Rebecca Wheatley is a versatile artist known for her talents as a poet, actress, and jazz singer. She resides by the sea in Brighton, UK, alongside her Turkish husband and son, where the coastal beauty often inspires her work. Rebecca has written and performed music-infused shows and contributed insightful articles to various publications. Her poetry has been widely recognized and published in esteemed journals such as “The Tide Rises,” “Dreich,” “Bindweed,” “Porridge,” “The New Ulster,” and “Southlight.” With a passion for blending different artistic forms, Rebecca continues to captivate audiences with her multifaceted creativity.
My Mothers table
‘Pass the Vall-Polly-bloody-cella’
She scowled
As we shrunk round the table sunk heavy with
empty bottles and angst.
‘At least when I grew up we didn’t eat axel grease’
A never yielding fury over margarine
or milk cartons on the table.
Crimes that made us all curdle.
Knives that lay rigid to the right
And forks stiff to the left,
Glasses to bear witness up faced and open mouthed.
Side plates that never saw a crumb
But just in case,
Just in case.
I’m sure there was fun
In passing puddings guest to guest
Snatching the biggest as it flew past.
Always enough to eat
And more to chew over.
The noise of us
A pack,
Feeding on itself.
Probate
Soon the ownership will vanish,
magic lamps rubbed clean of pitted fingerprints,
lit only by love.
Torn lipped letters, scuffed rings, stuck clocks,
the junk yard of life lived,
a collection of the inexpressible days and minutes of ordinary existing.
The sharpest meaning of our lives
catalogued in lifeless vases and loose hinged lockets.
The etchings of our personal histories
just scratch marks in the wind.
Names faded on newsprint
already out of date.
Only for today
we are diamonds
given to each other
for safe keeping.
Belonging
Who will tell your story if not you
as you dive into a mute shudder.
Is your voice not loud enough
Not calm, not clever?
Slip into the silence,
Leave without a mark,
Not even a scratching on a wall,
Unseen.
Or pull the hook within you sharp and clean,
Straight through you, guts to mouth,
Pull it all up and out,
One gouging tug at a time.
That’s how your story will be laid out,
Innards and all.
The Galway Review 