Evening folks. This week’s Sunday poem is by Hilda Sheehan, a lovely lady that I met on the Second Light course a couple of weeks ago. I shared a room with Hilda all week, so thank goodness we hit it off straight away. Not only is she funny, intelligent and rather good looking, she is also a fab poet and organiser of various things down south – including ‘Domestic Cherry’ – a rather fab looking magazine that publishes high quality work at the same time as not taking itself too seriously. Hilda’s alter ego ‘Mabel Watson’ is one half of the editing team for this nifty little mag – she even managed to convince Sharon Olds to submit a poem, so you would be in fine company if you submitted to it! The website address for Domestic Cherry is http://domesticcherry.blogspot.co.uk/p/about.html
Hilda also organises various events throughout Swindon as well as performing her own work – the highlight of my week down at Holland House was hearing Hilda’s ‘Sea Slug’ poem – in fact I might try and get that poem off her for a future Sunday poem.
I hope you all enjoy the poem – please let me know what you think – I think Hilda is a brilliant poet – and I’ve resolved to nag her until she sends me her pamphlet manuscript to have a look at – and then I’ll nag her until she submits it somewhere – she definately deserves to be read more widely!
This poem is typical Hilda – funny, wistful, sassy, truthful. Hilda’s website, if you would like to find out more about her and the various projects she has on the go is http://hildasheehanpoetry.blogspot.com/
The night my sister went to Hollywood – Hilda Sheehan
she left a stare on the bathroom mirror
and rubber gloves slumped over taps
like yellow dresses waiting for a clean.
There was a smashing of plates after tea
to avoid washing-up and what she cooked
for the kids before she left
could not be saved – not the fish
that wasted itself for years just swimming
nor the bacon that never met bread.
One earring left behind was mistaken
for the one she took with her; unique
and beautiful, hooked on the scent of pillow.
Hollywood made a film with most of the crying
included, ending with the hope of highlights,
Botox, bigger lips and no one seemed to care
if her bed was made, if her bed was unmade.