Claire L. Gibb - writing on place, memory, belonging and sport.
Poetry Archive
2025 - c.1993
This archive brings together poems written across different stages of my life, from childhood comic verse and early observations to poems written during periods of homelessness, travelling and recovery, alongside folk-influenced pieces, place writing and more recent work.
These poem are a record of voice, place and experience over time. Together they trace recurring themes of home, belonging, humour, hardship, memory, landscape and the people encountered along the way.
2025
On wearing my hat rather than headphones this sunny morning on the 376 to Yeovil
2021
2020
2018
The Little Yellow Dog at Saint-Gaudens
2003
2001
Standing in The Doorway of a Westminster Hostel
c.1993
2025
Untitled
If I don’t happen to live
another forty-three
years,
please ask the mortician
to bury a hammer
close to my heart
so it may beat
my stories
into the earth.
On wearing my hat rather than headphones this sunny morning on the 376
to Yeovil
Shrieking children,
a barking dog
and
a man slurping loudly
on his orange
for thirty
minutes
must, too,
travel on buses
even at the same time.
Salacious
She wears an apron
when sitting at the table
to write her poems,
in case the words drip
onto her skirt.
Later, walking into town
like a dirty dishcloth.
2021
From My Window
Published in Dreichs 'Wee Book of Wee Poems' 2021 under Claire Aster.
The palm tree
is frantically tossing her head
like a Tina Turner tribute act.
The wheelie bin lid
is flipping backward
a drunk losing control
of her neck.
On the green fields
above the rooftops
the spray painted sheep
- a galaxy of wildflowers.
2020
Red wine fruit flies
Written during 2019-2020.
First published by Ink Sweat & Tears on 8 September 2020, under Claire Aster.
You came for the pear molasses
on my kitchen shelf.
Three tummies full of fruity goodness,
recklessly rolling around
in this deep lagoon,
without any thought
of how you might get out.
Transference
Written during 2019-2020.
Published in Snakeskin, Issue 275, August 2020, under Claire Aster.
Like a baby bird
bleary-eyed and hungry
I sit cross-legged
on the warm
Indian rug
and come undone
at the throat.
Cinema fidget
Written during 2019-2020.
Published in Snakeskin, Issue 275, August 2020, under Claire Aster.
What is wrong with you?
this is not the time to be nervous.
This is precious
safety
no one will intrude
on this hour.
There will come a time to be fraught,
your finger and thumb having reason
to skiff
and jump,
your elbow nudging mine,
every second.
A serious time
preparing for the death
of someone you love,
or losing your job,
your home,
a kidney.
I would put my arm around you,
hold you close,
love you.
But not
now,
this is not that time.
Stop it,
please.
I’ll have to leave you.
Country College Rat
Written during 2019-2020.
An account of an experience working at Schumacher College, Dartington, Devon, 2018.
It was your proximity
that got you killed.
Stay far away enough
and you might have been alright for a while.
Plagued by dreams of disease,
people raised the alarm
when you were seen fleeting
between the back door bins.
Like a good soldier,
I did what I was told
and picked up the phone
to ensure your demise.
People wept witnessing
your body soft
beneath the hedgerow,
hugging the ready earth.
Your resting mouth
belies your closing agony.
The hopeful chirping from your burrow
is met only by the cold.
London Connection
Written during 2019-2020 from memories of London homelessness, 2001.
For Max.
I didn’t feel you move
last night,
your body shut,
hanging on tight
to pockets of warmth.
“Do you want some tea?”
I ask.
You pull the coat
over your shoulder
and turn to face
the tunnel wall.
“I’m having a lie in,”
you said.
The underground trains
rumble in to their platform
and people’s feet march
past our heads.
They will have their own
waking stories.
Respite
Written during 2019-2020 from memories of London homelessness 2001.
We sit in Covent Garden,
drinking tea from paper cups,
last night’s cold still in our shoes
and in our throats.
We watch a busker
play songs from the sixties.
We both know the tune
and sway along.
Our rain-shrivelled sleeping bags
hang like chrysalides
from public toilet railings,
renewed by the morning sun.
We take refuge inside
these moments of borrowed safety
before dividing ourselves
into the long new day.
Folk Song - Barley Boys
Written in 2019-2020 from memories of Sutton Bridge, 2002.
1.
Sam went to work in the barley field
but didn’t come home that day.
Sam went to work in the barley field
but we never saw her again.
2.
They took five boys to the station
for questioning.
Yes, they took five boys to the station
for questioning the whole long day.
3.
