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  • Natalie Crick

Landscape: Natalie Crick

The poetic landscapes of Natalie Crick mix earthy with transcendental, creating a space for reading in broad silences, but with vibrant expectations for what will be unveiled. As in, for example, "the lick of the wind on the cliff"... and many more instances we hope you will uncover in the five poems below.

Natalie Crick, from the UK, has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Rust and Moth, The Chiron Review, Ink in Thirds, Interpreters House and The Penwood Review. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem, "Sunday School" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.


Ocean Voice

The night is dying,

Morning merely mist.

Clouds remains silent

About their loss.

We cross frontiers

So easily that we mistake

Heaven for blue sky.

My voice was blind, grayed,


Rolling like a nightingale into song.

The ocean still haunts,

It’s salt embedded

In our skin.

Graveyard in November

It is early November.

Rafters and stained glass glow

In candlelight and

The eulogy crackles from the pulpit

Like frost over oak leaves.

Each snow flurry marks another

Melted year. Gone and forgotten.

The ghost trees hover.

I watch their sucked-out leaves

Rotting with moss and mildew.

Dried, dead.

The gleaming grave

Stands like a door

Without handle or hinge,

It’s only pathway through the soil.

One touch turns me to stone.


At windows geraniums blow kisses

To the gusty surge of trees,

The winter bleak, the sky lucid.

Lonely. Empty.

Ball of moon glitters

In dead of night,

Throat married to tongue,

Tongue to landscape,

The lick of the wind on the cliff

Your own precipice,

The wind’s voice

In this high place,

The nearness of clouds

To the sea.

It sounds when it’s dark

Like a song:

Waves froth and gleam like electricity,

A perfect bowl of black that seals the eyes.

Aphrodite came out of these waters.

A stone

In a lost lake

Still has it’s own sunrise.

Through Bitter Eyes

Maple branches etch

An ink blue moon.

The sky opens it’s banners like lips,

Azure tapestries furled back into stratus clouds.

Petals lost to wind

Will blanket the ground.

Dew on rust

Will run like dried blood.

Sunflower doll heads bob.

Eternal weavers work their

Silver looms,

A fragile menace

Spooling a ghost bridge.

My bitter eyes are marbles

Stolen from orphans.

Ocean Moon

Night long we lie,

Two heads in a womb,

Warm and close,

The taste of ice on the tongue

Liquid cool

Coals to crack teeth.


Heaven’s plaything,

Melts from a lover’s lantern

Down to a sliver, a whisper,

Leaving behind her glitter,

Her jewels.

Wish by wish

She fattens on a diet of dreams,

Ripe and wet,

Drawing closer to the frothing seas

Before lurching away.

An ascending pearl

Swallowed by fog.


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The image of Quasimodo is by French artist Louis Steinheil, which appeared in  the 1844 edition of Victor Hugo's "Notre-Dame de Paris" published by Perrotin of Paris.


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