JOINT WINNER INDIGO-FIRST PAMPHLET COMPETITION 2018
‘Touching Sharks in Monaco’ looks at memory and the distortion of memory – things remembered, things imagined. It addresses loss and trauma in family histories, the transience of nature, and ecological concerns. Further inspiration comes from a curiosity or need to make sense of lived experience and the wider world.
You can find Beth O'Brien's review of Touching Sharks here courtesy of Mad Hatter Reviews
Beth's endorsement: Touching Sharks in Monaco is an engrossing read that pulls you into tiny moments with each poem, magnifying them into detail you didn’t realise you were missing. Rimmer’s poems each stand out with their own voice, but together there is a story here worth reading and learning.
Signed copies can be obtained from the link below or from Indigo Dreams:
paypal.me/belindarimmer
Cost is £6.80 including p&p. Please add your address as a note to the PayPal screen.
You can find Beth O'Brien's review of Touching Sharks here courtesy of Mad Hatter Reviews
Beth's endorsement: Touching Sharks in Monaco is an engrossing read that pulls you into tiny moments with each poem, magnifying them into detail you didn’t realise you were missing. Rimmer’s poems each stand out with their own voice, but together there is a story here worth reading and learning.
Signed copies can be obtained from the link below or from Indigo Dreams:
paypal.me/belindarimmer
Cost is £6.80 including p&p. Please add your address as a note to the PayPal screen.
Brittle
She ran the last bit as she always did,
turning at the edge of the wood, kicking
up clumps of moss, ready to jump.
She crouched. In a moment of release she leapt,
lightly lifting her bones, feeling the freedom of it.
The ditch seemed to welcome her –
the nettles in their bed of green,
lazy white flowers slumping to-and-fro.
She emerged on wobbly legs. Skin blistered, eyes wide.
She had to do it again from the other side,
gathering enough pace to pitch clear but letting herself drop.
Nothing else had touched her this way.
Afterwards, she dipped her arms into a cooling stream,
pain dissolving in a spray of late spring.
She ran the last bit as she always did,
turning at the edge of the wood, kicking
up clumps of moss, ready to jump.
She crouched. In a moment of release she leapt,
lightly lifting her bones, feeling the freedom of it.
The ditch seemed to welcome her –
the nettles in their bed of green,
lazy white flowers slumping to-and-fro.
She emerged on wobbly legs. Skin blistered, eyes wide.
She had to do it again from the other side,
gathering enough pace to pitch clear but letting herself drop.
Nothing else had touched her this way.
Afterwards, she dipped her arms into a cooling stream,
pain dissolving in a spray of late spring.