Diana Hendry

Poet and Children's Author

The Guest Room

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing

some have unwittingly entertained angels. Hebrews 13.2

O O O who is coming? Who is coming?

Is it Abraham and Isaac

on their husky pulled sledges

all the way from Russia

and the Old Testatment?

Or is it the Unwitting Angel

coming to sleep in the grand guest bed

with its opal silk sheets

and its eiderdown squiggled

with hieroglyphics?

Or Goldilocks

tired of bears?

Who will slip a ring

on the cut-glass finger

and lift the silver-backed mirror

up to the light?

Maybe it will be a messenger

bringing the word of God?

Why is no-one coming?

How long should we wait?

Where I was

(Mariscat Press 2020 £6.00)

‘…a meaningful tale of restriction, beautiful and pellucid in its unveiling.’  Rory Waterman, PN Review no. 263, 2022

‘…’a Proustian touch.’  Alan Dent MBQ Issue 17, 2022

Earlier Works:

The Watching Stair.

(Worple Press 2018)

Buy  from The Worple Press  or  Amazon

‘...a collection of poignant, often wryly humorous and always beautifully-crafted poems that open windows on childhood and old age.’

Vicki Feaver

'...highly intelligent, wide-ranging poems that have a wonderful psychological truthfulness.’

D.M.Black

The Seed-Box Lantern: New & Selected Poems

(Mariscat Press 2013)

Buy  from Mariscat Press  or  Amazon

‘…a remarkable eye for the truth and an ability to see the otherness of the very ordinary.’  U A. Fanthorpe

‘Diana Hendry’s poetry has a wonderful sense of the author’s

voice, dark and bitterly sweet at the same time, like high-grade chocolate.’   Janice Galloway.

Earlier Poetry Collections

Making Blue, Peterloo Poets, 1995

“...the fresh eye that shines in her children’s novels ...is even more alert in these heart-searching for grown-up.”

William Scammell, The Independent on Sunday.

Borderers, Peterloo Poets, 2001

“Hendry’s poems are a vibrant collections, as vivid and various as a room full of Picassos.”

Sylvia Hill.

Poems

Dressing Mother

I help roll her stockings over her feet,

then up to her knees. She's managed her dress

but I free her fingers from the sleeves.

Before the mirror she rouges her cheeks,

combs her thin curls, hands me a bow.

It's scarlet and goes on a ribbon I thread

under her collar and fix with a hook.

Over an hour to dress her today.  

Such an innocence stays at the nape of the neck

it fumbles my fingers.  I see her binding

bands of scarlet at the ends of my plaits

and fastening the buttons at my back.

Now look - she's dressed as a child off

to some party.  I straighten her scarlet bow

and don't want her to go,

don't want her to go.

                    From: Making Blue (Peterloo Poets)

Psalm Eighty-Eight Blues

Lord, when I’m speechless,

when something – not just sorrow

but under that – a dull, numb, nameless dreich

about the heart I hardly seem to have,

when this afflicts me,

when hope’s been cancelled,

when the pilot light of me’s put out,

when every reflex and response

has been extinguished,

send word, snowdrop, child, light.

               From: Twelve Lilts: Psalms & Responses  (Mariscat Press)               

Big Sister’s Coming on a Visit

Clean whole house, polish shoes,

Here’s the news –

Big Sister’s coming on a visit.

Put on best dress, wait for train,

Pray no rain –

Big Sister’s coming on a visit.

Book the taxis, fly the flags,

Hide the fags –

Big Sister’s coming on a visit.

Buy up florist, shine the town,

Fetch the crown –

Big Sister’s coming on a visit.

Big Sister’s coming with big big case

Big Sister’s coming with smiley face

Big Sister’s coming with big big heart

Big Sister likes playing big big part.

Big Sister coming with little frightened soul

Big Sister nervous as new born foal

Big Sister coming with dodgy knee

Big Sister coming with bravery

Big Sister coming to visit me.

Switch the sun on, banish blues,

Here’s the news –

Big Sister’s coming on a visit.

From:  Late Love & Other Whodunnits (Peterloo/Mariscat)

Watching telly with you

We could go to Paris of course

but not so often. And it might not be quite

as cosy as the sofa, the fire, our slippers,

the zapper.  Sometimes mid-morning

I think about it, hankering a little like

the lovelorn do, for that evening lull,

front door locked, feet up, snugged up,

loved up and watching telly with you.

From: Second Wind

(The Saltire Society)

Poetry