Glenn Hubbard lives in Madrid, where he teaches an English which is often rather ugly. Perhaps for this reason he started writing poetry.
He has had work published in a large number of online and paper journals. One of his poems was submitted for the Forward Prize
in 2019 and this year he won the Bangor Literary Journal’s FORTY WORDS competition with his poem Thirlage. He can occasionally
become a little obsessive about a poem but this is amply compensated for the marvelous experience of losing all sense of time while
he writes. His poetry owes a great deal to that of the late R.F. Langley.
East Lothian Lashed
The storm raged all night, the spirits of sailors drowned in the Firth of Forth rattling window panes, pleading to come in, sensing the presence of their mothers, burdened with regret and apology, seeking forgiveness and blessing. In the morning roofs wreathed in seaweed, jackdaws ransacking the drying, fly-infested fronds for sea slugs while below crows skipped up paths to peck at jellyfish impaled on hybrid tea rose bushes. Lawns wore constellations of starfish and ponds were fleeted with flotsam and bottles that bobbed in the small waves made by the untrousered legs of schoolchildren sure to arrive late for assembly as they searched for crabs beneath the garden gnomes blown over the edges of favourite fishing spots and lying prone, rods still held in hand, on beds of resistant polyethylene, amongst slates, bin lids, and traumatised goldfish.
Tease In The Trees
Standing still, I am doing it right. Not walking into their spaces giving them a fright, the colour of the bum the only clue as they fly away. Crows make a row. Cows moo behind the wall, where I stood that day staring at a thicket, recording something in it, for A. A jay. A hawfinch gives me the beady. Highly mobile long-tailed tits do not hang about, come and go. Wrens stage Rigoletto. Now this tiny sip somewhere. Up there. Something sitting very still it seems. Something not wanting to be seen she might say. Come away! All branches bare. Nowhere to hide. But my eyes grow tired as nothing stirs while insisting - persistent sibilance - on its existence. Lichen is a distraction. Its puzzle pieces. This is squamulose. Fabulous. Why don’t they see? Again! Like a mouse that squeak. They can live for six weeks on a bar of soap. I am not giving up hope. But cracks are showing. Not knowing creeping onto the agenda. I miss her - her strong will to end this obstinacy, turn and take my hand, lead me off - shoulders back! - for love or tea.
Perhaps she is one of them, the sad-faced woman crossing the park with her shopping bag, seeming to lag behind a life always disappearing around the corner, leaving the park now before her. Perhaps her bag contains a hearty, heart-friendly lunch she will eat alone, an iced cake she will not cut in half with care to share, there in her kitchen where, sitting at the window, she will watch, maybe, a fat pigeon eating the seed from the feeder she fills each morning for smaller birds. Perhaps, beside the shopping, she popped in some jolly join-us! leaflets she picked up in the porch of the local church, wondering if it would matter if she feigned faith, sure she could still remember the words. Perhaps she carries books from the library, hoping they will steal her attention, leave the ticking clock unaccompanied in the hours before it will be time to open the bottle she could have in her bag, its screw top reminding her of the corks on that Spanish holiday. Perhaps, inside that bag, is the TV-guide where she will highlight, in bright colours, everything that she does not want to miss.