Maura Dooley
Vertaling
I attempt to balance your words on a silver tray.
They tinkle. I fear for a smash and splinters.
Shuffling along trying to match the spring in your step
all the time looking up, keeping my head in the air,
I have filled each one with a drop of something.
A pinch more? Does the flavour seem right?
The scent? Mixing each one to a different shade
none is quite as you would have made it.
Shyly, I raise my tray to you. An offering on tin,
buckling a little beneath the weight.
A Haunted House
Not that I didn’t know it was there
the other side of the veil
mist mizzle
the start of migraine
not that I didn’t know it
dream cloud
a change in the weather
not that I didn’t remember
pressed between pages
sepal petal
not that I didn’t that it might
fade slip
gathered, scattered, squandered
not that I not that not
not that I didn’t worry
that it was extinguished
the light in the heart
Maura Dooley is a Professor of Creative Writing and director of the MA in Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths. She has received an Eric Gregory Award and a Cholmondeley Award for her poetry and her most recent collection is The Silvering (Bloodaxe, 2016).