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Clarissa Aykroyd



the poet

Clarissa Aykroyd grew up in Victoria, Canada and now lives in London, where she works as a publisher. Her poetry has appeared in UK and international journals such as Black Bough Poetry, The Interpreter's House, The Island Review, Lighthouse, The Missing Slate, The Ofi Press Magazine and Shot Glass Journal. Her pamphlet, Island of Towers, was published by Broken Sleep Books in 2019.

the poems

I dream the perfect ride

00:00 / 00:36

              It was raining and the cheap black gloves chafed
              my hands. The reins and curved neck’s crest, a wave.
              I blinked the rain, I was horse and river – 
              we flowed the jump but my clumsy mouth-jag
              scared the horse and I had to dream sunlight
              to calm him. He listened with his mind, breathed,
              so black and sleek and slicker than a seal
              in the patience of the rain, the white noise
              of the rain, his cantering a mountain
              beneath me, breaking the earth, living-deep.



00:00 / 00:22

              Cloud spiral.
              Here – 
              pale bone of the light.

              Sand riddles
              hissing – at my feet,
              my neck.

              Rising now
              the rosehip moon.

              The sky, bitten.
              All flags torn.


Watson on Dartmoor

00:00 / 00:53

              I first saw it in sun, edged with yellow
              like the dragged note of a violin:

              and yet, and yet something just out of tune
              like the faintest rot beneath the sweetness.

              It’s not of the earth, the moor. You drive
              as though ascending – to hell; mist rolled in,

              the wet air choked me. The light walked backwards
              and vanished. The grey tors grinned down on us.

              Holmes would love this, I thought. The touch of drama.
              And then came the gates of Baskerville Hall.

              Well, you know the rest. But the moor, that space,
              that’s what I can’t explain. How it was not

              of this world. How its clouds were close enough
              to touch, and yet its skies were high enough

              to elude my faltering translation.

Publishing credits

I dream the perfect ride: exclusive first publication by iamb

Amrum: Island of Towers (Broken Sleep Books)

Watson on Dartmoor: Ink, Sweat & Tears

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