Turtle Soup

Your grandmother’s, this set
of six. I imagine her, fine-boned and elegant,
serving turtle soup in these bowls. Delicate
as eggshells, they nestle in their saucers
while golden turtles drift
around their sides, motionless 
against a hidden tide.
Remember how we dived with turtles
in sun-sparkled waters of the Gulf;
how you admired their leisured grace,
the slow speed of their flippers
as they flew the sea like air. 
Remember how one night we watched 
hatchlings splutter from their nests, 
tumble down moon-
white sand to bounce
like pennies into hungry surf –
hatchlings as tiny as these bowls
that I will never use 
for turtle soup.

This poem was originally published in The Beach Hut

Review: Edge by Katrina Porteous

Katrina Porteous is a poet based in Northumberland, England, who focuses ‘on the theme of ‘nature’ in its widest sense, and ‘place’ in its deepest.’ This has led her to consider some of the profound questions that have concerned philosophers, religious thinkers, scientists and writers for millennia: What is the nature of matter? What is reality? How did the Universe come into existence? What is ‘out there’, beyond the confines of our planet Earth?

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Old Wounds

When they stripped the ivy from the oak, he could see
the scar – the trunk’s flesh peeled away
to expose deep tissue, fibre pale as bone
where a limb was ripped by lightning
forty years ago.

Perhaps the oak had welcomed concealment,
the stranglehold of ivy, green
through all the seasons, all the years.
Watching from his bed the play of light
and shade, he pondered

how memories abide in trees – he recalled
thorns like bone needles, neatly paired,
glinting through the silver green of leaves;
the fissured texture of the bark;
seedpods, pendulous

as crescent moons; and how fiercely that day
he had focussed on the acacia, its details,
so that he did not have to look
at what was on the ground, nor at the vultures
above, in holding patterns.

‘Old Wounds’ was originally published in 192 Poetry Magazine.


Upstream in pools where the water barely flowed but for a gentle kissing
of the rocks, a tremor in the mirrored clouds – water transparent as air, sprung
from the mountain’s flank, too cold for bilharzia-bearing snails –
we found a duiker
its hide beginning to flake, its eyes glazed,
its legs stiff. We tensed too, my brothers and I,
in the cold shock of our discovery. I had not known
death before. Not this close. This unexplained.

The sun’s heat bounced off the rocks, drew out the fragrance of the grass. Death
did not belong here. Take its legs.
Our feet slipping on riverbed pebbles, we dragged the duiker through the pools
to where the stream began to quicken, to leap over hidden rocks,
swirl in eddies against the banks. Near the precipice
the river’s tug became too strong and we released the carcase to the current.
It floated haphazardly, tiny hooves bumping alternately
against the wavelets and the sky. We ran along the bank
to where the river abandoned all containment and hurled
down a vastness of rock. The duiker disappeared
in that foaming plunge towards the mist-green Honde valley. Above us,
white-necked ravens rode rollercoasters of air.

‘Turbulence’ was placed third in the Kent & Sussex Poetry Society Folio Competition 2020.

Mathematical forms in poetry: Square Poems

My late, beloved brother Martin had a globetrotting habit and a penchant for quirky and impractical gifts. On one occasion he arrived to stay with me bearing a heavy stone slab, which he had seen on a trip to Italy and decided would make the perfect present for his Classics-loving, mathematically minded sister. It was a replica of the famous SATOR square, a five word palindrome that can be read from top to bottom, bottom to top, left to right and right to left:

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Earth Geometry

Let us assign the cube to earth. (Plato)
In this Muladhara Lotus is the square region of Prthivi. (Purnananda)

Solid stacking.
Four triangles
per plane; six planes.
Cube. Immobile.

Beautiful as
lightning, a square
surrounded by
eight shining spears.

Shifting plates on
a spinning sphere;
magnetized, with
a molten core.

My mother, toes
at dawn among
her fuchsias.

This poem first appeared in the Bridges 2020 Poetry Anthology (ed. Sarah Glaz), Tessellations Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona.

There is a recording of Marian reading this and other poems on the Bridges 2020 Virtual Poetry Reading website

Today, I hold on to small things

The dance of light on fissured bark.
A conker’s polished sheen.

Angled petals of red and gold. Fine stems
that tether whirling butterflies.

An oak leaf’s quiet surrender
to the gentle spikes of grass.

My grandson’s fingers
curled around mine

as we skip from east to west
and back to east again.


September 2020

This poem is pinned to Greenwich Park on the Places of Poetry website:

Mathematical forms in poetry: the Fibonacci poem

The house in Aberdeen where we used to live had a large garden surrounded by woodland and fields. My initial enthusiasm for filling the borders with pretty flowering plants was soon tempered by the fact that the garden was a happy feeding ground for rabbits. They bred like their proverbial namesakes – in a matter of months, one or two fluffy little bunnies gambolling sweetly at the bottom of the lawn became a dozen or more, brazenly nibbling my roses and petunias.

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