Renn Hubbuck-Melly talks about how she grew to love poetry and her hugely successful performance poetry open mic night Juke in Cardiff. We also hear poems on the theme of balance from Fran Smith, Clive Oseman, Will Ford and myself and Renn invites poems on the topic of fear as well as sharing some of her own poetry.
Matchwood
I have a splinter in my finger,
the needle, a slip of metal
prods like a blind prick trying to gain leverage
over the hair of wood.
The whorl distorting,
bark-eye sweet with blood.
Tweezers pinch the sloping rings,
I count them as they expand for excavation.
Thirty one arêtes shape the plumb of my thumb,
red sap curves and bleeds into the tributaries.
The chip comes loose,
small enough to be cargo on an ants back.
Does the tree feel this loss?
I wish to bring home this shard of limb
yet it is dead already,
a clipped nail forced under the lid of skin
flesh would reject
no longer as body
but as the outside we must protect against,
sapwood, heartwood whole, intact.
the needle, a slip of metal
prods like a blind prick trying to gain leverage
over the hair of wood.
The whorl distorting,
bark-eye sweet with blood.
Tweezers pinch the sloping rings,
I count them as they expand for excavation.
Thirty one arêtes shape the plumb of my thumb,
red sap curves and bleeds into the tributaries.
The chip comes loose,
small enough to be cargo on an ants back.
Does the tree feel this loss?
I wish to bring home this shard of limb
yet it is dead already,
a clipped nail forced under the lid of skin
flesh would reject
no longer as body
but as the outside we must protect against,
sapwood, heartwood whole, intact.
By Renn Hubbuck-Melly
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