Victor Tapner
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Flatlands

Picture
 An ambitious sequence of prize-winning poems, Flatlands unearths a living world from East Anglia's prehistory. Steeped in the imagery of windswept marshland and the smoke of the round house, the
poems' stark forms evoke the voices of
flint miners, tribal warriors and the violence and turmoil as Boudica's army rises up against Roman rule. Exploring
universal themes – love and
infidelity, bereavement and
sometimes murderous hatreds –
Flatlands holds a mirror to ourselves.
  

SALT PUBLISHING



Thames Idol

​A scarred hand carved my buttocks

scraped my spine
made thin hips to cup a man

I stood at the back of a quiet hut
In famine they brought me food
in spring they sang for rain

At last they gave me to the river
a bigger god than I
Earth pressed my breasts

Now I cheat the rot of leaves
Black water fills my eyes
frost cracks my grained flesh

Your hand will draw me from the mud
Find me in your own time
find me in your own face

Day Graves

Axes of antler
ox-bone scoops
spring and summer
on our bellies
down here stripping flint

the sky passes

Chalk-torn faces
splinters chip our eyes
breath sore
dragging bags
of rock and rubble

our raw tomb opens

Picks clack
a half-blind curse
a cough a clot of grit
walls seep
a roof crack loosens

the tunnel listens

Sun high the ladder
sheep-curd milk and bread
spring and summer
fields of fresh light

below a crawl
to the day’s last stone


Villagers

A stone clutched
in mutton fingers 

my thick knuckles
grind poor corn
 

I squat in the sun
outside the hut 

by the river path
where I used to run
 

Oakleaf water
soaks my pain 

my daughter rubs
my knees
with nettle balm

Sayer

The hearth is hushed

strange faces in firelight

men rest against the wattle walls
ale weary
their bellies heavy with feasting

To them
who see no farther than their fields
the same trees leafing in spring

my head is full of treasure
my mouth rich with gemstones

I’m a sharpened axe on an enemy’s neck
an arrow singing in sunlight
a sword’s arc in the wooded night

I earn the first meat from the flesh hook
the best bed in the round house

I trade with my tongue

a thatcher of stories
farmer of words

Homestead to homestead
I walk the sky’s edge

an ear to the river’s chatter

the kestrel’s cry

the sighs of fenland trees
crippled in the wind


Boudica's Brooch

We slid in blood
on the rutted cobbles 

our knives flashed
in the fine rain 

storehouse and shop torched
men split like grain bags 

their whores scattering with rats
as my army gutted
the brick town 

By the hearth’s dim glow
I polish this brooch
the last reflection
of what I was 

mother
a woman of rank
consort to a king 

Drunk on the hillside
my men fear the fire
of a widow’s rage 

Moon and darkness
dawn and light 

today I will sear
these grey fields
the cold flesh
of our kingdom 

Mine the hand
to flay the legions 

I fasten my mantle
as the hot wind takes me



SALT PUBLISHING
http://www.saltpublishing.com/collections/author-tapner-victor/products/flatlands-9781844715565