Poetry: "Sunday School" By Natalie Crick

Madeline loves it
And sits as Mother would.
The priest is like her Father
Dressed all in grey,

Palms fluttering with
Paper clowns,
Legs and arms spinning anti-clockwise
Like the priest's eyes slide

From side to side.
We are his for an hour
But he cannot touch us,
For we are jewels to be watched,

And, one day taken.
Nobody has ever held his hand
But Grandmother, with rings like
Little girl's warnings.

This is my house of God,
Rain thundering as
Unanswered questions.
Their faces are taught and chilled with frost.

He is the bee of androgyny
Thrusting candelabras as tusks.
This drone of activity,
It is all too much for me.

 Faces dumb as naked dolls.
He strips them, licking them with stars
Like potential girlfriends
Or meats to be weighed.

Natalie Crick is a writer from the UK.

"I am an English Literature graduate and my original poems are influenced by confessional contemporary women's poetry. I am working on my collections with a view to a publishing contract."

On Her Work:

"I have been particularly inspired by the metaphors and symbolism in the work of American poets like Sylvia Plath and Louise Gluck; two of my favourite poets."

On Female Creators:

"The female poets I am drawn to have been a source of strength and inspiration. I hope to continue in the same vein and inspire more young women to channel their creativity through poetry."