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<div class="track"><img alt="" src="http://hits.guardian.co.uk/b/ss/guardiangu-feeds/1/H.15.1/81084?ns=guardian&pageName=Poetry+workshop%3A+night%3AArticle%3A1234635&ch=Books&c4=Books%2CCulture+section%2CPoetry+%28Books+genre%29&c6=John+Siddique&c8=1234635&c9=Article&c10=&c11=Books&c13=Poetry+workshop+%28series%29&c25=&c30=content&h2=GU%2FBooks%2FPoetry" width="1" height="1" /></div>John Siddique is enchanted by the glimpse readers have offered into their secret worlds of the night in this month's poetry workshopThank you for sending your poems in - it was quite wonderful to open my mailbox and be taken into so many night worlds. I hope you enjoyed taking a look at the poems I suggested in the workshop. What pleases me most when I give workshops is when someone takes the example idea and makes it their own, rather than simply being imitative. In this batch of poems it is as if we are being shown many secret worlds, where the quotidian takes on new life in the late hours. Cheryl Pearson's Pre-Dawn is my favourite poem of this month's selection.Pre-Dawn by Cheryl Pearson Pre-dawn I wake, and your breathing finds me,places me into this bed, this room, thissudden not-quite-morning. You won't mind mefolding into your side, so I fold; kissthe tangled mat of hair on your bent arm;smell the yeasty smell which makes your skin tasteof wheat. Once, in Wales, we went to a farmwhere a similar smell rose from the wasteof horses - a homely smell, redolentof good earth, heat, sweat, physical labour.I tucked myself into you, nonchalant.Breathed you in as I do now, bed-neighbouron this dark dawn, as the clock enforcesorder and you dream - perhaps of horsesThe most secret world of bed and what we think there, I love the closeness of this poem, you can feel the bed-warmth, and the simplicity of the action. The poem is a moment caught very well and laid down with a sweet precision. The smell and the move to memory, the reality and placement of beauty found in real things. And for me the best line is "You won't mind me folding into your side, so I fold; kiss" - just lovely.Bat by Thomas Gayton Standing one foot smalland fierce as a buttercup,you come out and flit the skieswhen blackbirds go to bed.Coalescing with the night,becoming it, and in turn you,fading to dusk. Sleepingin rooftops aplenty, the high riseskyline your natural backdrop.Consuming the sightof bystanders, perchedin reverse, an arrowgroundways pointedat the harmless target.Yet night again gives you lifeand grips you bonewardsto the core. Dark, cold, empty landembraces spirit, nocuous night.How can you beat a line like "fierce as a buttercup"? When I first read Thomas's poem that line burned itself into my mind. This poem slides as the day moves to night, and it is the phrasing, I think, that makes it so memorable. There is no heavy-handedness to the word craft: "skyline", "flit", "groundways", "bonewards". This poem is a wonderful painting in words.On the Way Back by Kathy McVey Light is boxed into the neighbour's windows:yellow squares in the night.The moon cold-smacks her head like dirty fog.The noises: her own feet crunching gravel, the wheelbarrowchattering on the cattlestop.At the end of the driveway she is putting out the rubbish(recycling bin and two black plastic bags)and she is loving it, resolving to love one thing she hates, every week.Tonight, the beautiful night - such a dark delicious night -is forcing her into being adept at garbage-duty,at turning, at noticing her own house - its lights boxed now:its chicken in the oven, its books, baby, fireplace.The ordinariness of our lives is where the sacred lives; it is where the real work takes place. Doing the chores isn't the work, it's what happens inside the person. In this poem we get to meet an inner world where there is a struggle going on, to reclaim something of life, it seems. If you look at the last word on each line of the poem the solidity of the images Kathy leaves us with for that moment when we turn to the next line is very satisfying.How to experience the night by Aditi Machado Lie on your back and think of men on bedsof nails. Sink into grass blades, submitto the acupuncture.Look into the brilliant cataract sky,clouds that have obscured someone's visionof you, as if his eyes were made in reverse -concave not convex. If he came down upon you,he'd fit snug as a contact lens. Keep the millimetresbetween you. Feel his hands' friction on your body,flowers in the wind. Try to see yourself in the mirrorsof his eyes. Fail. Watch the small lights zap.And lightning, that alien smile.This is a nice, sexy poem. I like the idea of the fakirs, and the sky like a Monet, and the image of being as snug as a contact lens is great. The honesty that we look for in our reflections in our lovers' eyes is very touching. Most of all, though, I think it's the tantalising promise of touch which gives this poem a good physical sense of sensuality.Constellation #2 by David Tait Some nights I gather every extension cable and slowlyassemble star systems around me. The DVD player'sstand-by bulb, the fan, the TV, a strand of carefullyplaced fairy lights, the green tinged glow of my water cooler.Then lonely, my darkroom brightens like a photo flash.I light candles into solar systems. A fragile Scorpiohovers around shelves, an Orion's belt of tea-lightsis strewn along the coffee table, gently tattooing the walls.The image of light tattooing the walls at the end of this poem is just great. To be gently tattooed: impossible, but it makes sense too. The surprising nature of the things we never really notice is what caught me with this piece. I do feel there is more of this poem to come: the two quatrains are a great start, but it feels like it should continue for another few stanza, perhaps by switching to narrative.The Lover's Almanack by Bob Tristram Now you read me like the moonmoving hole at the end of a long night chimneyAnd I see you wind-lean, ranged, Pendle-tree and broomstickNo chance that you would go unsungfor who else rode my mind, hag-lightseasoned and yet so welcome.Perhaps sad hootered millsat the very ends of lean-to moorswatch you, now.Perhaps, half asleep, a barn owl winks approvalguarding a tattered toftfor only owls and moons and flights of fancyunderstand the meaning of long nights spentsharing bare fellsides with you.Tonight only years tenter my mindriding me back-alley and tom catdawnlight and glissading downterraced roof angles to backyard welcomeand only the fitful morning teethof a rare Pennine east wind sneaks aboutto slit holes in the west's nightskyto morning glory my day with praise.A great poem with Pendle Hill in it is hard to refuse, with its witch imagery, and the audacity of the magical adding of k to almanac. This is different from the more domestic poems that were sent in: Pendle Hill is a wild bleak place and this poem puts the same feeling into the reader as you get when you spend time on the moor. I enjoy the move through the night to morning as the poems imagistic narrative winds through reflection and senses – you can hear the owl, and feel the wind in the piece.<div class="related" style="float: left; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><ul><li><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/poetry">Poetry</a></li></ul></div><div class="terms"><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk">guardian.co.uk</a> © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our <a href="http://users.guardian.co.uk/help/article/0,,933909,00.html">Terms & Conditions</a> | <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/help/feeds">More Feeds</a></div>
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