The House Exhaled

By Julie G. Fox

'The House Exhaled' is a collection of poetry by Julie G. Fox.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Percival Guildhouse Poets
• Release date: Feb 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311056030

Julie G. Fox

Bilingual Russian & English poet and writer

Book preview

Departures

Not the signs with bold arrows

but the eyes show you the way,

the anxiety, the fear, the intensity,

all lead to ‘Departures’,

at LHR or any other three-lettered airport,

where population is divided

into those who leave

and those who yearn for the last hug,

with the trickle of uniformed faces

eyeing the two with suspicious boredom.

Early Memory

My hand stretched high through the air

holding someone else’s hand,

everything and everyone too tall,

except for the white chickens,

popping their heads through the wire;

the sounds and smells of cows,

with no sight of anything

but the thick yellow straws of grass

slapping my cheeks.

Engagement

I had other offers,

but I chose you.

Perhaps it was the time.

Twenty-four and broken-hearted.

Again.

Perhaps it was the setting.

In the sports car. Mine.

Under the smashed streetlights.

Your neighbourhood.

Perhaps it was the mood.

Heavy-hearted. Me.

Light-headed. You.

Perhaps it was the burn-out.

And fatigue.

The other twenty-four who came before you

just wore me out.

Family Tree

I will scan, retouch, sharpen and paste

the best shots on the leafy branches.

I will make sure everyone is under thirty,

with no grey hairs,

worry lines,

or sadness in their eyes.

I will name every great-grandfather,

grandfather, uncle and son,

their spouses and siblings,

name but not date.

It will be a very different tree,

green and dense,

with everyone alive and smiling;

with every child

carrying the names

of their young ancestors

into eternity,

as high as the branches can reach,

until the sun kisses

the youngest of us

on the forehead.

For Enno

It's the hunch of the road,

and the nod of the silver tree,

and the sour taste of the bread

freckled with slippery sesame.

Dressed

in a burnt red,

carefree

two-year-old,

counting jumpy steps

through bended roads

stoned and cobbled,

twisting a warmed key

on a frayed shoelace,

towering orange pennies

on an ice-cream lady's pane...

painfully

perilous

days

passed by gently kneeling

in