The North 36 includes:

many poems by 26 new and established writers – presented anonymously
a conversation between US poet Mark Halliday and Martin Stannard
a further instalment of Gerard Benson’s fascinating memoirs as a young man in post-war London
a bleak short story by Australian writer Jennifer Compton
samples of the 2004 Competition winners
even more reviews than usual, including a group of selected Selecteds
plus the usual goodies:‘The Collection’; ‘Blind Criticism’ ; ‘Poets I Go Back To’

A poem by Kate Bass

A CHRISTMAS DINNER PLATE WITH THE PATTERN STILL VISIBLE

We need a pan for the brussel sprouts, not that one
the one underneath, another for the potatoes.
The kettle’s boiling, open a window:
maybe it’s better with no one in the kitchen:
there’s the table to lay now the cooking’s begun.

I need to divide the sausages,
twist them in their skins
and snip them apart ready to roast:
one each and some left over.

When I was a girl, I used to run upstairs,
a half cooked turkey skidding in the pan,
its side peppered with skewer marks,
to ask my mother if the juices were running clear.
Then back down to the oven for another hour or so
pulling the door closed with a lifted latch,
my mother turned under a quilt
in a darkened room,
while I basted the bird with cloudy fat.

We’re getting on: the kitchen rattles and fumes,
a saucepan of potatoes overflows a brown scum.
Turn the gas down, maybe pour some wine.

When my grandparents were alive
we used to start with grapefruit.
My father had the curved knife
but we cut between segments.
There were old pink cherries
to fish out of a jar with a spoon.

It is always at this time of year
the snow fails to come
and, more recently, it has rained for several days.
But it’s nearly always dark,
so we close the curtains, light candles,
roll roast potatoes with a fork, in spitting fat,
find somewhere to warm the plates:
we’re not used to cooking for such a crowd.

This year again we have glazed carrots
with butter, sugar and cinnamon;
it reminds me of mulled wine.

It’s strange how the air seems to empty
as we carry in the food:
how the table shrinks
until we’re elbow to elbow,
yet it never seems that everyone is there;
as though somewhere, in another room
great aunts and uncles,
grandparents we can barely now remember,
sit patiently with empty sherry glasses
waiting to be called through.

The children squint down their crackers,
they don’t like the bang but they want a paper hat
even though it’ll be too big,
and maybe a piece of bright plastic that spins
or a jangle of puzzle rings.

Pass round the dishes if you can,
the sprouts are a bit overcooked
but the potatoes are all right, maybe next year.
Is everybody happy,
are all the glasses full? Then let’s begin.