Patricia M Osborne

Well university has finished for the summer, results are in and I’m happy with my grade. I have no more modules until February 2017 when I begin my final one, following with a dissertation, and in return I will have completed my MA in Creative Writing.

This summer and the autumn will be spent working on the Coal Miner’s Son, finding an agent or publisher for House of Grace and seeking a suitable placement as a Writer in Residence for Communities of Practice. Of course in between I shall be writing lots of poetry.

Today I am going to share one of my favourite poems  which has  been published by Reach, Indigo Dreams Publishing, Issue 209. This is part of a collection using a theme of Lost Identity, which I began after losing my mum two years ago. I’m sure many of you who have lost a parent have experienced this feeling, questioning who you are. Feeling Lost. The poems are fiction.

Here is Recognition. I hope you enjoy it. I’m afraid I don’t know why the format has messed up and given the poem double spacing. I hope it doesn’t defer your enjoyment.

Recognition

Black and white prints

cover creased hands.

Eyes narrow, dazed,

not seeing…

 

We slung satchels over knitted cardigans,

slammed the door,

grey pleated skirts hitched high above the knee.

 

We stood to attention at the bell,

split from my look-a-like,

a whistle insisted we march

into separate classrooms.

 

In the sixties we explored

Brighton Laines,

rummaged antique stores,

picked up gold leafed books,

bought treasure boxes

to hide shared secrets.

 

We sank into striped deckchairs,

flipped off our tops to reveal

psychedelic swimsuits-

plastic sunglasses concealed our faces.

We lazed by gull-grey waves,

pebbles chattered at our feet.

 

We sniffed salt from the sea,

cardboard cones on our noses,

read Jackie in the sun.

A transistor radio blurred Cathy’s

Clown, from the Top Ten charts.

 

I sit by the iron framed bed,

wait for a flicker of recognition.

 

Chubby Checker

blasts from the box

high on the wall

 

Lillie looks up,

whispers my name.

 

‘Freddie – The Twist.

you and me that day

 down in Brighton.’