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Beyond the Parasol: Selected Poems

by Stephen Leake

100 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0742; ISBN 1-4120-2914-7; US$15.00, C$17.00, EUR12.50, £9.00

In these intently observed poems, language becomes flesh and blood. Each scene is evanescent. The poems are mysteriously absorbing, eerie almost. Stephen Leake balances images and ideas... perfectly.

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about the book - from the author      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book - from the author The poems contained within Beyond the Parasol were all written in the period between September 2003 and May 2004. Originally I didn't intend to publish them; mainly because of their autobiographical nature (particularly the ones from 'Ten Minutes Only.') However, the book quickly seemed to shape itself and I thought I'd share the collection with a wider audience. The symbols and images I use tend to harness nature, the sea and observations of everyday people. I have tried to allow each poem to live in its language, using the imagery as a starting point. The title poem opens with a series of pictures, which expand as the poem develops until it disappears into its final line: 'Beyond. Beyond the parasol'. This line sets the scene for the entire collection. Mysteriously absorbing, it reminds us that there is a lot to be discovered in the changing world beyond the four walls we may live in - or, in the case of this poem, beyond the parasol in my own East-End back garden. My hope with this book is that it will be enjoyed and understood by the reader at whatever level. Much contemporary poetry can be pretentious and superficial. I believe this is not the case with this collection. I would like to think that the reader is taken on a journey around the many different aspects of life explored here. The poems are not just full of meaning. They are being themselves.

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About the Author Poet, writer and teacher Stephen Leake was born in Blackpool, Lancashire, England. He studied music at the City of Leeds College of Music and the Birmingham Conservatoire. After completing teacher training in 1992, he settled in London where he continues to live with his partner. Recognised as a 'Spotlight Poet' by the Forward Press earlier in 2004, he continues to write for various magazines and is an active member of The Poetry Society Of Great Britain. Stephen is currently working on his next volume of poems.

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Excerpts

Mahalia's Sunflower

Yellow, (loud with weeping), was
Your second choice.
You have it there. Beneath
Your flatly tuned smile
Which slides down your pencil.
You hear the voice somewhere behind
The aperture; guiding the light and your thoughts.

Your black eyes heed the pre-seeded spirals
Which carve their own, tight circumferences.
Drugged on a limb, you find a lost leaf.
You work to lift it to your own page.
Momentarily your ripening thoughts flutter to the window
And back to the lead. Settling.

You track and work the grain to life;
Strip the petals from your glass mind.
And smudge each potent sepal into itself.
Then, hand it in. A simple, searching stencil, on
Life.

You turn away,
Scrutinize the window and humourless January rain
And catch your flower.
Flapping on a print
Behind a closed door.
On the skyline.

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Closing Time

There's no message here in the park's
Rented silence. Just a scene.
The ineffectual air toys with itself
Discreetly, in purple corners.

Land lies closed.
The shadows are giving up;
Grass becomes hard with frost,
And brittle adolescence.

Domestic complexities have
Worked overtime. Gone beyond the rails.
A grey child ambles with a sceptical dog.
The regular man with his night-bags
Steals a bench.

These allegiances will always continue.
But now, a dusky cough draws up beyond this place,
And the space where love and loyalties
Slide, makes way.

For tomorrow's key.

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Night-Sight

Three a.m. I find myself
In response to the whispering

Welcome of night. Away from
Sightless injustice. On standby,

So to speak. My back, tight
Against the day's frame

Tasting now the night fronds
With their wordless thoughts.

I sit on the step where, my own
Shadow is a point of view.

Observed by the welcoming moon
And soft, acrid kiss of the

Respiring ash. I slow down. Slow
With the casual clouds, honest as

Dust-jackets on this nocturnal shelf.
The challenging throat of a robin

Acknowledges my freedom. This wealth
(Without forethought or bleakness)

Continues to sing.
Without grief.

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Risk-Take

Behind closed lids you'll see the route;
The pristine coastal road
No longer impassable.
Drive out from the cranium's snow and
Park by your motionless sea.
Let go. Breathe tenacity
Like the premature beech leaf, (self torn),
Tackling the white-wind...

Raise a hand to the decaying, compacted
Streets, with their flashing murderous lights;
Steer swiftly through these perplexed routes of
(Seeming) normality, sheltered under one
Disgruntled roof.

Then discontinue. Reflect.
Observe your Sunday supplement home,
Your modest boat, moored in middle- England
And stare them both out, like a crumpled stray.

It's your 'now or never' moment.
The provincial sky is falling fast.
Take it now. Go. Or your today will remain today.

And your tomorrow also.

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Catalogue Information

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