{"id":2183,"date":"2016-10-03T20:06:58","date_gmt":"2016-10-04T00:06:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2183"},"modified":"2026-02-05T13:43:03","modified_gmt":"2026-02-05T18:43:03","slug":"ladies-of-puglia","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2183","title":{"rendered":"Poeti di Puglia"},"content":{"rendered":"

 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nThe Poets Puglia<\/strong> are six women from the UK who met up in an online workshop and, as one of them explains, “Just over a year ago I responded to a message on a forum in which Louise said she was traveling out to her trull in Italy and did anyone fancy making the trip a poetry retreat? Six of us went – articulate, self-motivated women of a certain age’ who hadn’t previously met… what could possibly go wrong?! We had an amazing and productive time. We’ve since met up again for a writing weekend at Susan’s oast house.”<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAngi Holden<\/a>
\nLaura Larchbourne<\/a>
\nMandy Macdonald<\/a>
\nMaggie Mackay<\/a>
\nFinola Scott<\/a>
\nSusan Castillo Street<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nAngi Holden<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHAT SUMMER
\n 
\nExams over, papers closed, we sauntered
\nthrough lemonade afternoons, read
\ndog-eared copies of The Mersey Beats,
\nfingers sticky with fresh-squeezed oranges.
\nWe listened to Ummagumma and Dark Side
\non his father\u2019s Bang & Olufsen, abandoned
\nour virginity between polycotton sheets,
\nmouths stained with raspberries.
\nWaited for results.
\n 
\n 
\nKNEADING
\n 
\nForehead pressed against the knot-holed door,
\nthe boy strains on tiptoe, watches the heave and turn of dough.
\nShe reaches forward, muscles tense; sweat dribbles
\ndown her neck, across her chest, into her cleavage.
\nShe wipes a floury hand across her brow, resumes her kneading;
\ntonight in the leavened bread he\u2019ll taste her salt.
\n 
\n 
\nOFFICE BOOK CLUB
\n 
\nCaught between the pages of the book
\nyou loaned me, a lover\u2019s note,
\nthe paper flecked with hasty ink.
\nNow when you gather up your Radley bag,
\nclose your door and head for home \u2013
\nyour pin-striped suit uncreased,
\nyou blouse still crisp and white \u2013
\nI see the tangle of your legs in his,
\nthe tumble of your loosened hair,
\nI hear your sudden cry, muffled
\nin the seasalt sweat around his neck.
\n 
\n 
\nTO THE GUY I MIGHT HAVE MARRIED
\n 
\nThank you for the note slipped under my door.
\nI found it in the morning; my fingers trembled
\nas I unfolded it. Even now I can see your writing,
\nthat familiar rolling script in royal blue ink.
\nI called by, but heard a guy\u2019s voice
\nso didn\u2019t knock. Sorry to have missed you.<\/i>
\nI\u2019m sorry too; sorry that you had to come back.
\nI hope the resits went well. Your approach
\nto physiology was always more practical
\nthan academic. You would have made
\na good teacher back then, before Ofsted.
\nI wonder how you coped when schemes of work
\nbecame more important than physical prowess
\nand looking the part on the cricket pitch.
\nYou will always be the most beautiful guy
\nI ever slept with. Know that, at least.
\nI hope he is kind to you \u2013 a better lover
\nthan I was. I hope you are happy.<\/i>
\nHe was, on both counts. Still is,
\nall these years later. And yes, I am.
\nHappier than if you\u2019d knocked that night
\nand found me alone. Wasn\u2019t I the accepter
\nof apologies and excuses, the dispenser
\nof second chances? Always the faithful type.
\nI hope you found the girl you thought
\nyou\u2019d found in me: the homemaker, the mother,
\nthe teacher\u2019s wife. I hope you are happy.
\nKnow this too: I feel no malice. For all the pain,
\nI feel only gratitude. On that cold October night
\nyou heard a guy\u2019s voice and turned away.
\n 
\n 
\nAFTER THE DINNER PARTY<\/i>*
\n 
\nA triangular table, seating thirty nine.
\nThe scientific, the artistic,
\nthe intellectual, all women gathered
\ntogether to break bread, share ideas.
\nBoudica and Elizabeth, strong queens both
\nin a man\u2019s world.
\nSappho and Dickinson, poets linked
\nby words, separated by centuries.
