Sally Evans

Sally Evans Poems

Beatiest of beats let me address you
as you America. Let me bless you
charleychaplin poet that you are
like Ferlinghetti spreadeagled in air

I am not the great John, bold and zany,
many-talented, a fun man, brainy,
brought up in Liverpool, shot in New York
before he had properly finished his work.


Frost locks the landscape under sun,
silvers the gold of autumn,
deepens hollows in the fields,
sharpens shadows on the mountainsides,

Black stone soft to carve
beads, ornament, brooches.
Stone, fine and intricate,
to wear, to revel in,

Gently the woodsorrel and the dove
evoked wide glades of memory
to share my quest across the sea,
a world-floor I could float above,

He knew the North Country
before it was knowable,
when roads hid their objects
in height, water, wood.

I thank you for your view of a view of autumn, Keats
who never saw your own autumn with its actual pitfalls.
Yours was the autumn of childhood, of hope, or romance, of belief,
my mother's autumn though not that of her hardworking family,

The southern moors
slope down to Scarborough.
She watches Eastern seas.
She's heard of Whitby Abbey, north

I hear the water swishing down,
this equilibrium of rain.

I think of waterfalls and trees

It scars the dullest part of Scotland,
obliterated under warehouses,
short term railways, housing schemes,
the outskirts of uncertain villages.

The Muse sent me the second half of a poem.
So, I asked her for a beginning.
She continued to refuse this beginning
because she knows I am seeking a major beginning,

My favourite holly in the castle
grew outside the Douglas Garden, ‭
‬softening the large, ‭ ‬bare courtyard
and attracting songbirds in winter.‭

for Larry Butler

A slight smirr of rain.
blows on and off as weather trails


Cats lie in squares of shade
under the chairs beside
a pond - no one to watch
when golden frogs, black toads


Gertrude Jekyll -
can you make me a garden

She probes the wintry weather, her voice oiled
and golden, warns of the violet-hued storm,
reports the deluge flooding yard and lawn
like a spring haiku thawing icicles.

A poet named this new colossus.
The service station told me, 'You can't miss it.'
Miles away, it seemed less than a pylon.

The dandelion clocks are closed.
A stir of wind will open them
and April showers will weigh them down
to wet flock, their pink hollow stems

Too early
for the first daffodils -
December snows are banished
by dyed and glitter-strewn chrysanthemums,

Who owns Plath?
Faber, the Feminists or Hughes,
or Otto Plath?

Whose are her pennings, whose

Sally Evans Biography

Korkby Lonsdale, north of England, Durham amd Newcastle. (born London) Has lived in Scotland since 1979, in Callander since 2000. Widely published poet in books and magazines, now part retired, former editor of Poetry Scotland and diehard poetry books. Travels to Kirkby Lonsdale regularly and is doing a PhD at Lancaster University Author of a novel about poetry, WILDGOOSE A TALE OF TWO POETS Two poems from Wildgoose may be found on Poemhunter all Sally's poems posted here have been previously published in books, magazines, anthologies, webzines or as part of public projects)

The Best Poem Of Sally Evans

33 Lines For Ginsberg

Beatiest of beats let me address you
as you America. Let me bless you
charleychaplin poet that you are
like Ferlinghetti spreadeagled in air
like Sandberg in Chicago like Burroughs AWOL
as you build up your argument to howl
at the barriers and choices in all existence
your words' steam engines go the distance
freshness and fury and spirit all churned
together till somehow they have learned
to answer back as good as you get.
No one has shouted down America yet
and made America listen and pause.
You move inexorably clause by clause
explain to America where to get off
with a smile and a laff and a wave and a cough
as you smell the world 's most exciting flower.
I'd rather think of you in Morden Tower.
I like to think of you reading there
with your beat poet friends in the city where
I was trying so hard for the ordinary life,
not to be a poet and not to write,
(and about the same time in London town
Denise Levertov wandered around)
what, not be a poet, what a waste of breath,
what a crime, what a sin, what a loss, what a death
and whatever my country its state or time,
Ginsberg you gave me permission to rhyme,
for politics, passion came down to this,
the word was the sword, just word with an s,
a reason to dance and a mandate to sing,
a line to scribble and a truth to bring,
to throw your mantle over everything

Sally Evans Comments

Daryl Alexander 24 December 2013

Lovely poem on Xmas eve. You are a truly gifted writer. Thank you.

0 1 Reply
Sheena Blackhall 30 December 2011

Sally Evans, as editor of Poetry Scotland Magazine works tirelessly to promote the work of fellow poets and give them a platform. How wonderful to see her own poems on the global scene!

2 0 Reply
Dennis Cooper 25 December 2011

Nice tribute to Ginsberg et all

1 0 Reply
Beverly Scofield 24 December 2011

Sally Evans, you are a delight and a wonder! You poem had me reading breathlessly and with a growing smile on my face. Thank you.

1 0 Reply
John Raubenheimer 24 December 2011

How good to be sent 33 Lines For Ginsberg on Christmas Eve... with its echoes and resonances of the sixties and the poets I was exploring then, Ginsberg yes and people like Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Denise Levertov... Strength to your pen.

1 0 Reply

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