Born in Leicestershire of Welsh parents in 1947, D. A. Prince has been placing poems in a wide range of poetry journals in both Britain and the USA for nearly two decades. Her prize-winning light verse is equally well-known to readers of The New Statesman and The Spectator. Whether teasing or troubling her reader, her instinct for the music of natural speech underpins every line.
Nearly the Happy Hour is her first full-length collection.
Ours was passed round the family on parcels,
and never cut, only teased
out of its obstinate knots—one good reason
to stop biting your nails.
It kept well in a dresser jug—door end,
by the garage key with its bent metal tag;
coiled, the end rolled, tucked in, made fast
in ways you picked up
Like so much:
brown paper (flattened under a cushion);
stamp edging (hoarded in a purse);
paperclips (shining in a toffee tin).
All the things you couldn’t buy,
even if you’d thought of it.
I never knew you could buy string.