PS Cottier

The poet addresses her first book

Oh my little treasure, with your spine just like a real spine
and your two short footnotes; smooth, appropriate and small.
I would swaddle you in gossamer, rock you in a golden crib.
All too soon you’ll be waddling out amongst dangerous critics
(if one so angelic and slim could ever so perambulate.)
Strange readers may not see your brilliance, and overlook you
for the thicker, slicker, tarmac roads of easy fattening prose.
Those lard-backs, perched like obese babushka dolls
above the Muse’s cuter, lighter, cuddle-worthy spawn.

Hush, dear bookie. Drink deep.
No-one will ever love you as I do.

P.S. Cottier

This little occasional poem was written for the launch of my first book, way back in 2008. I have been thinking about that as we head towards the launches of The Stars Like Sand, jointly edited by Tim Jones and myself.

It’s always a strange experience to hold something that was previously only an idea, or a manuscript. A manuscript is a bit like an ultrasound of a baby, showing a rough outline, but not the detail. The pregnancy, in the case of the latest volume, lasted about 18 months, which is positively elephantine.

Can’t wait to get back to concentrating entirely on my own poetry. I almost have another manuscript prepared. And I have an inkling for something else, too.

Launches intervene, though!

These have been unusually feminine metaphors for me. Or perhaps female would be a more accurate word. Next time I promise to return to football or cricket imagery.

Owzat?

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