stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 20157
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2019-07-11 16:27:19
    [post_date_gmt] => 2019-07-11 16:27:19
    [post_content] => “It appears to me impossible that I should cease to exist, or that this active, restless spirit, equally alive to joy & sorrow, should only be organised dust … sometimes, when the sea was calm, I was amused by disturbing young star fish which floated just below the surface.” – Mary Wollstonecraft

In the waves I see my body and his, the coast
the crags, all the cliff-clinging flowers that grow
through willpower alone, defying reason.
In the spume I see my shoulder blades, the place
where I rolled up against the door and wouldn’t move,
a comma, a breath, the power of my lungs and tongue.

I haven’t seen anything like it since Paris, where the streets
flooded with glass, blooded with freedom. I tasted it there.
The atomies in the air are tarred with sunlight, a shoal of fish
pulsing into the shape of a larger future. That is fraternity.

The women on the shore showed me how to do it,
how to bandage my babe to my body, to wear her
like a talisman. Her little sharp nails make moons of my skin
as we crest the waves or cleave the waves, as I pull herring
after pickled herring from the jar like a metaphor for Parisian silver.

I swear by the starfish at my fingertips: my shoulders are hers,
this fresh blue is hers, all this howling eternity – hers. My daughter.

The wind shatters my face and, alive, I do not look to see how beautiful she is.
    [post_title] => On the Skagerrak Sea, with child
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
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    [post_name] => on-the-skagerrak-sea-with-child
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    [post_modified] => 2019-10-18 10:12:20
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2019-10-18 10:12:20
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    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=20157
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    [post_type] => poems
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    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2019
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN), written and judged by Bee Rowlatt of the Mary on the Green campaign.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, Mary Wollstonecraft challenge
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
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    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 18987
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Ellora Sutton
            [slug] => ellora-sutton
            [content] => Ellora is the first-prize winner of the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Mari Hughes-Edwards, and celebrating Duffy's legacy as Poet Laureate. She is also the first-prize winner of Bailey Blackburn's 2018 August challenge #2 on found poems. Ellora is also the second-prize winner in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019.

Ellora is commended in: the 2019 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard; the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge, written and judged by Bee Rowlatt of the Mary on the Green campaign; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; the Golden Shovel challenge, judged by Peter Kahn; the Bletchley Park challenge, judged by So Mayer; the W. S. Graham challenge judged by Rachael Boast as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations; and Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK.

Her work has been published by The Cardiff Review, Blue Marble Review and Nightingale & Sparrow among others. She was commended in the Winchester Poetry Prize.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 18987
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Ellora Sutton
    [slug] => ellora-sutton
    [content] => Ellora is the first-prize winner of the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Mari Hughes-Edwards, and celebrating Duffy's legacy as Poet Laureate. She is also the first-prize winner of Bailey Blackburn's 2018 August challenge #2 on found poems. Ellora is also the second-prize winner in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019.

Ellora is commended in: the 2019 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard; the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge, written and judged by Bee Rowlatt of the Mary on the Green campaign; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; the Golden Shovel challenge, judged by Peter Kahn; the Bletchley Park challenge, judged by So Mayer; the W. S. Graham challenge judged by Rachael Boast as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations; and Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK.

Her work has been published by The Cardiff Review, Blue Marble Review and Nightingale & Sparrow among others. She was commended in the Winchester Poetry Prize.
)

On the Skagerrak Sea, with child

Ellora Sutton

“It appears to me impossible that I should cease to exist, or that this active, restless spirit, equally alive to joy & sorrow, should only be organised dust … sometimes, when the sea was calm, I was amused by disturbing young star fish which floated just below the surface.” – Mary Wollstonecraft

In the waves I see my body and his, the coast
the crags, all the cliff-clinging flowers that grow
through willpower alone, defying reason.
In the spume I see my shoulder blades, the place
where I rolled up against the door and wouldn’t move,
a comma, a breath, the power of my lungs and tongue.

I haven’t seen anything like it since Paris, where the streets
flooded with glass, blooded with freedom. I tasted it there.
The atomies in the air are tarred with sunlight, a shoal of fish
pulsing into the shape of a larger future. That is fraternity.

The women on the shore showed me how to do it,
how to bandage my babe to my body, to wear her
like a talisman. Her little sharp nails make moons of my skin
as we crest the waves or cleave the waves, as I pull herring
after pickled herring from the jar like a metaphor for Parisian silver.

I swear by the starfish at my fingertips: my shoulders are hers,
this fresh blue is hers, all this howling eternity – hers. My daughter.

The wind shatters my face and, alive, I do not look to see how beautiful she is.