Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

I first met Linda Smith in 1970, when I moved down to Falmouth to live with Peter Redgrove. Linda had been a student at Falmouth College of Art, and her husband Ron Smith was Peter’s colleague there. Our friendship really took off in 1976, when we were both expecting first babies.

We very soon discovered we were on the same wavelength, both being shy people – speaking for myself, I didn’t always find it easy to make friends. But Linda and I very soon became close friends. Our friendship has been an anchor in my life. We were always able to talk at a deep level, about hopes, worries, all the ups and downs of life, and yet also able to enjoy a real old Falmouth gossip – but in a good way!

Some women friends lose touch with one another once their children have grown up, but Linda and I became even closer. We talked about music, as Linda directed more of her energies into her wonderful music making; she played flute, keyboard and piano accordion, and was a familiar figure in Falmouth’s main street, busking outside Marks and Spencers, playing Irish tunes. She’d regale me with accounts of her visits to the Willy Clancy Festival in County Clare, in Ireland. We talked about gardening – Linda had much greener fingers than I! We talked about art, and I marvelled at Linda’s wonderful pictures, often based upon her dreams. We talked about poetry, novels we were reading, walks we’d been on, about nature, and the various aspects of every season – how many lovely afternoons we’ve spent in her apple-tree garden, talking and musing…

Over the past few years I’ve had the joy and excitement of reading Linda’s poems, and of seeing her confidence and strength and vision as a poet grow. Poetry, alongside her music, became a major creative commitment. But Linda’s innate modesty kept her from showing her poetry to people. I would say to her – you are hiding your light under a bushel, Linda!

In July 2008, just before Linda went into hospital, she said to me, quietly,

                   Penny, will you look after my poems?

                   Yes, I said, I will.

Linda knew then how ill she was, and she bore her illness with grace, fortitude, and wisdom.

She wrote me a letter last summer, in which she said –

I do feel very much supported by the thoughts and prayers of many people. I didn’t know how powerful that feeling of grace could be. The odd thing is that most of the people don’t know each other, yet there they are, drawing from the powers that be, and sending that love to me… I am just amazed, and really humbled. Is this how the
world works?

Linda died from a brain tumour in November last year. I miss her more than I can say. I treasure her poems. Here are two of them:

14th January 2007 Spring

The day drains its beauty into the bowl
which night holds out collecting light
blue the colour of darkening silk
in folds between pure hills of shadow
like bedding; a moment later and a moment later
day waits, each day a little more.

Sunset’s red has painted the alders
purple, reddened the birch, dipped the reeds
in pink, and we’ve trodden a path
leading from sky to darkness, all mystery
along the flooded river, a goose swimming.

And I can’t get enough of light, enough of sun,
enough hours to work and hours to rest,
and every scent is beautiful, and each gem
sparkles in simplicity, dances with ideas;
of paths to take, journeys to plan.
Light and spring and evening astound me so.

Untitled (written 11th March 2008)

My tea has lost its flavour, but a wren
intoxicates the air with a silver peal.

After the gale, a silent drizzle falls.
Only the bird’s song, like a single pearl,

represents the poise of a beginning.
You will come through to start another life,

though it must seem the hardest thing
for you to stand alone. After the storm.