\nThe astronomer, the medic,
\nthe abolitionist.
\nAnd from the shadows, neither
\non the guest list, two sisters.
\nMary, hungry for this feast
\nof wisdom, perches on the table\u2019s lip,
\nleans in to hear Woolf discuss
\nthe influence of Modernism with O\u2019Keefe.
\nWhile lingering at the margins, knowing
\nshe\u2019ll be left with the washing-up,
\nMartha worries about the gravy already
\ndrying in the plates\u2019 labial folds.
\n 
\n* The Dinner Party <\/a> by feminist artist Judy Chicago
\n 
\n 
\nMATRIX
\n(after Firmament<\/i><\/a> by Antony Gormley)
\n 
\nHold fast
\nget a grip
\neach hollow cell grasps each
\nfears the gaps, the confined
\n spaces
\nthat can\u2019t be bridged, clutch
\nat top
\nsoil
\nMetal filaments shine
\nFragments take strength
\nfrom neighbours
\n 
\nAll angles, different faces,
\nfind their core
\n   deep
\nDistance defines
\nbreast to mouth to mouth
\nkneeling to suck
\nearth
\nconnected and separate
\nThe sum greater
\n 
\n 
\nMATRIX was previously published at Jupiter Artland<\/i><\/a>.
\n 
\n 
\nAngi Holden is a mature post-grad student and teacher of creative writing. Environmental and family landscapes are key to her work, much of which explores relationships and identity. Her poetry and fiction has been published in a range of online and print anthologies for both children and adults and in 2015 she co-edited the National Flash Fiction Day anthology.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLouise Larchbourne<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGOING
\n 
\nMaking your eyes spears, you bring me down.
\nHand over hand hot soft we climb the ladder of we,
\nthe ladder disappears we are fire eating each other with everything and grace
\nsuch detailed grace, the signatures of flame.
\nEyes raising eyes, mouth mouth, belly belly long ago your warm wet cock became my engine
\nair air, two voices drawing signs in it a long way off;
\nIn the fire I have become a new,
\nintelligence
\nunknown before,
\ndifferent than youandme, but is
\nbecoming only light.
\n 
\nAnd then.
\n 
\nWe go back clean,
\nour bodies boats at anchor
\nall but still.
\n 
\n 
\nLouise Larchbourne is also an actor, an editor, and a sometime lexicographer. First published a long time ago in the West Midlands, as a \u2018local poet\u2019 in Birmingham she explored the distinctions between poetry for reading and poetry for performance. She was one of the poets invited to contribute to the new anthology For Jeremy Corbyn<\/i>. One of her poems is included in the collection The Very Best of 52<\/i> and another in the newly published Oxford Backroom Poets\u2019 anthology, Infinite Riches<\/i>. She is on the editorial team of The Fat Damsel<\/i>, and runs \u2018Ekphrasis Poetry at the Museum\u2019, a series of themed readings in situ of selected work inspired by exhibits at the Ashmolean in Oxford. She has a trullo in Puglia. <\/a>
\n 
\nBack to the Ladies<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMandy Macdonald<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIN A DREAM OF FALLING
\n 
\nendlessly repeated
\ni slip
\nhelpless down the scooped col, smooth
\nas though you had been shaped by glaciation, curving
\njust there
\nbetween throat-hollow and shoulder
\ndelicate and immense, nothing to break my
\nfall
\n 
\nif you would let me stop, i might
\ncurl up there and sleep
\nlike wildcat or foxcub in your hollows, or set out
\n(tiny, brave in the distance)
\na cataloguer of mirages and treacherous slopes
\nacross your skin\u2019s trackless dunes
\n 
\nbut there is no stopping
\nno journey, no shelter, no exquisite
\ncalligraphy of footprints
\njust the fall for ever
\n 
\n 
\nHOLIDAY ROMANCE
\n 
\nit\u2019s like this
\nquite simple really
\ni fancied you
\ni thought i did
\nat any rate i couldn\u2019t forget the movement
\nof your hands on my back, my
\ncunt & your simultaneous
\nmouth travelling my whole landscape
\nthe way you came up over my
\nbody like the sun
\nbut then i knew i didn\u2019t fancy you
\njust the way you made love
\nor possibly the finegrained
\nhardness of you, like the
\nwhite & rose & russet marble stratified
\nabove the beach we swam at
\n 
\nmaybe i did fancy you
\nbut i don\u2019t like you
\ni\u2019m sure about that, just
\nas i\u2019m sure
\nyou don\u2019t like me
\neven though we did fuck
\n3 times in the tent on the wasteground on the dunes
\nin the hearing of the sea
\nhard & passionate
\n& long
\nscratching the fresh sunburn
\nnice you having a dress on
\n(what were you thinking of?)
