Jill Wallis

Jill is an occasional poet, who has found that poetry is the natural genre for her when she has something pressing to say. Having worked in education for many years, much of her poetry has been in the form of satirical songs to be sung at end of term sessions when catharsis is required. The Government in recent years has helpfully provided a wealth of topics and stimuli for the satirist’s pen, and often laughing at the more outrageous decrees is the only way to avoid despair! 

More recently, however, personal events have become the focus of Jill’s poetry, following the death of her husband from a brain tumour in 2004 at the age of 48. What started as an attempt to exorcise some demons and get rid of some of the memories and feelings which were making it hard to move on, became in the end a collection of poetry which won the Littoral Magazine Poetry prize in 2005, resulting in  its publication as ‘Dialogue for One’. The book has sold well and feedback suggests it accurately captures the experiences and emotions of bereavement and provides a voice for those who haven’t found it easy to express their feelings or are not lucky enough to have a sympathetic audience. Copies can be ordered directly from Jill on request on wallisjill@hotmail.com. A part of the proceeds goes directly to the Iain Rennie Hospice at Home, which helped care for her husband in his final weeks at home. Jill is also poetry editor of Rhyme and Reason, an annual collection of prose and poetry by local writers, also sold to raise money for Iain Rennie. Details on how to submit work for this publication can also be received by contacting Jill directly or visiting the Iain Rennie website. 

More recently Jill has been writing nature poetry composed on the long walks she takes along the Grand Union Canal in Bucks, where she lives. She works as a University lecturer and is in the process of reinventing the rest of her life.

A selection of Jill's work.

Whitebeam

Such pale, such under-ripened leaf,

whitening like fish-belly in the breeze.

soft-boiled, sickly-succulent,

all silksheen and satin.

Story-book tree,

apple-round, symmetrical,

fattening daily,

like a crumpled cushion filling.

Tight tufts, pert waxy candles, peeling

into fat felt fig-bursts,

filling, filling.

A careful child’s drawing,

coloured in each day a little more,

till finally, one morning,

complete.

Soft green sky-sphere,

utterly pleasing,

momentary,

before the soft unravelling begins.

Owl Pellets

When owls consume their prey,

they swallow tiny creatures whole,

bones, feathers, fur, entire.

And later,

all that’s good extracted,

eject a smooth-skinned pellet,

a hoard

of tiny bones, wrapped in their own hide;

a neat encapsulation of the small life lost.

My poems are like this;

each one a memory which,

when I first lived it,

was also swallowed whole,

no time to taste it or digest,

as, one upon another,

such a feast of griefs I bolted.

But long months later I revisit them,

finding  myself in pain anew,

from shards lodged deep within my gut.

And so I wrap each flesh-stripped skeleton in words,

regurgitate it,

on the waiting page,

licked smooth now by language.

This somehow spares my tender core from further wounds.

I leave it there for others to dissect,

to find the story of the death within,

for I have done with it.

A Pressure Lifted

Last night I heard a poet read his work.

He spoke of tiny auks in Iceland,

whose hunters kill them

by the gentlest pressure on their hearts.

The poet hoped that human death

might be the opposite -

a pressure softly lifted at the last.

At once I was transported to your death.

And I beside you, lips against your cheek,

whispering words of love,

and of permission.

My hand upon your chest,

your heartbeat whispered back beneath my palm.

You breathed in great and ragged inhalations

but greater still the silence,

long

and dreadful,

in between.

Then one last breath.

And in that final silence I could feel, beneath my hand,

your heartbeat falter,

flicker,

die.

To feel

in such a small cessation,

a human life go out!

I lifted clear my hand, and with the fingers

closed your eyes.

But now, just like that poet, I reflect:

which was the last sensation of your life?

Was it the gentle pressure of my hand upon your heart?

Or was it, rather,

my fingers’ final, soft release?

© Copyright Jill Wallis