At the Station For a moment, the sharp smell of roasting coffee is like tobacco, a time when the air in public places floated carcinogenic blue and men in overalls, forebears of the two who are passing me now, would give off a dark industrial reek, as if they were fume-pickled. One of them could be my Grandpa, the dry, pencil-shaving sweat-scent of his flannel … Continue reading ‘At the Station’ by Imogen Forster
Dancer after ‘Girl Ballerina’ by Yinka Shonibare I am buttoned, tailored, piped, the tight fit of the colonist’s clothes round my slim child’s waist. Net and frills, my costume’s a good girl’s party dress. Am I a welcome guest or a blackface clown? I give nothing away. I am a dancer’s body in little cotton shoes. I am a sister to Marie, the wax … Continue reading A poem by Imogen Forster
Damascus, August 2013 The dead lie in neat rows, each wrapped in a shroud bunched above the head, tied with a thick cord, their faces exposed like old John Donne’s in the engraving made for his monument. It’s easy to slide away from the cold fact, mind-wandering in sudden recognition, seeing them as those dusty figures we passed in some cool cathedral. But … Continue reading A poem by Imogen Forster
