Lauren Garland
Two Poems
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Shadow Sonnet
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In lampless rooms and on moonless nights
we stand dead still, praying for morning.
Our shadows decide how we raise our children.
Our shadows vote in general elections.
The Prime Minister’s shadow stands
at the despatch box while the shadow
Shadow Chancellor demands an explanation.
My shadow is heartless (most of them are) –
the way it leads me to the street,
makes me slow dance for the neighbours.
And it really can dance, swelling and shrinking,
shifting its form. Now softer, now sharper.
I’m nothing but an object blocking the light.
In lampless rooms and on moonless nights
we stand dead still, praying for morning.
Our shadows decide how we raise our children.
Our shadows vote in general elections.
The Prime Minister’s shadow stands
at the despatch box while the shadow
Shadow Chancellor demands an explanation.
My shadow is heartless (most of them are) –
the way it leads me to the street,
makes me slow dance for the neighbours.
And it really can dance, swelling and shrinking,
shifting its form. Now softer, now sharper.
I’m nothing but an object blocking the light.
.
.
.
.
.
Rooms by the Sea
After Rooms by the Sea by Edward Hopper
.
A room, its door held open
to the ocean and nothing in this room
but sun – sun accenting the cloud-
brushed wallpaper. I visit the room
at the end of each day and it’s always
the same – the way the sea hesitates,
curbs its habit of rushing any cavity,
lingers at the doorway
like an early dinner guest.
.
I think about leaving my life behind,
finding the room, becoming its minder.
I’d sway on the doorstep,
skinny as a heron, testing
my weight against the wind.
I’d plunge into the blue
then haul the catch of my body back up,
ocean dripping from my fingertips.
I’d sleep on the red settee in the back,
take breakfast on the step, the clutter
of my living muddying the palette
of sun against wall, water, room.
.
.
After Rooms by the Sea by Edward Hopper
.
A room, its door held open
to the ocean and nothing in this room
but sun – sun accenting the cloud-
brushed wallpaper. I visit the room
at the end of each day and it’s always
the same – the way the sea hesitates,
curbs its habit of rushing any cavity,
lingers at the doorway
like an early dinner guest.
.
I think about leaving my life behind,
finding the room, becoming its minder.
I’d sway on the doorstep,
skinny as a heron, testing
my weight against the wind.
I’d plunge into the blue
then haul the catch of my body back up,
ocean dripping from my fingertips.
I’d sleep on the red settee in the back,
take breakfast on the step, the clutter
of my living muddying the palette
of sun against wall, water, room.
.
.
Originally from Leeds, Lauren Garland graduated from the MA in Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University in 2019. Her poetry has appeared in The North, Stand, bath magg, Butcher’s Dog, and elsewhere. She published a pamphlet, Darling, with Broken Sleep Books in 2020. As the recipient of The Poetry Society’s Peggy Poole Award in 2021, over the last year Lauren has been working with poet-mentor Paul Farley.
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