Poems
7 Ways of Being More Tiger
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I
A man pushes in front of you in Co-op.
You eat the man then ask the cashier
for Menthol Super Slims and change
for the bus.
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II
There’s a puddle in the park
that your friend’s dog shows
a fondness for. Remove your coat.
Fold it. Take off your shoes,
tie the laces and fling them
at an impossibly high branch.
Having doffed all clothing
double-dress your friend.
If alone, dress the tree already sporting
a fabulous pair of brogues.
You’ll wade through the water,
realise it’s only ankle deep.
III
When the postwoman ignores the
No Shit Through the Door, Diolch
you put up yesterday, drench her face
with your claws, lest she forget
and repeats the mistake.
IV
Be kinder to pigeons. Really.
They are your lost childhood
reincarnate in pigeon-form.
V
Sleep. Belly-up
whenever
wherever
the sun
cares to shine.
VI
Poop discreetly.
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VII
Ignore all written instructions henceforth.
You are not illiterate or dyslexic or slow.
You’re a fucking tiger. Deal with the thing.
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This poem was shortlisted for the Troubadour International Poetry Prize 2018.
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What the judges said: "7 Ways of Being More Tiger, by Hilary Watson: yes, I’m sold. I’d like to be more tiger. Witty, fun but always truthful, the poem brings to life our internal, helpless everyday emotions and directs them through tigerishness towards a roaring resolution. The plain, direct language enhances the push and pull of the poem, its drama and comedy."— Jo Shapcott
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Undressing
Gum shield gone,
wrist guards,
gold helmet, straps
around the knees,
gaskets, shin pads.
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Elbows. Shoes.
Socks, leggings,
top soaked
in other people's
sweat, knickers rolled,
bathroom floor.
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Shower warming,
new bruises, tired arms,
tourniquets
on quads, biceps.
Velcro scratch,
purpled palm,
stiffened back.
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Towelled dry,
matching bra and pants,
tights, dress with sash,
hair brushed,
hair dried, flat shoes.
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Umbrella, clutch,
taxi below the cherry blossom
blocking up the road.
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This poem first appeared in The North #58 Summer 2017
Ten-Horse Grief
They make the aisles on planes
extra wide to fit the horses in.
Grief is unpredictable, the way
it breaks forty-thousand feet
above the Labrador Sea, pins
you between hooves and ribs.
A voice behind says ‘Mummy,
the sky looks like a red puddle.’
You lift your mask to check.
This poem first appeared in The Butcher's Dog #11 2019
Scrap Metal
Night’s setting in. The only night.
Let’s drive far from redbrick rows
to roads that weave
through whale-bone trees
splitting
as stars burst
over farms
and silent commons,
chase the frost-flecked air
as full beams grasp
a fox tail’s rush
through hedge.
Jolt right,
a hedgehog
taps slow toes
on tarmac;
slow like midnight’s freezing stream.
Your chassis’ brittle ribs
flake and flutter
like moonbeam caught in bracken.
Moths catch in whirlpool whips
of headlights
rattling along
the pockmarked trail
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until I cut the engine out.
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​This poem was shortlisted for the Live Canon Prize 2015.