Tuesday, 28 September 2010

Day Fifty-Seven

Writer's block

Okay, the title is kind of misleading because I'm not sure it exists -maybe so far I'm been lucky. But the last couple of days I've hit, if not a wall, then a stuck door. Just haven't felt like writing. But like most things just getting on and doing it usually works. I freewrote tonight with no theme in mind and when writing this poem I still know what it is. I'm going to call it ambiguous.


Cold. Blackened feet
burned. You sit in your
ice house - your
past held frozen in the
walls. Rippling reflections behind
your back. But hugging your knees
you just don't see.

Shiver. Because even as you bemoan
this cold, you know that greedily you
gorge it whole. To eat your fill - purge, and then
binge again. Wretchedly wringing out
every drop of bile - you spasm. Until
you feel alive- skin burning and
the past is just another
fossil. 20,000 years in

Friday, 24 September 2010

Day Fifty-three

A bit of fun

My first creative writing teacher used to say that if you are not prepared to have fun with words then don't bother writing poetry and in that spirit I think I'll have a change tonight. So I've decided to copy and paste my facebook status updates for the last week and just place them in chronological order. A few line breaks here and there and voila - something that looks like a poem even if it doesn't read like one. And it doesn't. It isn't successful, but was interesting to do and kind of fun.

Actually when I posted and published it then - even the line breaks disappeared so her it is in all it's raw ugliness.


Move all booked - I guess it's really happening then... I've seen this before but his use of logic can't be beat.

Ode to Autumn - sort of! BTW Mr Pope, Hitler was a Roman Catholic. Do your research.

Snotty, but thankfully not spotty.Tidy house... tidy mind. Supposedly.

Wondering whether to tackle the jungle that is our garden first, or start painting walls, or another cup of coffee.

We skip, we trip and we find a space to rest. And in that place we may find another; riding the same self-styled regrets.

Tuesday, 21 September 2010

Day Fifty-One


Started my freewrite today by thinking about Autumn and then is transformed into something else altogether. Now I love Autumn personally but I got to thinking how other people react to this time of year and the natural closing of the growing year into the darkest days to come. And this was my response to that.

The birds feel it -
Hitchcockian they circle calling
all to their cause. Responding to that
pull to leave the decay of the
growing year. And
go - Following the sun.

But what of us -
the earth consumes us whole
and we slide deep inside.
Inch by inch - flesh, fat and
hair all sink into
her belly - our dissolving bodies polluting
her virgin bed like an
oil slick.

Regardless she holds us still -
a stillborn at its
mother's breast. She will
survive whereas
we are blood
and bones and

Thursday, 16 September 2010

Day Forty-six


We're on the move again and although this is fantastic news because the house we're moving to is a better fit for us, we will be leaving behind our sea view. We have lived with the privilege of that daily sight for 3 years and to say goodbye will be sad. Even if we are only moving 10 minutes up the road! So this is in response to a tiny moment of regret.


We left on the out-breath of
an Autumn day. Swept away by
the surging Equinox tide.

Its twice daily scourge over
shingled sand echoes in ears and
roars against rocks.

This magical crackling air alive with
our lives - suspends us in a
love affair.

The moment we left - left dangling
like the scent of roses at
summer's close.

Sunday, 12 September 2010

Day Forty-two


Sometimes ideas come in the form of a single line. I had this one pop into my head today:' She left on the out breath of an Autumn day' And although I loved the line, it didn't really go anywhere in the time allowed.

But I got to thinking about style and voice and how writing is often expressed as finding your voice. I find that exciting (I know - I'm sad!) and then I realized that that way of writing that we writers are all searching for is like a unique tag that when we have it, it is next to impossible to change.

So this is what came up from that...

Home style

You can't escape your style.
It has wrought iron railings around your
house. Pulls you in with
sweet nothings in your ear;
evolved smash proof glass in
its elegant sash windows.
It suffers no deviants -
You make for the hills while
it eats its lunch -
Til a hunch brings it to your
side. And you're sipping
darjeeling at a flowered table cloth
and forcing down another
scone. But at least you're not alone.

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

Day Thirty-eight

Time of the month

Well it isn't but the shadow will be upon me again!

Lady Paranoia

Darkening, bruising skies hang
heavy in my head. Binding up my
body. Fidgeting
in my belly. And
then the panic comes. She
sidles through the back door and
quickens up my heart.
She promises me
blood, but
She watches while
I eat.
Smiling coyly
she looks away. And
then she rages red and ragged -
persuades me that
I hate myself. Makes me
hold that hate up
high. And then
with one relieving,
hormonal rush
she slides away.

Monday, 6 September 2010

Day Thirty-seven

Bit tongue in cheek this one - getting into the groove again after a lovely weekend with my sister and a fabulous party.

Middle class squall

Move up, move on,
stamp on heads,
pummel pawns,
pull all else to shreds.

It is our right, after all,
to eat organic veg.
The right to drive our volvo
up a driveway lined with hedge.

If the school nearby's not good enough,
we'll move or lie or cheat.
If the council estate is deemed too rough,
if they all have three piece suites...

How can we let our kids go there?
What will they learn in a place like that?
Mix with kids with scruffy hair?
We demand outstanding and that is that.

Merely exercising our parental right.
Merely wanting what's best for our kids.
Hunter-wellied hero gunning for a fight -
Cultural diversity? God forbid!

Thursday, 2 September 2010

Day Thirty-three

In the Car

The first line of this poem came to me today as I was driving home from a lovely library visit with my little girl. I have kept it as a simple clear poem on purpose. Because the moment seemed to reflect it.

Beyond the Grave

My mother spoke to me today -
it was but the tiniest brush of
love. But it echoed in my bones.
It was the nudging nod of pride that
humbled me and made me gulp
the air. A guppy fish - a landed catch
breathing out its last.

She said, she'd been there all
the while. And held me in her arms.
She smiled and laughed - a ringing
bell that sounded all around.

Wednesday, 1 September 2010

Day Thirty-two

Need to cheat a bit tonight because I need a break so here's an oldie from a couple of years ago that it the beginning poem of a set of three.

The Maiden
My mother dressed me in her
dreams. Plaited self esteem into
my hair. Each layer: vest, dress, tights
and shoes pregnant with her prayer.

She liked to kiss each toe in turn, a wish for
all the years to come. She’d hold
my fate and with her mantra
would have me fizzing.

She would heat up wild with anger and rail
against the world. Then white hot she would
unfurl spells and peel off
her bubbling skin.

And with each juicy strip she’d
lay on me, she’d calmly charm
self worth. I was (and am) a
cantrip shielded little girl.