Category Archives: Eileen Whiting

Eileen Whiting’s writing

A Poem for the Misbegiven

“Hide it in the wardrobe?8 “No, the catch springs loose”. “In the airing-cupboard?8 “Think of towels, you goose”. “What about the freezer? Or the oven, at the back?”. “And get it cracked or frozen? The stupid thing would crack”. “Well, … Continue reading

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The Time is Now

In every attic, garage and spare room They pile up week by week in dusty gloom; The CDs, videos, tape$ you’ll never hear, Recorded 12th of January last year One rainy Wednesday afternoon you’ll play Three or four or more … Continue reading

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Leisure

“Hello Celia, glad you caught me, Usual race against the dock. Have to house-sit till the nineteenth, Gloria’s in the Languedoc. How is George, and how was skiing? Oh dear, never mind, he’ll mend. I know – sits there watching … Continue reading

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The Hungry Ear

When I go down to the High Street, It isn’t just food that I seek, For my ear, too, goes shopping – for language, Bengali, Italian or Greek. Soft Chilean-Spanish in shoe shops, Glaswegian, implosive and frank, And sentences stretched … Continue reading

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Ethelfledda’s Dream

In dreams I often seem to be Back in Tamworth town, Watching ail my people As they travel up and down. But this dream plunged me forward The scene I cannot read, The town is clogged with buildings Around a … Continue reading

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What Ever Happened?

What ever happened to filing? Did technology sweep it away? Once a mound of flimsy pink copies Kept the junior happy all day. What ever happened to juniors, Who learnt office ways at your knee? You could send them out … Continue reading

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The Search in the Wood

It isn’t the darkness we’ve come to find As we walk into the wood, It isn’t the smell of the fallen leaves Though the smell of the leaves is good; It isn’t the feel of the hornbeam’s bark Or the … Continue reading

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Winter Lover

I love everything wintery; Like morning’s frosty pane’s filigree, Black skeletons of trees realised, Blue shadows in the ice crystallised; the strobic-flashing, white, packed-down snow, The low, red, winter sun’s heatless glow. Harsh conditions spell A regime, Elements all swing … Continue reading

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