Zebra
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About this ebook
Ian Humphreys
Ian Humphreys’ debut poetry collection Zebra (Nine Arches Press) was nominated for the Portico Prize. His second collection, Tormentil won a Royal Society of Literature ‘Literature Matters’ Award while in progress. He is the editor of Why I Write Poetry and the producer and co-editor of After Sylvia: Poems and Essays in Celebration of Sylvia Plath, both published by Nine Arches Press. In 2023, Ian was appointed Writer in Residence at the Brontë Parsonage Museum. He is widely published in journals and anthologies, and has written for the BBC. Ian is a fellow of The Complete Works.
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Zebra - Ian Humphreys
I
touch-me-not
this flower
doesn’t belong
on the canal
hiding
in an airless tunnel
where no-one goes
before dark
rooted
to a thin layer
of dirt
head bowed
butter bloom
an open mouth
that faint smell
of sherbet
when someone
passes
it brushes
a thigh
springs back
against the wall
careful
just one touch
triggers
a scattering
of seed
into the night
Coalscar Lake
Night-time throws me back again
to Coalscar Lake – silenced birds,
midges fat as flies,
the broken plough
and sunken car, a playground dare,
that first dash across the field of Friesians,
blankness in their eyes, a child-size hole
slashed through barbed-wire,
my cousin’s
torn parka, one pasty to share,
felled warning signs,
‘Danger’, ‘No Swimming’, ‘Keep Out’,
the twenty-yard march
of thorns
that hook our jeans and score flesh bare
and then the greasy slick of water,
black as the poacher’s shotgun,
coffin black with a lid of green,
keep back,
don’t look, there’s something there,
the policeman shedding his hat,
a rowing boat, voices cast across the lake,
shadows dripping,
dragging it
to shore. The chaplain’s prayer.
Spaceboy
I remember Orion shimmering like a hundred promises. Or was it the glint of the Christmas tree lights against my space helmet visor? Viewed through indestructible plastic, Auntie Joan’s hand-knitted jumper became a cosmic spectrum. My spacesuit materialised a month after our housing development crash-landed into the Cheshire countryside. Our homes glowed like our colour televisions. Parents toasted their good fortune with Party Seven, Blue Nun and Snowballs. Children sharpened their pedigrees on freshly laid tarmac. I wore my spacesuit non-stop for six days. Slept in it. On the second day, I stole my brother’s Spacehopper, hoping to bounce all the way to Jupiter or Mars, or the council estate where we weren’t supposed to play. On the fourth day, I borrowed my father’s torch and aimed its laser beam at the Jehovah’s Witnesses in the house opposite, (they had four bedrooms while we had only three). On the sixth day, my sister cut the spacesuit off my back with a pair of pinking shears she found in the loft. My mother repaired it using NASA-issued titanium thread, but the spell had been zapped. I held onto that spacesuit, it’s hidden under my bed. Whenever I feel the need for astral travel, I decant myself into it and float away.
Last poem
The first poem
I wrote was
scratched in sand on
Dymchurch beach
with the point
of a big whelk shell.
I was four or five.
It