\n& your hands under it
\n& my spine lifting to meet
\nyou as though suspended
\nfrom the ridgepole
\n 
\naway in the sunstruck distance
\nthe wild dogs
\nkeening
\n 
\n 
\nUNREPENTANT
\n 
\nYou were in the house with her
\nthat night
\nstill my husband, still my house;
\nI, an exile,
\ndrawn back home after closing time, alone,
\n 
\nand there was a red light, for god\u2019s sake,
\na red light in the front bedroom
\n(how was I to know
\nit was the children\u2019s nightlight?)
\n 
\nThat rusty bike seat was in the garden,
\namong the weeds, bound for the tip.
\nI saw the red light.
\nI saw red.
\nI threw the thing. The window shattered.
\nThe noise was tremendous.
\nI fled round the corner, triumphant,
\nraging, laughing,
\ncrowing, howling.
\n 
\nThe next day you phoned:
\n\u2018The weirdest thing happened last night: someone
\nchucked that old bike seat through the front window.\u2019
\n\u2018Really? That\u2019s terrible! Did they break in?\u2019
\nDidn\u2019t miss a beat.
\n 
\n 
\nAN INVITATION
\n 
\nTo what shall I invite you, sweetest friend?
\nTo dine? Ah, I remember, long ago,
\nbanquets at one another\u2019s houses, when
\nwe\u2019d make a feast of anything at all.
\n 
\nBeneath the kitchen light-bulb\u2019s goat-eyed glare
\nwe sliced and stirred and tasted, side by side;
\nyour wrists, escaping from unbuttoned cuffs,
\nwere pale as pearl, and nearly broke my heart.
\n 
\nWell, this is not the love I wanted then,
\nbedazzled by your beauty and your youth.
\nNow patient time has taught my passion sense,
\nhas schooled me to distinguish love from love.
\n 
\nLet\u2019s drink, then, to the serene love of friends,
\nWhich weathers pain and tears, and never ends.
\n 
\n 
\nMandy Macdonald is proud to belong to the honourable company of those the English journalist Oliver Thring has memorably called \u2018deranged poetesses\u2019 (#derangedpoetess)<\/a>. She is Australian and lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, trying to make sense of the 21st century. Music, poetry, good wine and gardening keep her sane. Her poems appear in print and online, for instance in Outlook Variable<\/i> (Grey Hen Press, 2015), Poetry Scotland, The Fat Damsel, Snakeskin, Triadae<\/i>, the Maligned Species Project, and elsewhere. She was shortlisted in the 2015 Wells Poetry Festival. The rest of the time, she sings.<\/a>
\n 
\nBack to the Ladies<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMaggie Mackay<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCHILI PEPPER
\n 
\nHern\u00e1n Cort\u00e9s gasps.
\n     His tongue vibrates in the liquid\u2019s pulse;
\nfluted red, pepper slices burst over his mouth.
\n   The lobes swell, stuffed with gunpowder fury
\n \u2013their flames scream flamenco swirl
\nthe swell of her hips
\n      on Spanish nights, long ago,
\nthe heave of jasmine and orange\u2026
\n 
\n       He explodes. Heat, heat, so deep.
\nAs she stamps, knuckles hit tables in time,
\n   the rhythm explodes and peaks;
\nmembranes soaked in garlic oil
\n     yield fleshy parts fuelled with rapid-fire
\nstaccato cracks of Palomino whip.
\n 
\nA full circle skirt spins, has him reeling.
\nOle! Jaleo!    Then pedicured fingers strum, strum,
\n   hum, finish him off in the stomach with a punch
\n fiercer than the peppers of the Caucasus.
\n 
\n 
\nTHE HOPPERS, NEW YORK CITY
\n 
\nYou pull me up from my painting stool,
\nmaddening woman with your splash of noise.
\nThe music gets to me, so I cave in.
