Kate Meyer-Currey

Kate Meyer-Currey

Kate Meyer-Currey was born in 1969 and moved to Devon in 1973. A varied career in frontline settings has fuelled her interest in gritty urbanism, contrasted with a rural upbringing. Her ADHD also instils a sense of ‘other’ in her life and writing.

Publications include: Family Landscape: Colchester 1957 (Not Very Quiet. 2020), Invocation (Whimsical Poet, 2021), Dulle Griet, Scold’s Bridle, Recconnaissance, RavenCageZine,2021), Fear the reaper, (Red Wolf Journal, 2021), Stream: Timberscombe (A River of Poems, 2021), Not so starry night (SheSpeaks, 2021), Dimpsey (Snapdragon, 2021), Mask (Disquiet Arts, 2021), Magnolia Stellata (Constellations, Literary North, 2021), Challenge (Poetry and Covid, March 2021), Scorpio rising (Noctivagant Press, April, 2021), Scrapheap Challenge (Handyuncappedpen, April, 2021), Scrubber in PPE, (Skirting Around, April, 2021), New perspective (Planisphere HQ, April, 2021), Hilly Fields, (Pure Slush, Lifespan Vol 2, April 2021), Kintsugi (Aurora, Kira Kira, May 2021), Dregs (Seinundwerden, May, 2021) and many more forthcoming.

Palisade: Seville oranges in December

Seville: a December getaway from 
Dreary Britain. But no winter sun cast
Its sharp relief on the stacked mountains
Of the city’s backdrop, or defined its 
Stockaded towers and sugar-cubed 
Houses. Instead of the sun’s usual 
Onslaught upon shady siesta courtyards:
It had rained non-stop for two weeks,
Blurring the hard-baked streets, melting 
Their tiled precision to softer brush-strokes, 
Drowning the skyline in a sepia-wash. 
The citizens were bemused; this was not
Typical for December, they muttered,
With the insistence of raindrops, going 
About their usual pursuits, with studied 
Indifference, under the orange-trees, 
With their burnished leaves and fruit;
Glowing with hidden sun’s retained warmth,
This was the locals’ only defence against 
Unprovoked seasonal attack, strolling 
Forth, casually defiant, in their combat 
Gear of tailored trench-coats, or dug-in 
Under stylish umbrellas, on sauntered 
Raids in this drowning no-man’s land. 
They squinted through storm-cloud
Sunglasses at the Giralda’s furled 
Parasol, or the sandbagged outline 
Of the Torre del Oro and still drank in 
The sunlit glint of icy fino in dewed 
Glasses, or consumed a deluge 
Of tapas, basking in the golden rays 
Of sliced tortilla, scattering a hail 
Of olive-pits and toothpicks amidst 
Flurried napkin-clouds, in bars by
The cafe con leche Guadalquivir. 
As pelting rain hurled its artillery 
Over the drowning city, a resistance-
Army of fallen oranges fought back
Alongside the besieged citizens:
Thudding like cannonballs to the
Pavement, dousing puddles with 
Greek Fire; their heaped arsenals
A fiery bulwark, the smouldering 
Bastion of the beleaguered sun.

Venice Dawn

Slow-drifting waves of hours accumulate
Like acqua alta’s rise, from dawn to late
They surge by light of steady-glowing lamps
Rousing shadowed streets and drowsy ramps.
Guardians of the gondolas’ tethered flocks
In the fold of night’s fast-anchored docks
Which underpin the city’s staked pontoon
And dream amidst the swell of its lagoon.
So dawn’s ripples spread their stippled light
On ochre palace walls; so ends Venetian night.
As shuttered windows blank encroaching day
They stare through slitted lids in stark dismay
At floating tourist-floods who peer and point
And put their gilded noses out of joint;
Each is a jaded doge, whose ebbing pride
Cannot repel the onslaught of time’s tide.

Poetry in this post: © Kate Meyer-Currey
Published with the permission of Kate Meyer-Currey