Bracing

By Simone Broome

‘Bracing’ is a full collection of poems, mostly about contemporary life, experienced richly, intensely, unsentimentally and with humour. The writing is humane and accessible, wearing its intelligence lightly. There is something for everyone in ‘Bracing’, even for those who were put off poetry at school. This is a mature, well-rounded piece of work. The subject matter ranges across modern life and beyond - childhood, parenthood, love, lust, loss, shopping, animals (and our connection to them), climate change, the complexities of the human heart and of relationships, spirituality, food, suffragettes, the status of women, homesickness, grief, illness, ageing, dementia, fear, the joy in small things. All the poems are underpinned by a keen eye, a sharp wit and a total absence of self-pity. Simone is a safe pair of hands, writing in an unshowy style, a poet who manages to be heartfelt, humorous and accomplished.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Jan 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9781839786754

Book preview

Breeze

Poor Winston’s idea of foreplay was,

‘Brace yourself, Effie.’Mrs Doubtfire (1993)

Digging

A single kite circles: it’s clear and warm. There’ll be

a postcard perfect sunset – not yet. I’m sitting

on a tan plastic chair, the type that stacks, while you

dig. I’m holding a ginger cat. He’s a dead weight,

eyes pale, open, no shade I remember.

We grumble, you and I, about rubble buried

under the grass, (the man who lived here before us

making this task so much harder), bluntness of tools –

spades, forks, a bent shovel, a pickaxe - me silent

as you plant a walnut tree beside him.

Six years before, August, morning, this time a dog –

your dog, the other woman we’d joked about, how

I watched from a window, closed, upstairs. Having found

your spot, you laboured amongst and between deep roots.

When all was done, you lay down next to her,

wept, and the rawness of it hooked me back once more.

Tonight I’ve untied the ‘missing’ notes from railings:

the lone kite’s back – he pauses, plummets, banks, then soars,

circles and keens, circles and keens.

Gargoyle

Some say he looks like my husband, benign,

a little playful, meaning well as he watches

from his aerial perspective.

He has no name yet. We know he was one of many,

chipped out of the mould, to add a touch of whimsy

to some Victorian house of God

or villa of man. He is a composite creature,

webbed and clawed, with bony spine, a long tail,

of upright ears, bulbous of eye and manic of grin,

yet no malice attends, exudes, can be felt.

While the sculptor in a far barn is making

his one-off, power tooling his ear-defended way

through limestone and Carrera marble,

raising dust, drilling and hammering across

valley, hills. In orange boilersuit.

Hard physical work, noisy toil,

solitary work punctuated by breaks for tea

or cigarette, or by idle enquirer. The artist at work.

For my daughter’s mother-in-law’s sister

For my daughter’s mother-in-law’s sister

is a splendid specimen of woman, lady

of a certain age, not old enough

to be at risk, not at leisure and so,

alas, furloughed.

For my daughter’s mother-in-law’s sister

is fine in style and substance, efficient,

proficient in many areas. No shirker. She is

a grandmother, and she keeps a flat in Hove

with a view

of the promenade.

For my daughter’s mother-in-law’s sister,

deskbound for decades, now footloose, fancy-free

but for how long? She has signed an official piece

of paper. Latter-day landgirl, she must

make ready, hold steady, join willing ranks

who’ll plug the labour gaps

this summer.

For my daughter’s mother-in-law’s sister

will be a classy fruitpicker, in eyeliner,

bright blue, in cropped white linen slacks, a panama hat,

red painted toenails, practical walking sandals.

Decrees say she is needed; she must dirty her hands

for this country’s good.

For my daughter’s mother-in-law’s sister

must go down to the fields, a trug just hung

carelessly at her elbow. No shirker,

she’s a wonderful worker. She will toil

and labour and save the day

this year’s harvest.

My daughter’s mother-in-law’s sister.

As kings, in Egypt

Mother tried to broaden my mind. A jaunt to peer

at dusty objects in glass cases? A Nile trip? Luxor’s glories?

I revolted. A callow girl - before love, before marriage,

fifteen short years before Carter opened

the boy king’s tomb and all changed for ever. Back then,

I revelled at the Gezirah Palace Hotel, my court, with teas,

polo, young men, dances. Belt-tightening banished, bolted

from England’s chill dull wintry tomb. I would return

to Egypt, fall for that scented heat, muezzin’s