Friday Poem – ‘How to make a good crisp sandwich’, Katherine Stansfield

Did you know it’s British Sandwich Week, 20-26 May? Yes – there really is a day (or week) for everything. And in celebration, our Friday Poem is Katherine Stansfield’s ‘How to make a good crisp sandwich’.

This is a poem that really does what it says on the tin: ‘crisps don’t work alone’, the poet warns, then proceeds to carefully list the potential permutations of this most British of sandwiches. ‘Who does this sandwich want to be?’ You may not have asked yourself this question before – so grab the bread, open a pack of crisps, and ponder.
Katherine Stansfield’s poetic debut, Playing House is marked by a concise wit, a distinct voice and an unsettling view of the domestic.
‘Striking imagery, strange leaps of thought, wit and menace aside, the unmistakeable thrill of Katherine Stansfield’s poetry is in the voice. It addresses the world directly, takes it personally, and comes at the reader from constantly unexpected angles, a tangible, physical thing.’ Philip Gross

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Playing House is available from the Seren website: £9.99

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Friday Poem – ‘Cream teas, Sunday’, Katherine Stansfield

This week our Friday Poem is Katherine Stansfield’s ‘Cream teas, Sunday’, from Playing House.

‘Cream teas, Sunday’ is a sickly-sweet vision of chaos in the pursuit of a cream tea. ‘Stampedes’ of customers interrupt the calm sophistication of a tea room, laying waste to the food and finery with not so much as a 50p tip on the way out.
Playing House is full of delightfully witty poems such as this, which present an unsettling view of the domestic; the author’s eye is satirical yet sympathetic, the voice distinctive.
‘Striking imagery, strange leaps of thought, wit and menace aside, the unmistakeable thrill of Katherine Stansfield’s poetry is in the voice. It addresses the world directly, takes it personally, and comes at the reader from constantly unexpected angles, a tangible, physical thing.’ – Philip Gross

 

Cream teas, Sunday

The four o’clock rush stampedes in at three
to besiege us, heathens sweating scones
for Sunday’s sore visitor gods. Raging and raw
we keep out cats, flies, the customers
still crash right through with sugar in their eyes.
Quick – lay your hands on the cream
to banish mould and I’ll speak in tongues
of jam. Hell opens to burn the slovenly
and pour forth fruitcake and smoke.
I weep into my apron.There’s no change
or tips.Tea cosies drown in Lapsang floods,
exhausted pots shatter and teaspoons bolt,
menus make for the door and coffee jars
revolt.You spread the charm like soft butter
on a split and I’ll give sticky grace on not quite
clean plates.Will that appease them?
Our fake accents turn with the milk
come six. Prayers pass in a kettle’s pant,
returning to water and air: tomorrow
please rain, please rain, please rain.

 

Playing House is available from the Seren website: £9.99
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Friday Poem – The woman on my National Library of Wales library card

This week our Friday Poem is ‘The woman on my National Library of Wales library card’ by Katherine Stansfield, which won the 2014 PENfro poetry competition. The poem is taken from Katherine’s humorous and distinctive debut collection, Playing House.

A concise wit and an unsettling view of the domestic characterise these poems whose subjects are the ordinary as viewed through the author’s satirical yet sympathetic eye. John Lennon’s tooth, an imaginary ‘Canada’, bees in Rhode Island, cats and office politics are all peculiar grist to this author’s mill. She presents both historical subjects such as Captain Scott of the Antarctic, and common objects, such as household bleach, from a skewed perspective, adding humour, drama and a quietly distinctive pathos.

 

The woman on my National Library of Wales library card

Her mouth says it all –
slack as a jellyfish. They made her

stand against the wall
with no time to pose or comb

the seagulls from her hair,
no time to dig her smile

from pockets of sand.
the Sea fret foaming at her hems

thickened once inside the dusty air
that seeps from books. See, she’s ghosting

under the card’s laminated skin. Almost
gone. She fogged the enquiry desk too.

The attendant lost his hands
in the mist, hence the wonky

shot. She’s looking at a horizon
beyond the frame. I can’t meet

her salt-stiff eye which asks
for silence from the waves

as if such a gift could be given.
She doesn’t get out much now for fear

of mackerel following her home
and wheezing to death in the road,

of mullet in the bath again.
Her doorstep is crunchy with limpets.

Can I take her something back?
She likes romance, set far inland.

 

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Friday Poem – There’s no such thing as pandas

What if I told you that pandas weren’t real? That they were just people in suits? This Friday’s poem, There’s no such thing as pandas, taken from Katherine Stansfields collection Playing House, suggests just that. A concise wit, a distinct voice and an unsettling view of the domestic characterise these poems whose subjects are the ordinary as viewed through the author’s satirical yet sympathetic eye.

There’s no such thing as pandas

I cut my teeth on Newsround where ‘And finally’
meant pandas: pandas on planes, panda love
at London Zoo, the Queen unveils a new panda.
There was something about them, even then.
Those tricks-of-a-hypnotist eyes. The big pads
moving like hands. Were they shoes
inside the feet? I wasn’t sure until I saw
the sneezing baby make her mother
lurch in shock on YouTube. Then I knew:
pandas are just people in suits, having us on.

Don’t miss Katherine reading at the Aberystwyth Arts Center bookshop on Thursday 23rd October at 6:30pm. Find out more.