\nThree times we dance around this tiny space
\nin silent swirls and turns and contra checks
\nto the frivolous swish of this Strauss waltz
\npast piles of cans and coal and the unheated stove,
\nmy hand splayed on your narrow back, and flexed.
\nYou are surprised I\u2019m this light on these feet
\nand your fine legs, made famous by my art,
\nlet me lead, bird-wife, three tiger hiss,
\ndrive us, fixed in close circular motion,
\nour fights parked up, this truce unspoken.
\nDamn.
\n 
\n 
\nMaggie Mackay is a bravehearted Scot and a final year MA poetry student at Manchester Metropolitan University with work in various print and online publications including Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter\u2019s House, Bare Fiction, Obsessed with Pipework, The Fat Damsel<\/i> and Three Drops from a Cauldron<\/i>. <\/a>
\n 
\nBack to the Ladies<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFinola Scott<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAVALANCHE
\n 
\nI fall loosen
\nslide in
\nto you let go
\ntoppling in
\nto your heat slipping
\nreckless sinking
\nmy softness meets
\nsolid you melts
\nhelpless I don\u2019t know where
\n youbegin&iend
\ncocooned in our cave
\nI dissolve
\ndrifts of desire engulf
\nI\u2019m buried blinded
\nin you
\n 
\n 
\nTRADE DESCRIPTION
\n 
\nBathing alone
\nI finish the rich gel<\/i> you bought for a treat.
\nAt first the velvet liquid<\/i> froths.
\nFor one sweet moment it caresses<\/i>.
\nPerky bubbles blink and wink
\nthen plop and burst sagging
\nsticky wetness on my legs.
\n 
\nThe golden shower of oil, once
\ncaring and nurturing<\/i> like you,
\nhas lost its gentle touch<\/i>.
\nIt fails to smooth rough patches<\/i>
\nor tease shy nipples.
\nI shiver and let the spray wash the silk away
\nno longer savouring the pampering<\/i>.
\n 
\nToo late I realise
\nThe label promises more than we did.
\n 
\n 
\nTAPAS
\n 
\nWhat to choose?<\/i>
\nLush moist bites
\nWhere to start? <\/i>
\nHot spicy morsels
\nThen what?<\/i>
\nVelvety smooth nibbles
\nWhat next? <\/i>
\nSalty treats
\nspread for our delight
\npleasures for the sharing
\nAmuse bouche<\/i>
\nSweet nothings
\nSilky titbits
\nAmuse toi<\/i>
\nFlavours savoured
\nAmuse moi<\/i>
\n 
\n  
\nGlaswegian Finola Scott’s poems and short stories are widely published in anthologies and magazines including The Ofi Press, Hark, The Lake<\/i>. She is pleased to be mentored this year on the Clydebuilt Scheme by Liz Lochead, Scotland’s Makar. A performance poet, she is chuffed to be a slam-winning granny.<\/a>
\n 
\nBack to the Ladies<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Castillo Street<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTARANTELLA
\n 
\nWe walk down to the village
\nand into a different world,
\nsix ladies of a certain age,
\n 
\nstroll through a rainbow arch of neon light
\nCrowds swirl. A circle forms.
\nThe men and women grab our hands
\n 
\nand sweep us in. We whirl
\nin tarantella wheel,
\nfeel the percussion in our bones,
\n 
\nthrow caution to the winds,
\nbare pale white necks to grinning moon,
\nreach avid for bright bursts of stars.
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Castillo Street is Harriet Beecher Stowe Professor Emerita, King\u2019s College, University of London. She has published three collections of poems, The Candlewoman’s Trade<\/i> (Diehard Press, 2003), Abiding Chemistry,<\/i> (Aldrich Press, 2015), and Constellations<\/i> (Three Drops Press, 2016), as well as several scholarly monographs and edited anthologies. Her work has appeared in Southern Quarterly, Prole, The High Window, Ink Sweat & Tears, Messages in a Bottle, The Missing Slate, Clear Poetry, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Foliate Oak, The Yellow Chair Review<\/i>, and other journals and anthologies.
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

            The Poets Puglia are six women from the UK who met up in an online workshop and, as one of them explains, “Just over a year ago I responded to a message on a forum in which Louise said she was traveling out to her trull in Italy and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":39,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2183","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nPoeti di Puglia -<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2183\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Poeti di Puglia -\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"            The Poets Puglia are six women from the UK 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