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Articles by Suzanne Fairless-Aitken
Ode on the Greggs' Ta'Pastry
Poem by Suzanne Fairless-Aitken Suzanne Fairless-Aitken is a mum from Hexham, who was recently elected as Northumberland County Councillor & Hexham Town Councillor for the LibDems. She works for international poetry publisher, Bloodaxe Books, and also runs her own editing company, Swift Permissions. In her murky past she has been a school governor, activist and campaigner for education, green issues, anti-austerity and anti-corruption. She writes in any spare time she can find.
Whineheard: poems for Brexit
Two Brexit poems by Suzanne Fairless-Aitken based on Swineherd by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin Whineheard #1 (after Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin) When all of this is over, said the Brexiteer, I plan to retire, somewhere Warm perhaps, like the south of France, pick grapes And have conversations about the weather - in English. I'll continue to brew tea of course: the engine of the Empire, But never in an IKEA kitchen, whose units have names like Billy, Flärdfull and Gronkulla.
Euro Visions – Split Prophecies
2016 A fire spits at the star-studded night, Three sisters trade visions by northern light. One weaves a shawl of red, white and blue, Her eyes on its border, her prophecy true: "From ten years on," she chants, "we’ve taken back control, The blue passport sits like a crown on our soul. We got it done, broke the chains, stood our ground. The NHS millions finally found.
Ghosted
I touch the letters of your name cold, unresponsive, grave, and cry. Is there anybody there? Why do you not respond? Poised in limbo I await the two grey ticks. Delivered. Changing to blue. Read. A wordless silence. I'm haunted by your absence. Ghosted by the machine. Every year your haloed profile is fused to comments of demonic dialogue in the echo chamber of media purgatory, Where we went to war, And are now restless forevermore, Shrouded in that smoke-ring tilt. You died too young.
Noctalgia
When man lights the land The stars go out - Our punctured canopy Falls like a shroud Buried beneath blue-bright, Starlinked light. Our longing for guidance At this holy time Is blinded by sharp shadows And spilling streams. Our blind night, Where sky-grief And gentle apricity, Become nostalgia. Cups and rings Carved on the land By weary travellers Are hollow symbols. Our journey Over the starlit sea Is lost.
Snow White at Queen's Hall Hexham and Alnwick Playhouse
Last night I attended the premiere with Hexham’s mayor and was surrounded by troops of local Scouts and Beavers who were chuckling away and fully involved throughout. Audience participation was very much key and the show itself is beautiful put together by the direction of Damien Cruden and the intelligent script by Nick Lane, with two lead actors who inhabit all the roles with a joyful ease that must take the credit for the show’s success.
On solstice night
<!- Article Start -> Gathering garlands I forage for fronds of evergreen to make eternal circles, Haem berries crown the thorns, Snow berries float on boughs, Lazy light lilts, filtered by firs, Stretching elastic shadows across the iron lands. Hoary trails of infinite fractals Freeze sleeping burrows beneath, As fieldfares gather near cidery fruits Reclaimed by the earth.
LibDem policies on immigration
Dear North-East Bylines, Following the piece on party policies on immigration by Carol Westall in your recent edition, I feel inclined to correct a few of her observations about the LibDem policies on the issue. The main link in the article was not the most recent party posting – and did not work.
Howling
<!- Article Start -> I met a boy with wolfish grin He did his best to lure me in Once upon a time when I was good Before he came to steal my hood Outside the chip shop late one night Underneath dim halogen light I dribbled ketchup on my chin And so he wiped his finger in And licked the sweet red sauce I had to laugh, it was fun, of course Walked me home, devoured my smiles, An escort with insidious wiles. I met a boy with wolfish eyes He charmed me with the usual lies.
White Stag
Vision without action is a daydream Action without vision is a nightmare - Japanese proverb Cobwebs fall from my eyes Brushed there by the trees As I emerge from the river, Shivering in the breeze. Into ancient forest Sinking into peat, Leaves dance down Mulching at my feet, Lazy light swells and pulses Making me yearn for rest, My swollen eyelids Tick with tiredness, I seek a second magpie Where murderous corvids roost, I count seven as they Startled, suddenly swoop.
Quercus robur
Blue speckled shells split on luscious lea Under a robust oak spreading stands, Against the bark, a dog cocks leg to pee. The carefree child climbs the tree Squirreling acorns in eager hands Carving his name with merry glee. The starry-eyed girl muses the tree Caressing its bare wood, ringed bands, Smiling she recalls his bended knee. The proud patriarch respects the tree Stealing strength and fuel across lands Sailing ships across the eternal sea.
If I were to write your biography
...I would tell your story backwards, reverse-count the rocket shooting-up, out of reach, Swim with you out of the gin-clear pool, and hold your head above the water. Return you to the epigraph. I would wipe the brine from your eyes, rubbing out the mascara trails, Restore the cornrows that once lined your skull, gently oil them. Gather glass shards, refill the bottles on the floor.
Doctorbird (Jamaica 1998)
For Angus Terraced amid blue mountains, rocking your grandmother's chair. A doctorbird needles nectar, fireflies strike nitrous air, flame trees hung with blue glass taunt restless duppies, as haunted by Anansi we weave webs with playful care. You feed me poisonous ackee and roadside fruits from a tree you stop to climb. Guinep-stained fingers reaching cautiously for mine, we joke the only way to eat mango is butt-naked in a shower. So we did. There's no rush, you reassure...soon come. Island time.
