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Nina Parmenter
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the poet
Nina Parmenter is a poet and working mum from Wiltshire. Her debut collection, Split, Twist, Apocalypse, was published in 2022. Nina's work has appeared in journals that include Magma, Raceme, Honest Ulsterman, Obsessed with Pipework, Atrium and Ink Sweat & Tears, and has also been nominated for both The Forward Prizes and The Pushcart Prize. Nina describes herself as easy to manipulate – but only if you're a dog.
the poems
Blooming
A celandine went first,
and if we had ever looked, we would have known
it was a freeze-frame of a live firework,
we would have expected
the violence that sparked from the inside out,
the heat petalling sweetly,
each stamen springing a hellmouth.
A rose caught,
thorns spitting pop-pop-pop from the stem,
the leaves crisping, and as an afterthought,
the buds, like charged kisses,
lipped the flames to ragwort and vetch.
An oxeye daisy burst,
white-hot in its eagerness.
We dialled nine-nine-nine,
but our words fell lifelessly away,
and as day bloomed into evening time,
the honeysuckle, its lashes
glowing in the last light of the sun,
tipped a long wink to Venus
and blew like an H-bomb.
Where Does Darkness
Come From?
The bee is a soft eclipse
at the heart of a clematis,
the noon lighting a constellation
on each cluster of his fur,
and the bee suspects
it is he who brings the darkness,
but he knows it like the catacombs of his hive
and feels no remorse.
Imagine a sweetness you would die for.
Imagine shunning the sun
even as it brightens the space
you leave behind.
Imagine your honey-drunk mind
willing you into the umbra.
Imagine the sugar stars
waking.
The Conversation
We Don’t Have
The headache, I realise, is a clenched jaw.
I tense up, release,
stick my tongue out, waggle it,
roll my head
so determinedly
that a conversation falls out,
pink and slippery.
It has been hiding behind my uvula.
Close inspection reveals
that it is self-contained,
self-sustaining,
high fat, low sugar,
terrifyingly fresh.
And although my stomach aches
at the meat of it,
I reach out a finger.
Give
it
a
poke.
It tenses. Darkens.
Grows somewhat huger.
Along its flank, eyes appear.
It stares.
Angrily, I scoop it up,
and stuff it back down my throat.
I relock my jaw
and head out.
Publishing credits
Blooming: Split, Twist, Apocalypse
(Indigo Dreams Publishing)
Where Does Darkness Come From? /
The Conversation We Don’t have:
exclusive first publication by iamb
