tiger flower

there were shifts, almost imperceptible
gasping involuntarily
whilst driving, whilst watching tv
an aversion to uncooked peppers
I fall asleep on the 40 minute journey
from Troon to Glasgow
wake myself snoring, a jolt
the waxy faces of commuters
unreadable
rivulets of rain misshaping
the branches of trees
I want to let go of my limbs
wrap my ankle around
someone else’s chair leg
ask it to hold
my uncertain spine
give me a wall to lean against
a railing to cry on
I can’t keep myself together
like this; the collapsing star
of my shoulders, my lack
of structure
I used to observe her for changes;
twitches of her mouth
when she was texting
chemo brain, she called it
when the haar descended
on the beach, we whistled our special whistle
arms like sleepwalkers
do we all absorb the characteristics
of the one who is gone?
I would like to be touched, manipulated
stroke the cheek of another
thumb in the hollow beneath the bone
I crave connection
but only want to talk
about how the bananas are going bad
the halo of fruit flies that rise
when I touch the clamminess
of skin
or the speckled tongue
of the tiger flower
another mouth opening at dawn
where are the places that hold the memories?
the fruit bowl
the cheek hollow
thoughts pooling in crevices
like limbs
origami-like, I fold myself
into another person’s couch
(I like a firm backrest
something to wash up against)
please stop talking whilst I think
I sent her a photo of a moorhen, said
‘look, it’s the first sunny day of the year
and I’m sitting on a park bench, reading’
do you remember the impulse to sit on a park bench and read?
the moorhen taking flakes of pastry
from my fingertips
I haven’t noticed the swifts this year
it’s July, have they already gone?
were you ever here?
the sheen of moth dust powders
everything, the fine mist
of a drizzle in summer
today, I whistled for you in the haar
there are always absences;
a leaf opens behind my back
I turn around on the top deck of the bus
and everyone is gone

rosemary

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.

—Ophelia in ‘Hamlet’

flowers, two-lipped, in whorls
smells piney, like the beach at Roseisle
crunch of cones underfoot
their woody mouse ears
so easy to jump to spiny
a needling
time is measured by what is in bloom
she saw this she saw this she saw this
we haven’t yet reached the realm of untraceable
I am in a glass sphere, blown out of time
the hot lips, the peonies, the foxgloves
at what point do we go beyond her
each time behind the storm door
a proliferation of letters
I don’t have a tolerance for noise beyond
the honeybee
the haphazard drill of sparrow wings
a watch ticking like a cricket
in the undergrowth
or in the undergrowth
a cricket ticking like a watch
rosettes of orange lichen remain a comfort
or the diamond lattice of the trellis
reproducing itself
This is just like x, she used to say
of every new place, every new thing
staying within the lattice
begetting itself ad infinitum
I am out of time, I say, again
red brush of fox just glimpsed
from the train
pieces that don’t cohere
in the long grass
discarded hubcaps like honeycombs
again and again
I stop short at
the proliferation of letters
the bush at the front needs tending
a lopsided smile over the low wall
careful, there’s a bird’s nest there
once, she jumped out –
pitching handfuls of cherry blossom
into the air
petals like mouse ears like
the lobes of conifer cones
whilst I smirked behind the window
writing poems
someone next to me says, the laugh is…
– she used to say that, right?
the laugh is
we didn’t even have a cherry blossom tree

About the work
These poems are part of an ongoing collaboration with poet Maria Sledmere inspired by The Language of Flowers, a facsimile of a 1913 manuscript that includes over 700 entries of flowers and plants and their meanings. We are interested in the idea of 'trellising', of working ideas or phrases across our poems – both in conversation with the index and with one another.

Jane Hartshorn is a poet, researcher, and educator based in Glasgow. Her pamphlets include Antechamber (2024), Blowfly (ossa prints, 2023), Soft Tissue Rarely Preserves (in collaboration with Valeska Noemi, 2023), In the Sick Hour (Takeaway Press, 2020) and Tract (Litmus Publishing, 2017). Her work has been published by Footnote Press, Osmosis, Boudicca Press, Dostoyevsky Wannabe, The Polyphony, and SPAM.
IG: @jane_hartshorn_; janehartshorn.weebly.com

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