Tuesday, 26 February 2013



Dolly-mixture daddy
With our Friday-night treats
With your world-weary eyes
And your sweet, beery breath
“Hello Mary dear”, you call down the hall
“And how are you my love?”
As you lay your clumsy hand
On our tired mum’s back

Eggs are fried briskly, bacon flipped
But there’s tension in her moves
Our dad’s a little silly
Our mum is not
Mum’s just tired with her life’s lot!

Sit down soppy daddy
As we lie on our bellies
Sit down dad as we squabble over sweets
Sit down Bill here’s your tray - Your Friday fry-up
And here’s your Daddie's sauce
At the end of the week.

Meg Marsden copyright

Monday, 11 February 2013

Who is Sylvia, what is she?

For Sylvia   (Sylvia Plath died 11th February 1963.)

The freezing, icy winter’s breath
The snow of ‘63
It pained your heart, your bones, your flesh
That isolating February.

With blood-red lips you’d bit his cheek
And he’d set free your hair
How could you then destroy his books?
How could he just have left you there?

Impassioned, magic Sylvia
So fierce, so strong, so hurt
You wrote the poems one on one
Your captivating verse.
If it had been a summer’s day
Perhaps, perhaps, maybe
Some gentle warmth would melt the pain
Release the grip of agony.

And when we hear recordings
Your voice all round and strong
The English cadences ring-ring
Yet fifty years have gone.

For fifty years your poetry
Black lakes, red roses, blood
You gifted us your legacy
Word drenching, bless├ęd flood.

Meg Marsden copyright