The Yew
An ancient Yew tree next to a churchyard in an English Village. Share EmailTwitterFacebook The Yew I am a wanderer though I stand tethered to this ancient land Where I have stood two-thousand years Gathering human hopes and fears. Seeded beginnings, fallen not planted On a mound by Tyne once they landed. My noble sisters are worshipped too, Round furr'ed barks, the auspicious yew. We cannot leave, though evergreen But, oh the sights that we have seen.
Ghosted
I touch the letters of your name cold, unresponsive, grave, and cry. Is there anybody there? Why do you not respond? Poised in limbo state I wait. Two grey ticks - Delivered. Change now to blue - Read. Still wordless silence. I'm haunted by your absence, Ghosted by the machine. Suzanne Fairless-Aitken
Corona Moon
Image from creative commons Share EmailTwitterFacebook The corona moon opens a watchful eye over the flock, huddled in familial groups, dotted across meadows. Blossom snows down from ice-cream cones. Snow-covered flesh snuggles into snow-covered flesh. Lanolin comforted lambs feed from tupped ewes, drained at the close of day - all marked with loyal blue. The straw -haired farmer shepherds them into pastures new, where the grass may be greener. Enclosed.
Aut-toon Sonnet
Fog on the Tyne By Louise Brown Share EmailTwitterFacebook He always says 'Just put a jumper on!' - The thermostat war begins - Geordie-Mean-Time. Smells of burning pencils, crackles of nylon, Northumberland Street shows the seasonal signs. Skeletal, tinder leaves write windblown lines, In pleated polyester; patent-leather And wool-warm blazers, tape-measure tireless time. Freshers swarm the Bigg Market, denying weather.
"Magic is for those who wish to see it..." at the Queen's Hall
Share EmailTwitterFacebook After years of the Oddsocks Christmas Panto, The Queen’s Hall in Hexham, recently bucked the trend by commissioning their own offering with a seasonal play A Viking Christmas – neatly tied into the Hexham’s Festival of Flame in 2019. The product was a beautiful Geordie story – weaving in Northumbrian myths and legends to our modern day Christmas. My tween and teen loved it because it was fun and smart.
Spa at Portavadie
Illustration by Katy Read Share EmailTwitterFacebook On shingled shores of Loch Fyne Reflected through rock pools of time, Spewed from the bowels of the planet Titan's marbles slung in granite Cushioned amid bruised heather, Cirrus sweeps as a feather Over Arran's caldera looming large; An old god, re-forged. Gentle tides abandon jellyfish In this wild petri-dish, Shrinkwrapping surrounding shells, water evaporates in primal cells.
The fires of London
Illustration by Suzy Varty Share EmailTwitterFacebook The baker's shop, an oven, a single ember, Igniting something from nothing. Heat from hot, from not, Room zero becomes inferno. Freezing-fire from an old Hotpoint A cold spark of faulty friction A random lightning strike In the tinder box of unrest. Two smouldering summers, centuries apart. One city consumed by fiery rage. Pudding Lane and Grenfell, Timber and plastic alight.
The watermelon
Illustration by Rosa Cole Share EmailTwitterFacebook When we were young they just went to waste, a bit too exotic for council-estate tastes. From the tropics to the suburbs via Bookless & Co. we loved lifting them up and letting them go, smashing to the ground the sound made us smile, ruby entrails smeared on faces TISWAS style.
Zoom
Share EmailTwitterFacebook Not the Armitage poem, more a Beckett play, staged in rows like The Muppet Shows. Am in some kind of digital purgatorio - or Waiting Room - as it is known. Pondering background choices: Smart - bookshelves Witty - a pub Serious - black-framed Art Lockdown breach - Barnard Castle. Anything but the spare-room drums. 'Can you hear me?' 'Is there anybody there?' Ghostly fragments: careful not to wake the dead. Speaker View or Gallery? How long can I look interested for?
Proverbial
Illustration by Katy Read Share EmailTwitterFacebook Remembered rhymes whispered on winds, with tradition and superstition skimmed, Morality forged in iron-aged bones, where Smithys extract swords from stones. Red skies and mackerel scales Weathers woven into folk tales. Murderous corvids fortune tell, And swallows bring a summer spell. February may give snow, and April showers, March roars in with gusty powers. Melding golden, Goody wisdom, To idiot's idioms in feudal kingdoms.
Ribbon of dreams
Photo by Denise Jans on Unsplash Share EmailTwitterFacebook Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot. ― Charlie Chaplin Scalloped pink-velvet rises, Dolby surrounds and amplifies Widescreen expands, the trailers begin, children prattle, folks shuffle, couples conjoin in love-seats, and the stranger in C7 is not alone. Film classification approved as the whistling subsides; stars reflect in starry eyes all looking heavenward.
The Beekeeper - North East Bylines
Share EmailTwitterFacebook Together, to gather whenever the weather rises seven degrees the voracious bees leaze merry the meadow in glorious glissando. Under their flight man gains waxy light, fermenting nectars from sugar collectors, and drunken libertines stealing jelly from queens. Standing by to alight in martial stripes launching up and away from timber runway With Brownian Motion, conquering pollination.
Brushing my hair
Illustration by Suzy Varty Share EmailTwitterFacebook Audio version of this poem. Roots tingling Feels like love Head soothed, Teeth biting through Tangled strands. Cross-legged On the classroom carpet Hearing stories while Forgotten first friends Plait Braid Twist Split hairs. I even liked my hair being pulled By vainglorious boys in pursuit of a kiss.
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