Jennifer Copley
Biography:
Jennifer Copley lives in Barrow-in-Furness in her grandmother’s house, a large draughty Victorian pile that has informed much of her poetry. She has published 6 collections of poetry including Ice (Smith/Doorstop), Unsafe Monuments (Arrowhead), Beans in Snow (Smokestack), Living Daylights (Happenstance) and Mr Trickfeather (Like This Press). Her latest collection is Sisters (Smokestack). Work has appeared in The Rialto, The North, the Independent on Sunday, the Forward Prize Anthology and GCSE Poetry Unseen revision papers.
Biography:
Jennifer Copley lives in Barrow-in-Furness in her grandmother’s house, a large draughty Victorian pile that has informed much of her poetry. She has published 6 collections of poetry including Ice (Smith/Doorstop), Unsafe Monuments (Arrowhead), Beans in Snow (Smokestack), Living Daylights (Happenstance) and Mr Trickfeather (Like This Press). Her latest collection is Sisters (Smokestack). Work has appeared in The Rialto, The North, the Independent on Sunday, the Forward Prize Anthology and GCSE Poetry Unseen revision papers.
Jennifer Copley lives in Barrow-in-Furness in her grandmother's house, a large draughty Victorian pile that has informed
On shyness
My mother was shy,
my father was shy,
I am shy.
Everywhere I look for shyness,
catch it in the flick-fin eyes of fishermen
or the lowered gaze of mariners
who run away to sea to be shy because
the sea, though you would not know it,
is very shy. Its waves hide behind each other
when bold feet come splashing.
The wind is shy but birds are not shy.
Brassnecked, they fly where they please
and the wind, being shy, has no idea
how to shoo them away.
On the whole, animals are not shy
with the exception of horses –
so insanely shy, they shy from everything.
Hiding inside their glossy coats,
forced over jumps and along busy roads,
all they want is to be back in their meadows.
I met an executioner once.
He was extremely shy.
He hid behind his black mask,
wore black gloves on his shy fingers,
whispered to me that he was sorry
but he had a job to do.
In a little while, he said,
you will walk on the sea shore
among the calm, clear pebbles
which are the unshy eyes of the dead.
Husbands
We went down to the sea
and married wolves.
We rode on their backs,
the white wings of our veils
streaming out, our dresses
trailing in the surf.
The wolves were brothers –
Mighty and King. We loved
their jewelled eyes,
their shaggy coats,
the way they warmed
the cold skin of our legs.
They gave us things –
a gull’s skull with a scream
still in its beak, the eye of a whale,
a sailor’s last message pricked out with a pin.
Protect us from Jonnie Mattinson, we begged
and they licked our feet and pledged it.
If you would like to read more of Jenny's work go to www.jennifercopley.co.uk
On shyness
My mother was shy,
my father was shy,
I am shy.
Everywhere I look for shyness,
catch it in the flick-fin eyes of fishermen
or the lowered gaze of mariners
who run away to sea to be shy because
the sea, though you would not know it,
is very shy. Its waves hide behind each other
when bold feet come splashing.
The wind is shy but birds are not shy.
Brassnecked, they fly where they please
and the wind, being shy, has no idea
how to shoo them away.
On the whole, animals are not shy
with the exception of horses –
so insanely shy, they shy from everything.
Hiding inside their glossy coats,
forced over jumps and along busy roads,
all they want is to be back in their meadows.
I met an executioner once.
He was extremely shy.
He hid behind his black mask,
wore black gloves on his shy fingers,
whispered to me that he was sorry
but he had a job to do.
In a little while, he said,
you will walk on the sea shore
among the calm, clear pebbles
which are the unshy eyes of the dead.
Husbands
We went down to the sea
and married wolves.
We rode on their backs,
the white wings of our veils
streaming out, our dresses
trailing in the surf.
The wolves were brothers –
Mighty and King. We loved
their jewelled eyes,
their shaggy coats,
the way they warmed
the cold skin of our legs.
They gave us things –
a gull’s skull with a scream
still in its beak, the eye of a whale,
a sailor’s last message pricked out with a pin.
Protect us from Jonnie Mattinson, we begged
and they licked our feet and pledged it.
If you would like to read more of Jenny's work go to www.jennifercopley.co.uk