Below are some examples of poetry and fiction by Rachel Kerr...

POETRY	FICTION
A Morrocan Waiter in Lanzarote Gloves Food for Thought Decree Absolute Not the Country Grandma's	Coda

 

A Morrocan Waiter in Lanzarote

Not a young boy, a man,
hair curling grey, nose aqualine,
his right canine tooth crooked.
He wishes to come to England 

with me, with his degree in Geology
from Marrakesh, his desire to better himself
and his knowledge of proverbs, his good English.
His face is at pains to show he is serious;

he does not flirt, except to say I am sweet,
unlike my coffee. He tells me of the desert.
He has also been to Nijmegan and Bedford,
but Scotland would be cold, and wet,

and yet...

There is a dark heat here;
the earth is stone, pock-marked,
the weight of mountains disgorged
across the malpais.

Perhaps we could work together?
When you find the right person
it doesn't matter how small your house is,
if you belong together.

His eyes shine at mine
when I catch him out, refocus
on mirages beyond the parasoled horizon.
He frowns, romantically.

Camels climb the volcano's edge:
passengers oddly balanced.

Cross your bridges when you are ready, not before,
he nods, sagely, fingers indicating the journey
across the chequered tablecloth.
I understand why you choose to travel alone.

Tomorrow is my day off…

Rachel Kerr
Published in The Word issue 3, by York St John University, 2008  
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Gloves

Don’t lose them mind -
they’re good ones,
just the kind you asked for. 

Ice climbers
use them on glaciers,
scaling blue-white precipices
in British Colombia, shading
their eyes with them from summit sun
that bounces on snow on snow on snow
as they look across the flat expanse
to Vancouver, Alaska, the Pole. 

This pair’s for you, brought back specially.
I won’t admit the momentary gulp,
signing the slip in the outdoor shop.
Just take them. Use them.
Try not to lose them. Keep warm.

Rachel Kerr
Published in The Word issue 3, by York St John University, 2008
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Food for Thought

He told me about his spiritual journey,
his path less traveled to Morocco
and the Indian sub-continent,
his translations of Russian espionage
and his enlightenment,
how he’d written a book.

He remarked on the years between us,
explained how life was now the best –
his love of bookshop cafés –
leaned forward too much
and asked me to tell him about myself.
He talked about his ‘baggage’,

about never settling with anyone
since leaving his wife.
He walked through the door first,
he asked the waiter for chamomile tea,
kept mentioning the price
and ordered before me.

Rachel Kerr
Published in Piqué, by Templar Poetry, 2006
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Decree Absolute

I looked in the inside
of the inside of the Russian doll
on the spare room windowsill
(you bought it, all too late)
released the ring that’s hidden there
and thought about small kindnesses,
the smell of work,
your car that used to be your Dad’s
sinking into our back yard,
blocking out the sun,
oozing slow oil.

Rachel Kerr
Published in Raindog, by Panshine Press, 2002
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Not the country

You walk round the lake in the park.
Again. First down the hill, skidding
in new mud that’s hidden
beneath Astroturf green. This hill
is so perfect it’s almost real countryside.

Then round the top end,
thick with trees and leaf mould.
The stakes across the skinny stretch
are mostly bare, the birds that used to sit
like hunched old men on Sunday benches
are not there. Africa, probably.

At the dam it’s people,
wide open, the town obvious
and too real at its dirty,
crisp packet edges.

Instead of the easy tarmac,
you follow the mud path.
Back one more time to kid yourself
and up the hill again.

Rachel Kerr
Published in Smiths Knoll issue 26, 2001
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Grandma’s

It was the front room piano,
the downstairs bed.
It was the prunes and custard,
the backscratcher with matching shoehorn
hung by the fire.

It was the Singer sewing machine,
the sidestepped invitation
to stay the night, the not quite right
hand made present -
soap and flannel in a case.

It was the ginger wine
sipped from the jewel bright snifter glass,
the upstairs ballerina,
pirouettes returning in the mirrors
on the music box lid.

It was the door
at the bottom of the stairs,
the comb holding her hair up
and the disbelief at the photograph -
doing the splits.

Rachel Kerr
Published in Smiths Knoll issue 24, 2000
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