Two Poems by Tim Cresswell
First Snow
Your skull was still inside your mother
as they twisted in a screw attached to
a wire attached to a monitor which re-
layed sounds of your heart racing, stalling
and then racing. I saw the blood
trickle down between her legs. The room smelled
of batteries, sweat. Low pressure brings on birth,
the midwife said, as if the snow outside
might suck you out.
I drive our old
duck-egg Volvo through the reconfigured
city—I am Scott or Amundsen—
the first man in an unmapped land longing
for trig points, the pole star in a cold sky,
the certainties of magnetic north.
Possible Pubs
meet me at the rush and shiver
take me to the pat and tap
meet me at the pluck and quiver
take me to the tickle and clap
seek me by the curve and flutter
find me in the wince and snide
seek me by the trust and stutter
find me in the pulse and slide
see me at the luck and couple
join me near the kiss and skew
see me at the curse and suckle
join me near the wreck and screw
hold me in the wrench and stare
drink with me love drink with me there
“First Snow” and “Possible Pubs” both appeared in Soil, published in 2013 by Penned in the Margins Press, London, and are published here with permission of the author.
About the Author:
Tim Cresswell is a poet, human geographer and Professor of History and International Affairs at Northeastern University, Boston. Soil is his debut collection of poetry.
