Poetry / Poets / Writers / Writing

3 Poems by Marianne Daniels


The birds wrote me
a letter
to drown
by the soup of an old woman’s
garden –

conspicuous life where
the grass grew,

lines of wasp blood
on the window’s bones
where we watched the summer die.

In winter,
they said my gills
would return, drastically
in a cold bed;

letters creased
on my sleeping side,
coils of Mercury
for my feet.


For unchanging reasons
and plates of skin; pink chills
frightened of air –

the women keep returning
to some impossible past.

If they just forgave each other
perhaps –

peeling real fruit,
each miracle heteroclite –

they could be happy.


That famous old poem
stirred up thoughts of sewing

botched with my mother’s
Singer and black cotton.

You are too harsh for the blue
and needle bit between my lips;

the pain at my shoulder
running through the bobbin and each word

you turned over past my knees.
If you were to see me now –

four in the morning and narcotic
weaning, strapping rain drops on to

the sleeve of a coat – would you crack a smile,
drop me a line?

Things believed are read in between –
it doesn’t matter who writes first,

just write.



Marianne Daniels lives and works in Manchester, England. She has an MA Creative writing.



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