Clare reading at Winchester Poetry Festival (10-12 Oct), SE London BookFest (6 Nov), Poetry in Aldeburgh (7-9 Nov, 3 events), Todmorden Book Festival, 12 Nov; her...
Launch reading by Emilie Jelinek, Clare Pollard and Jessica Traynor
Our September 2025 joint online launch event for Emilie Jelinek, Clare Pollard & Jessica Traynor is now on YouTube. Emilie Jelinek was the winner of the Mslexia...
Clare Pollard's Lives of the Female Poets: Reviews & Radio
Lives of the Female Poets reviewed in Mslexia magazine; BBC Radio 3's Sunday Feature: Unlocking Anne, presented by Clare Pollard, is still available on BBC Sounds.
I have fallen once more to brooding upon my saintly Poetess.
‘Poetess’ has come to be a derogatory term,
an implicitly pejorative noun like ‘Murderess’
in its suggestion of tepid and insipid achievement,
or else it conjures that poetess whose suicide
was misinterpreted as romantic by the college-girl mentality,
but She is the paradigmatic example of the domestic poetess,
pairing her dreamy, aphoristic poems with doodles of flowers
on her Instagram page.
My Poetess is awfully nice.
One might perceive it to be a label of contempt and condescension
that exemplifies ‘the gush of the feminine’
but it is only that She commits the sin of engaging with a demographic
whose taste is often seen as a byword for bad quality,
and also She makes money.
Indeed, Aphra Behn all but equates the term with ‘prostitute’.
British Poetesses make but a poor figure
in Poems by Eminent Ladies or Specimens of British Poetesses,
and it’s true that the adjectives ‘feminine’ and ‘Poetess’,
when modifying poetry,
can be exchanged either with ‘minor’, ‘popular’, or ‘sentimental’
without injury to sense.
Still, my Poetess presides at the female empire of the tea-table,
where She sweetens the tea
with sugar’s tender hiss.
Pollen
The medium death chose, this time, was love.
Kindness, or what we’d thought was kindness, was now harm
and it was best if we just locked ourselves away,
and didn’t show we cared,
and hardly lived in weeks, which were our work.
One week, though, I recall, the pollen came,
piled in our street like snow, or no, like baby hair –
I saw a boy that stroked its fur,
how, on their walk, girls kicked at it,
its carriage on the air from home to home,
over fences, yards, the apple blossom,
in through kitchen windows
to where we stared at screens on makeshift desks;
its waver on warm currents of my breath,
how my eyes streamed with tears.
Tell me that you noticed.
And did you close the window too,
uncertain, now, what you were meant to do
with all that tenderness?
Two Sonnets for Anne Locke
I
‘A sonnet is a moment’s monument,’
so Dante Gabriel Rossetti said,
and Shakespeare knew a rose’s short-lived scent
could be distilled in verse to never fade,
whilst Wyatt’s lust was to a lustre wrought
within fourteen immortal, pulsing lines –
eight lines, and then the turn – a change of thought.
These tiny mausoleums for the mind!
But men sit on the canon’s pedestals
and they have made no monument for you
although, in English, you were first to scrawl
a sonnet sequence to enshrine your truth.
Your pain’s perfect pentameter, Anne Locke,
is our inheritance if we would look.
II
John Donne begged God to batter at his heart –
for God to break, blow, burn him to the ground
within each little song, as though his art
might phoenix him; might cauterise his wound.
Hopkins was heartburn; gall. He groped, like you,
for grace, his sweating self in night’s black bed,
knowing that’s god’s surveillance sees the truth.
There’s no safe place to hide the things you did.
The sonnet’s always driven by desire,
a thing some claim that women don’t possess –
but something drove you, Anne, into that fire
to grasp each burning rhyme, each searing stress,
to stuff your torment in each sonnet’s box.
I touch the ash – still warm – and am unlocked.
Negroni
After my child was born it was the first drink I wanted.
I had the three bottles lined up in my kitchen
near the baby’s bottle, steriliser and teats.
Adulthood in a glass; a bitter release,
like the relief you imagine death to be except
if you’re dead, of course, you can’t feel relief.
It was something for me,
when I had my breath back for my own.
Equal parts gin, Italian vermouth,
and Campari the colour of insects
crushed under your nails,
of a birthing pool.
Sometimes I feel my eyes in my sockets,
the blood slip through its slim tubes,
the heart clench, unasked.
I heard the baby breathe in a basket,
in little white things
as I let that red strobe through me –
an aperitivo to whet my nerve.
Contents List
11 Poetess
12 Inana after Enheduanna
14 On Emily Brontë, Aged Six
17 Pollen
18 The Head-louse
20 Praxilla
22 In Nunhead Cemetery (for Charlotte Mew)
23 The White Lady
26 Rye Lane
28 Sestina for Elizabeth Bishop
30 Pothos
32 Housecat
33 Cocktail List
33 Red Witch
34 Margarita
35 French 75
36 Negroni
37 Old-Fashioned
38 Blue Hawaii
39 Spoils
40 Two Sonnets for Anne Locke
42 The Sex Life of Emily Brontë
45 The Craving
46 The Pub Crawl
48 Three-Martini Afternoon
50 Improvisatrice
53 Emily Brontë and the Critic
55 Pornhub
56 Why I Won’t Listen to Sad Pop Songs Any More
58 Last Word: a glosa for Wanda Coleman
60 Poetry after Marianne Moore
62 The Lives of the Female Poets