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Rosalind Hudis
Rosalind Hudis

Rosalind Hudis is a Wales based poet and co-editor of The Lampeter Review. Her work has been widely published and has won several awards. Her début pamphlet, Terra Ignota, was published by Rack Press in 2013 and her first full collection, Tilt, was published by Cinnamon Press in November 2014.

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Rosalind Hudis Poetry

From Tilt by Rosalind Hudis (Cinnamon Press - October 2014)



Seasons May Resist Origami            



We conjured their shape,

a symmetry

like folded napkins, above


the heads of all evidence.

We wanted to shake them out

for our children, as keepsakes:


the way you'd smell snow

before it fell, the length of cold

to unroll before spring.


Sometimes they'd play retro

turns for the twist of it: once

iced roped our hair as we tied


the gulf

between blizzard

and door. My sister


in Boulder

flicks a text like a trick

of mind: they are watering


roses in December

in such heat. It settles

like a new brand of loss.





Oil in Blue



Outside this room it's summer, but Dad paints

snow, over everything, and most of it blue.

I climb the scarp of his back, peering in.


He's left all the people out, though roofs lock

together like the wall-mind of victims.

The traffic light is a red nerve, the street dead


end, no stilled cars. You'd find it hard

to move down the bone-white streaks of path

among all that blueness. There are windows


lit; I beat Dad's neck and ask him

what the people are doing, the people he lit.

I don't yet understand each room


is a past tense, has lost its keys, its hot cells 

guttering out, one after one.






The Women of my Childhood



as I veer out of the fog

of play in a brick-deaf yard,

back through a kitchen door,

are always bending

away into another act.


Their hands vanish into bowls

that loom like chapels,

or raise a coal bucket,

or wring dry the space

words have walked out on.


It's always their backs

that meet me, the dissolving shape

of things just done, the reel of bones

under house-coats, phrase

chained to phrase, pulled


ahead as I reach to grip

a pocket, laundered and empty

of the side-tracks a man might keep:

a dice, a coin, or pen-knife,

the glint, the leap, the cut.



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