Whilst browsing the tiny poetry section of my library, I found a slim white volume of poems with a few awards listed on the cover (Forward Prize 2020 winner, Costa Book Awards shortlist 2020). I borrowed it and it turned out to be a lovely little treat, like discovering a Werther’s Original in your coat pocket from last winter. Here are a couple of my favourite poems from The Air Year by Caroline Bird, published by Carcanet Press in 2020.
Checkout
I think ‘so, this is death’ and wonder why
I can still see through my eyes. An angel
approaches with a feedback form asking
how I’d rate my life (very goo, good,
average, bad, very bad) and I intend to tick
‘average’ followed by a rant then I recall
your face like a cartoon treasure chest
glowing with gold light, tick ‘very good,’
and in the comment box below I write
‘nice job.’ The angel asks if I enjoyed
my stay and I say ‘Oh yes, I’d definitely
come again’ and he gives me a soft look
meaning ‘that won’t be possible but thanks
all the same,’ clicks his pen and vanishes.
Circles
A parchment scroll listing your lovable
traits would unravel to the floor for ages
I sketch a cloud on your skin, it appears
in the sky of your head and rains for ages
It’s peaceful down here, a compass needle
fluctuating then realigning itself for ages
Naming a song by listening to muffled steps
on a dance floor above my head takes ages
Feeling the ceiling rooting for us, your legs
tense and you think ‘god I’m taking ages’
Considering all the noise in my head, giving
all of my head to someone should take ages
When we’re old and beauty’s embedded in
your face you won’t say ‘sorry I took ages’
Take all of the time in the world – no, really –
take all my time, all my years and my ages
Prepper
She has not converted a rusty bike into a device
for grinding wheat or sewn a family
of Hazmat suits or built a reinforced steel underground bunker
from the roofs of twenty double-decker buses or decorated her
decontamination room with laminated photos of bygone
natural beauty – sunsets over oceans, children laughing unafraid –
she does not skin roadkill raccoons with a Bantaga knife or clean
her guns over breakfast but my mum is preparing
for the end of the world. She has written her own book of revelations.
It begins ‘Expect to outlive them’.
She scrawls my brother’s name with a sparkler just to
rehearse his evaporation, stands in the cemetery
of her mind, pre-grieves, seasons plots with tears, graves
so fresh they’re still flowerbeds.