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Victoria Punch
© Erika Benjamin
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the poet
Voice coach and musician Victoria Punch is curious about voice and identity, the limits of language, and how we perceive things. She has had her work published in Poetry Magazine, Mslexia, Magma and One Hand Clapping – as well as in Christmas Stories: Twelve Poems to Tell and Share.
the poems
A cold striding
Bridled with ferns
in April, a year uncurled.
Up – yet feeling low on the blue
fuzz of new rain – the brush of a
wing on the eave
The earth, it seems, has turned on the
warming drawer and laid the plates
inside, crockery carrots
and cucumber, cutlery laid
in lines and rows, potatoes, peas and
purple sprouting broccoli babies
The earth rises like dough. Proven,
prickling with spring,
the lick of blackberries prophesied,
the implacable hedge, laden with strings of
wildflower childlings, seeded by flight, small mice
and hiding birds, a little shy
I’m asking, but I can’t recall
the question in the face of the morning
an ode to the
unexpected find
I marvel. oh my,
oh you – small lime green lurker
how did you – damp smirker –
get there. armpitted and puckering
gloop grip in my top
sneak under my collar
your squeaky sneaky ways and
hazy origins amaze me
you have umami, by the look of you
tang of salt on my tongue, you tiny
appetiser, so phlegmatic, enigmatic
part of my one point five daily litres
of mucusy nasal secretions
little air crumb catcher, dust, dirt and
pollen snatcher, crunchy
bacteria beguiler you are crisper
as you dry
your quasi-spherically makes me queasy, I quease
I am uneased by your
tacky feel, your unexpected gloop
your roundness – rolled
who rolled you, oh green one?
wherefore and what nose did you come
from? oh how I’d like to know
or maybe (s)not
Last Flight on the Road
that morning – stung by cold
blankets on and steam-breath in the air
low motor hum of the old car, road
ticker-taped and on for miles
grey and dim in the husky half-light
sidled by the frosted trees
thick as thieves the trees
stood, still and stoic, lime-cold
leaning on the morning light
that came in waves upon the air
replicating pine for miles
they lined the open, empty road
we made our way along the road
surrounded by the stream of trees
counting down the miles and miles
curled and hunched against the cold
hats and coats and frosty air
looking for the early light
his silence was a kind of light
he joined our vigil down the road
cut through the still and lingering air
the owl came softly through the trees
I held my coffee long gone cold
and I forgot about the miles
I felt he stayed with us for miles
orange wingtips in the light
his face was braced against the cold
level with my eyes, along the road
he slipped like water past the trees
gold and russet on the air
I held his presence in the air
carried it for miles and miles
wings the colour of the trees
wings the colour of the light
eyes held fast along the road
I forgot that I was cold
his face – the air, his wings – the light
I sat for miles in silence on the road
I watched the passing trees and felt the cold
Publishing credits
an ode to the unexpected find: Invitation to Love
– Issue 3 (the6ress)
A cold striding: Magma (No. 85)
Last Flight on the Road: exclusive first
publication by iamb