Dogs were sent to the river bank
searching.
Dogs were sent to the river bank
searching the whole long way.
4.
Sir Peter Scott’s Lighthouse grew darker every day.
Sir Peter Scott’s Lighthouse couldn’t steer the gloom away.
5.
Then the policeman came to the kitchen door
and said, “We’ve tracked down your friend Sam.”
The policeman came to the kitchen door
and said, “You better stay clear of Sam.”
She’d spent the boys’ savings heading south that day.
Yes, she spent the boys’ savings in the Eastbourne cafés
after she stole away,
after she stole away.
There was barely any barley for the boys.
No, there was barely any barley for the boys.
2018
The Little Yellow Dog at Saint-Gaudens
A memory of Saint-Gaudens train station (Gare de Saint-Gaudens) is Rue Victor Bougues, 31800 Saint-Gaudens, France. Written in a sunny garden in Westonfields, Totnes, Devon in 2018.
I was sitting at the station
in Saint-Gaudens,
waiting for the train
coming along the tracks,
but instead of the train
coming along
there came a little
yellow dog.
So, of course,
I got awfy worried
about his safety,
and I pulled him up
by his wee furry belly.
He wisnae very happy,
well, not at first,
but I gave him some water
to quench his thirst
and he soon enjoyed
my company.
He sat with me there
at the station stop
for at least half an hour
to get his breath back.
Then, after I gave him
a couple of hugs,
I asked the station staff
if they could take him
to a place of safety,
but they told me
to just let him go.
So that’s what I did,
and he wandered off
quite slow,
glancing back,
looking at me,
as I was waiting for the train
to the Pyrenees.
But
the train was delayed
about an hour or so,
so I looked around
for somewhere to go.
And across the street,
to my delight,
was a lovely brasserie.
So as I opened the door
and walked right in,
who did I see
running right towards me?
It was the little yellow dog.
He jumped right into my arms
like we were long, long friends.
This seemed to amuse
the locals in the pub,
who asked me in French
if he was my chien.
I answered non,
in my pigeon French,
we had just spent time
in each other’s company.
This made them very pleased.
They gave the dog
some more water
and a little bit of meat.
They gave me a free beer
and a plate of beef bourguignon-
that was before
I was vegetarian.
After a while,
I said goodbye
and gave the dog
another hug.
I caught the train
to Lannemezan
and the connecting bus
to Saint-Lary-Soulan,
at the foothills
of the Pyrenees.
Poem Note:
This event happened in the Summer of 2012. The previous night I had a worrying experience where I was staying and working a few miles outside Saint-Gaudens, so in the morning I organised a new place of work at Chalet Lou Ryder, in the Pyrenees and hot footed it to the train station. Which made this experience of meeting the little yellow dog, even more special and gave me a much needed boost to be going on with!
Press Play to hear Claire read this poem.
2003
Bacchus
Hillcroft College, Surbiton, 2003; aged 21. Written for Robert.
You who is my kith and kin,
Heathcliff of the lowlands,
who, once honeyed in glorious sin,
confession soothes your throbbing glands.
Bacchus has not an inch on you,
forgiveness envied in repentance,
Sodom, Wilde, then left blue,
kneeling, feeling, the price of penance.
2001
Standing In The Doorway Of A Westminster Hostel
London, autumn 2001.
Big Ben strikes
eleven times
a dog barks
in the street
leaves rustle
with the cold night wind
the moon hides
and shadows creep.
c.1993
The Beggar
Remembered childhood poem; c. 1993.
Slowly walking down the street,
with no shoes upon his feet.
Smells of drink
alcohol, I mean
but he’s still a human being.
Walk by like a snob
with your nose in the air.
Take one look at his greasy hair.
A no-user,
a waster of space,
not even got a job.
No, help him,
that’s what I say.
No, not tomorrow.
Today.
The Owl
Remembered childhood comic poem
Gliding through the night sky,
searching for its prey,
which is about to die.
Lets out screeching cries,
sweeping down
and devouring its snack
gets eaten
by next door’s cat.
Christmas Is Near
Remembered childhood poem.
Christmas is very near,
soon he’ll be coming
with his deer.
Round the corner he’ll be riding
on his sleigh,
presents sliding.
Looking plump and very jolly
if you’re good,
you’ll get a dolly.
So try and behave
up until Christmas,
’cause he’ll be coming
good old St Nicholas.
Share Alike
Remembered childhood comic poem
Share and share alike,
that’s what my mum said,
before she took my sweets
and sent me to bed.