Biography of Mandy Baldwin
Freelance writer. Born in London, lived for many years in Cornwall, now in France. Divorced, mother of three grown-up children.
Has worked as film-extra, aromatherapist, special-needs tutor, and artist.
Now writes short-stories for publication, and working on second novel.
Mandy Baldwin's Works:
Novel, Going Down To Burgois, available in both e-book and paperback through Amazon or direct through this link.
Mandy Baldwin Poems
When I Am Old
One day, when I am very old This hurt will be forgotten. I’ll quietly, carefully, walk through the town Button my coat against the cold
When I was a child the garden burst with marigolds. Pungent tomatoes climbed the walls in the dusty sun And new cut grass with daisies lying slaughtered And ponds with drowning fan-tails and proud peonies
Naomi walked with me in the winter Along a beach that was bleak and wide. Like broken dolls propped up together I was strong with her at my side.
There are unused numbers on my phone. I don’t know why I keep them there when I will never call. To dial them would be to call the time I was a daughter. In my mind’s eye they go along with boxes left unopened
On Becoming Saggy Just When You'Ve Got Y...
It’s a fine irony, that’s all I can say. Just as you’ve got yourself straight between the ears You find those ears are attached to a structure that’s dropped six inches. Don’t debate the point; you know it’s true:
You with the sunset in your hair And the slanting shadows from the hazel hedge And the bats, flitting in the evening air And the damp green stones by the waters edge.
Yours In A Heartbeat
Your heartbeat that day. Strange how I remember that. Oh, I also bring to mind your eyes And your hands I thought so beautiful
I was sitting by the water When they told me it was ending And the estuary birds flew over - crying, always crying, as I did then. Then I knew that hope was gone
A Day On The Beach
In my mind I’m going home Down long green lanes by an empty sea To an old stone house, with lilac trees And my Prudy-dog, to welcome me.
English Summer In a place of rich perfection which I love I close my eyes and feel a distant magnet tug. And it’s small things which follow me:
She dances alone in the kitchen where morning spills light on the floor and the radio plays all those bright yesterdays that will never be hers, any more.
Will I Be A Mad Old Woman?
Now that you are gone, and there’s no-one to tell me I look pretty No desire to please, to drive me to revamp my hair or buy new clothes Will I be a mad old woman grown fat on tea and biscuits (Shared with my small dog - a crumb for the budgie - and milk in
Thanks for all the lessons learned from you, For eyes that said I knew it all, and trusted. For times when there was magic in a Christmas tree And love that didn’t judge, and lasted.
His Mother's Son
She gave him his life in a welter of pain in the pit of a cold March night. The wind blew cold so the fire was lit and they lay there, all naked and white
His Mother's Son
She gave him his life in a welter of pain
in the pit of a cold March night.
The wind blew cold so the fire was lit
and they lay there, all naked and white
And she thrilled to the dark, primal gaze of her son
as his first morning bloomed into light.
And she never let go of his small, wizened hand
and the cradle was always in sight.