Helen Burke
Helen Burke has been writing poetry for the last twenty-five years. She has just completed a one woman show at the Edinburgh Festival. Over the last two years she has been a regular reader at Literature Festivals and events in the U.K. – and her work has appeared in numerous poetry magazines and anthologies.
She has also had short stories published, written for and performed on radio as well as working as a visual artist. Winner of the Manchester, Devon and Dorset, Norwich, Suffolk and Leslie Richardson (Yorkshire) Prizes, amongst other awards. Ian McMillan has said of her work – “This is a poet with verve, wit and humanity.”
Her collections include: Poetry – Helen Burke (1997), Island of Dreams (1997), Gift (2001), and Zuzu's Petals (2009). Her newest collection, The Ruby Slippers, is available from amazon.co.uk
Listen to Helen's radio broadcasts on ELFM (East Leeds UK). One program is Word Salad's, 'The Dance.' Enoy the many performances, songs, readings by various artists along with her story, "Meringues" about Helen's early dance life.
Read Helen's adventurous tale of attending an Irish Poetry Reading: Impressions of an Irish Evening
► Helen's books & selected poems are available below. All cover artwork is by Helen. (Visit her Artist's page, Here.)
|
Origami Micro-Chapbook |
Selected Poem(s) |
|
|
Visiting the Parrot
Through the window I could see the small cage,
And his shape clutching at the edges of it. She made us tea – the woman. I have saved him, she said, from definite destruction. If it weren’t for me, she said – where would he be? She let him out and he climbed sideways down to have a good look at me - Leaning a little breathless (that being the two of us) I sensed a fellow clown, an acrobat – squawking – Only let them see what we want them to see. Chintz wallpaper. Earl Grey in perfect white porcelain. And the sky outside – beckoning. And our two hearts like defused weapons. He went a little dizzy with the sweetness of the air (much as I do myself on good days) Tell me how goes it? we asked each other. His head leaned on my shoulder before he climbed back in. And the teacups rattled and through the window, I swear I saw and heard the sky itself – I could feel the two of us – clutching at the edge of it. • Helen Burke © 2013
|
|
|
Two DreamsTwo dreams I had, and not sure which to believe. In the first I am in a dungeon. No way out ever, and can’t get home. There is the sound of my own blood being drawn And metal in the air, a smell of sulphur. The feeling I came there on a horse – and he too Has not escaped. I am in white and wield great power and all of this Has been my downfall. In the second dream – I am a dancer again, waiting For my turn in the wings. A blue billowing curtain stands before my face And while I wait I write my name Over and over in the sand with my ballet shoes. The music is sublime – and two old friends arrive And argue as to who will dance with me. They both say they will come back later, But I know this will not happen. This dance I wait to do is mine alone, a thing apart. A lonely eagle calling out to air from the mountain I have called my heart. (There are promises we keep & cannot keep – even In our dreams.) Two dreams I had, and not sure which to believe. • Helen Burke © 2012 |
|
|
Chocolate CredoI believe in chocolate. I believe that chocolate is a gift from the Gods and should be used accordingly. I believe in hundreds and thousands being sprinkled on it And bars of it being eaten all of a piece. No messing. I believe that chocolate is the giver of life and a happy soul. I believe that chocolate is what they made Christmas for and that Chocolate bunnies had it coming to them. I believe in chocolate. And that it preceded human beings is obvious. There has always been chocolate since cave man times. Chocolate was brought here by another race called the Deliciosa’s. They were small and friendly and had chocolate buttons on their coats And saw how Earth was struggling and so. They gave us chocolate. They left a large cocoa pod for early man to find outside the cave One Christmas morning and we have never looked back. I believe in the Deliciosa’s and all they stood for. They knew we just might make it through if we had chocolate to fall back on. Whole mountains of it; whole babbling brooks of it; whole fountains of it. I believe in the truth of the crispy caramel bar and the hope hereafter Of always having a tube of Smarties or a Dime bar somewhere in easy reach. I believe that there is a good tomorrow for you and me , as long as We clap our hands – all together – and continue to believe in chocolate. The Holy Grail of it – the Swinging my legs on a Gate of It – The Deliciosa legacy of CHOCOLATE! • Helen Burke © 2012 |
|
|
The Moon is CryingIt seems a strange sort of night to any other. A night when friends can call to each other and remember, Hold each other close. We notice the moon is crying, tear by tear. The tears fall over the castle and down the hill. My eyes cannot see all of the picture, though the moon hangs low obligingly. Someone brings out the wine, we stir it with jasmine stems. The picture almost complete. Only my heart hangs back. Only my heart says wait. There are two moons tonight (the one watches the other). We bring nothing but ourselves to this silent space, why, the moon herself Has brought no more. She is a silver guardian, a panther that walks before and behind us. Which moon are we to believe ? Which moon is real?? - for, the moon never lies. We follow the braids of her long black hair. We ascend star by star, following her panther stride. We take each separate moon as we find her – in the root of a tree, In the hoot of an owl, in the thumbprint of dawn. This crying moon is the moon in truth – and tonight as ever – The moon never lies. • Helen Burke © 2011 |
|
|
Drawing DogsI have taken to drawing dogs. They have begun to seem more like people Than people. I feel more certain that they will Inherit the earth. I feel safer when a dog snarls Than when a person smiles. I can see them deciding not to think of all the answers Before they’ve eaten their dinner. I can see they’re not bothered if the post is late Or if they miss the bus to Fulham Broadway. Their faces do not pose when you look at them. (And then try and pretend that They’ve just seen you.) If they’re happy, they’re happy – and sad if they’re sad. If they got begging letters – They would answer all of them. In their heads, all of them are riding motorbikes Across France Without a cur in the world. And most brilliantly of all – they do not write poetry. I like dogs. • Helen Burke © 2011 |
|
|
|
|
|
The Russian Doll that was My MotherLike the Russian Doll we kept on the sideboard – That was you, mam. Foreign, exotic, that mysterious smile, unfathomable. Your exterior of certainty, so hard won, over years. (How many dolls since I saw you ?) For everyday, you used the first doll – she is tough and gruff. Sometimes on birthdays and at Christmas A second doll appears – kinder-eyed and softer. Then once — walking home – myself falling on the ice – A further doll still – one who held me tight and said – “My Lass. My Own Lass – You they Must Not Break.” And so we walked together on – through the dark-eyed storm. (How many dolls since I saw you?) That last doll, mam – her I never met nor even knew. But what strange mystery she had – I know I learned the trick from you. Dangerous the doll that gives too much away. How many dolls since we walked through the storm?? How many? How many dolls? … • Helen Burke © 2010 |
|
|
OwlsTonight, the moon is a river. A silver shadow whose face we admire. The moon turns the rivers pages like a book. Softly, the page turn, one by one. In the river ourselves, our faces, turning. Here, where the edges of trees frisk our shadows and trace the night shapes of houses – we are watching for owls. I am convinced they are near. It is only that the dark trees are hiding them It is only that the old boats are hiding them. The owls fly inside my own eyes – in and in, flying lower and lower. My thoughts become feathers. My dreams have no edges. Flight swallows me. I am owl and moon and river and night. The stars watch over me – the pulse of the water greets me, keens for me that I must watch here, so late. It is the hour for owls. I hear the slow beating of their coming. A train passes, holds the moon in each of its windows. Myself, I am held by the promise of owls. My throat holds a shadow, it grows and grows and from it flies the first of them. • Helen Burke © 2010 |
