Twelve weeks to stop the diggers

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Twelve weeks to stop the diggers

We are but Common people.

You can see the furrows in our brows.

We only want to protect what is ours

And has been ours for centuries.

We only want to revel in what we love.

We hate change, of course we hate change

Oh how we hate the passing of the seasons.

It makes us cold.

They try to silence us

But they haven’t cut our tongues.

We threaten revolution

With every breath. We

bang drums. We

can even change our diction.

And when they threaten, we roar.

Poem (c) Rebecca Deans. Top picture (c) Rebecca Deans. Picture below (c) Friends of Codnor Common.


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Place You

Here’s a poem that I just wrote. (C) Becky Deans 2014

Place You

Let me run my finger tips
Down your Roman road
Lay my hands on
Your ironworks.

Feel your daisies prick
The back of my head. Celebrate
Every field, every disaster. I expect

To feel the ground fall away
From me. They call it a sinkhole.
I’m ready with my torch.

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I can’t remember when I wrote this, but it’s from around 1998.


Brick-red eggs stand in line

On grey crown cups.

Earthenware pots glare outwards.

Boxes nestle

Cardboard on cardboard.

Spoons lie icy.

Our faces distort

In the harsh light

Fighting through the cracked glass.

Mist turns to dust.

There we learn our grains and wheat

Mix our oats.

The smooth white liquid

Rattles in our throats.

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Thank you to my cousin, Ben Wain, and to Marianne Arnot for naming this poem I wrote at our writers’ workshop!


The light plays

I play with light

light envelops us all

and ensnares us


I hide

in the lush velvet curtains

of the mind

I get lost in my bed


Here in the emptiness

Light cannot get to me.

(c) Becky Deans 2014



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Night sounds

Night Sounds
I may have been reading too much Norman MacCaig when I wrote this…

The late night radio
Hums a grave slave rave.
The old set cackles,
But will not give up.

And the central heating
Heaves around pipes and boilers.
Each flat chime taunts my ears.
My pillows won’t plump up enough.

Rain falling off the roof
Utters names of far gone places,
Forms new blankets.

Geese creak.

And I can’t hear your night sounds,
Still my eyes cannot close tight enough.

(c) Becky Deans 2014

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Mrs Thomas de Quincey

What happened when Thomas told William Wordsworth about his new wife?

Mrs Thomas de Quincey

‘Not quite the right sort’

The report of the poet with a Phd

In snobbery, the Lakeland straight man

William Wordsworth.

‘What are you thinking, giving a ring

To a milkmaid? Affairs are one thing,

Marriage something else,’ he said, pacing

Around the room on elegant feet.

‘I mean, just think where her hands

Have been,’ he protested, dabbing his

Troubled forehead with a finely starched

Handkerchief, wringing it out

Onto the ice-sleek polished floor,

Watching the sweat drip, flicking

A lock of hair gone stray back

To the left, then right again.

De Quincey paced the room around

With his eyes, surprised by the

Reaction of his friend, so keen to

Lend his voice to the meek and poor,

To champion the cause

Of the idiots and the mad, then

Thomas became glad, because what he had

What he had raised mountains

Stopped streams in their tracks

And made his blood run hotter

Than the sky. He had his life

And would let the others write.

(c) Becky Deans 2013


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Fast People

My writing aim for this year has been simply to write, and it looks like I have done that. I have, recently, written oodles of bad poetry as well as workshop pieces. I even wrote a play when I was on holiday.
My writing aim for next year will be to build the writing group, maybe perform again. How I miss performing work I have just written. And I’d like to highlight an issue or two. But anyhoo, it’s nearly Christmas so have some poetry that still sticks in my mind (from 2003).

Fast People

We’re fast people – we’re
Too busy to stand
Behind people on escalators – we
Run up the stairs, burning bright.
We don’t go out at night.

When it rains – we just
Go out there and get wet.
We’ve got no time to wait. We
No longer understand the difference
Between early and late.

When the work’s not finished
We borrow time from sleep
And use caffeine or crack to plug the
Gaps. Necessity is our energy.

©Becky Deans 2013

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