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Andrea Small
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the poet
Andrea Small is a multi-disciplinary artist working across painting, poetry, voice and video. She's a member of Heeley Women Writers, and has an MA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Manchester Metropolitan University. She runs singing groups for all sorts of people, believing we all can – and should – sing. Andrea's poetry has appeared in journals including Strix, Dreich and Obsessed With Pipework, and has been featured in several anthologies. She lives in Sheffield, and is learning to be a clown.
the poems
A Hawfinch Addresses
a Nature Writer
I do not have the look of a small parrot, fool
I am not shy, I do not conceal myself — do not blame me
for your dull human eyes, your twitching tick-list.
We are not here for your amusement.
Do not mar our music — it is not quiet, nor mumbled —
with your clumsy words. It is not our job
to be counted by you. Try splitting this cherry stone,
try laying eggs, try living across three continents.
We do not erupt, nor invade. We leave such pointless
activities to you, you useless lump of a creature, crashing
through our parkland, being surprised you can't see us.
Pipe down and sit still. I'll have your finger-tip off
if you try to catch me, oaf. We can eat yew and survive —
can you? We are not smaller on paper, and to discuss
our weight is impolite. What nest were you reared in?
Be off with your binoculars and long lenses,
your maps and statistics. Has no-bird told you
your time here is limited? Take a moment.
Think about it. Who will rescue you when you
have finished laying waste to this land?
Not I, human. Not I.
endtime
After Louis MacNeice
fingernails bittengone — wondered how we got there
— sunwarm over splintered lichened stile is
clear — after that — chillfog fell from hands — saw no more
— felt timewinds billowing in soundnot — upsicked bigger than
ever when woke — heard keyscrape in cold glass
— gutshivered — chatterteethed — between
soulmoans — he dragwent first — clawfingered the
dripdamp walls — through arrowslits snow
driftblew on mealone — in windwail howled and
fingerstuffed mouth — he was evergone — the
bloodthroated endsilence heavyfell huge
— now — inoutside springbloom the roses
Reunion
last Tuesday the sheep came back
poked her black face around the kitchen door
bleated a brief command I went
up the fell in the thick dew
door left open pots half-washed
it was good to be together again
I let her lead me for a change
halfway up I untied my apron
left it hanging from a blackthorn
(when I looked later a goldfinch
nested in the pocket beaking
lint and hair into place)
at the top I dropped the rest
of my clothes climbed
onto my sheep’s solid back
slept on her oily wool
like a baby facepalming
her father’s broad hand
arms and legs hanging
over his reliable forearm
the branch no wind could break
the sheep walked on
rocking me past marriages
roads not taken shouting
fists slammed doors
endless beige schooldays
to the large-wheeled pram still
I slept loose-limbed
cells settling into forgotten patterns
sun warming my blood
Publishing credits
All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb