by Helen Pletts

I can't understand the clown
but the red looks beautiful -
gold braid bitten into the fibres.

The lion tamers
(ticket collectors on Sundays)
have fallen under the gymnast's cloak
of sand dust.
I swear she kicked them as she left the ring
- their tongues pawing at her tights.
But she is the one snarling
at the broom boys
who left grit on the star;
sharp under her toes.

Side splits in the silk
part like a ripe red mouth
and the red swallows hard.

The drip of silver and turquoise,
the strip of air
lashes over the heads
of six black Russian stallions
and the smell of horse
straw-smart and welcome,
brings the rush of animal.

A camel dances the token Sahara Waltz -
her face a tea-sipping marchioness.
Fur dewlaps a-ruffling
she bows out like the horses.

And the faith of the straight-backed boy in blue
graces a stack of white wooden chairs
(no net).


If the nib of the pen goes down it usually starts in a poem. My subjects usually 'emerge' - triggered by small observations, in a way I have not yet been able to understand. I write every day and teach a creative writing class.