PAMPHLET COMPETITION 2020 NOW OPEN

Poetry

 

138 x 216mm

 

£11.00 + P&P UK

 

ISBN 978-1-912876-27-3

 

PUB: 8th May 2020

 

 

 

 

PREORDER HERE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

F O R E S T

moor or less

 

Dawn Bauling       Ronnie Goodyer

 

 

Cover design by Ronnie Goodyer

 

amazon gift 9781912876273

Burn

 

Bright brands today

gamboge and cadmium

blazing over the Roseland

in celandine

and daffodil drift.

 

We have hurt eyes.

 

Fire beacons of gorse

singe the tops

shouting bud love

into the air’s lust,

dropping clothes

of dandelion, cowslip,

coy primrose.

 

We burn without sun.

 

Led down the path

to undercover Towan

mother-die lies

quiet, in wait,

keeping its curled

many-headed infants

close and clever

yellow unspent.

 

We wait for time:

its astonishing salve.

 

 

Misty Morning, Hildersley Fields

 

It feels eerie here on this muted chiming Sunday,

with the silvered waving horizon feathering sight.

Two stout trees, formed like weathered Yorkshiremen

stand guard to one edge of the faltering wood,

appearing and vanishing with perfidious profligacy.

 

The small oak bears the scattered ashes

of once-running dogs, who emerge on days like these,

to play again, enjoy the scents of happy trails

and burst the hearts of those left behind,

the devastated souls of devoted masters.

 

Corn stubble beckons yellow through the white,

stunted vague Van Gogh with sounds of footsteps.

Here too are the smoky conversations of death-or-glory

soldiers, billeted and waiting for the foreign fields

of 1940, in bucolic beauty prior to battles.

 

No crosses here, but late wild poppies

bleeding into the soil, watched over by the

land-girl crops of new generation farmers,

watched over by the wood’s intricate creatures,

their nacreous eyes holding this Sunday still enough

for the strolling love of one man and his dog.

 

 

This is true

 

This is true:

just as my small finger

seeks the curl of yours

in the cold night

to find the beat, beat, beat

of you living,

I know it is

the drum

that rhythms me daily,

and as I sleep, sleep, sleep

can finally sleep,

I am dancing to it.

Dawn Bauling is a graduate in both English and Library Science. She has won several poetry awards, been published widely in the poetry press and has two published collections: ‘Loud Voices in the Quiet Child’ (2008) and ‘Shippen’ (2014). She is co-director of Indigo Dreams, is editor of Sarasvati and Dawntreader magazines and with Ronnie was awarded the Ted Slade Award for Services to Poetry. She also works for the NHS as a Social Prescriber.

 

Ronnie Goodyer is Indigo Dreams co-director with six collections to his name. He ran his own Celebrity Management company where he handled projects for Uri Geller, cricketers Ian Botham and 'Jack' Russell, and DJ Mike Read among others. He published Uri’s first novel ‘Shawn’, Jack Russell's 'A Cricketer's Art' and poetry by Mike Read. He was on the BBC Judging Panel for their Off By Heart poetry competition (BBC2).   Ronnie is also Poet-in-Residence for animal welfare charity League Against Cruel Sports.

“Dawn Bauling is a poet or rare lyricism and careful observation. She approaches each poem like a gift she has just opened with wide-eyed wonder and the joy of being alive.”

Chrys Salt

 

"Walking through Ronnie's poetic landscapes is like discovering a new set of senses"..."reading his poems you come face-to-face with the poet’s soul"... "his poetry just takes my breath away"

Various

 

"You two give so generously in everything you do, shepherd an enormous family of poets, publish with a breadth and acceptance that I think is unique. You also give me at least a glimpse into how to live life to the full, with your hard work times and your wonderful breaks away that you share as you share so much else.

I love and admire you so much."

Ginny Sullivan

(Deceased and sadly missed)

Dartmoor Song

 

The cloudburst by ancient Pizwell

had failed to muddy the track enough

to stop our boots and paws progressing

and the wind rustled just long enough

to flutter the lungta-style prayer flags

colouring the trees in the Lower Merripit vale,

communing with the hidden shrines

and ceremonial round houses.

 

The East Dart continued its story

through Bellever and sprayed the old

clapper bridge, designed for carts,

now beloved by catalogues and cameras.

And here I stand, knee-deep in September,

the sun now high and trees dripping apples.

Here you can swallow me whole

or place me with others frozen in time.

 

Walk me to the rise of King’s Tor

then drop me deep in the Walkham Valley.

Trace me the tracks of the Devonport Leat

to the heart of Foxtor Mires and let the call

of the meadow pipit be my only alarm cry.

Leave me here with the silence that haunts,

the heartbeat that feeds my serenity

and the wind that brushes over these words.

 

 

On things we cannot know

Gentle Jane

 

After another wet day

we take to the beach

for a late trickle of  s u n

 

Down the slate track

from our borrowed home,

past the gypsy caravan,        beyond.

 

He’s cracking slate,    s  k  i  m   m ing

between ball-bouncing

for a dog that’s loved twice.

 

His patience peels us both,

making hard layers

become known, soft,        opened.

 

He smiles,          above me,

talking of the dozen swans

he’s seen again        and heard.

 

They are singing of things

we cannot know he says.

Perhaps    in the shift    we can.

 

 

In my skull’s cave

 

She holds my hand while sleeping,

as I lie beneath my mask of cold air,

contact safety in wherever she’s dreaming.

She rests in my skull’s cave until morning

where she’ll wake behind my eyes.

 

She wears red socks inside walking boots

as she sits content on her granite boulder

and with the movement of her green pen,

catches the wild in her bible notebook

until freeing it onto the page as a poem.

 

We walk a perfect day with Polperro painters

along stone-white cobbles and canvas,

this trinity of two legs, two legs, four legs.

weaving alleyways to the harlequined harbour.

Tonight she will hold my hand while sleeping

and in the morning she’ll wake behind my eyes.

9781912876273 dartmoor 2012 082 Windy Post