Room 101
A bit like room 101, I have faced the worst of myself today to write this. It had to be done and it is honest as it can be seeing as I am a vain fool.
It's about the last few days before we left my dying grandmother to head west to Canada. It's not cheery, I'll promise you that!
Room 101
The betrayal smelled like
the boiled cabbage in that
crusty-cornered room. For the
first time in weeks as lucid as
lime she smiled her love through
dentured jaws. And I thought
there and then - if she could
she would return, such was the strength
of that love.
The boys, blond as the
sun, bursting with the promise
of this new life scrambled up
her frail form to kiss her, as she
held tight to life like
a full-bloomed rose clings
to its petals. The mantra of
my own justification issuing from
her lying lips.
"You must live your own lives" caught
in the swirl of the fan and spat back into
that stifling space - to hang in the
air like a plastic halloween
spectre. Gruesome in its plain
simple truth. The silent words "you need
to stay" rebounding off my
selfish spirit as she reassured me
she was okay.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Day Ninety-four
Romantic
I thought I would try my hand at a bit of romantic poetry today and use a technique that I'm sure is not called the 'repeat the first line again and again' technique, but here it is anyway.
We Are Not Romantic
We are not romantic but when
I fall you carry me; putting
your life on hold to
lift me higher.
We are not romantic but you
laid your velvet traveling cloak posh-side
down in the mire so I would not get
my best shoes wet.
We are not romantic but you
come to my bed with
a ready embrace and a smile
meant only for me.
We are not romantic but when
I hear a love song
on the radio
I think of you.
And on the day we married
you shone brighter to me
than the sun.
I thought I would try my hand at a bit of romantic poetry today and use a technique that I'm sure is not called the 'repeat the first line again and again' technique, but here it is anyway.
We Are Not Romantic
We are not romantic but when
I fall you carry me; putting
your life on hold to
lift me higher.
We are not romantic but you
laid your velvet traveling cloak posh-side
down in the mire so I would not get
my best shoes wet.
We are not romantic but you
come to my bed with
a ready embrace and a smile
meant only for me.
We are not romantic but when
I hear a love song
on the radio
I think of you.
And on the day we married
you shone brighter to me
than the sun.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Day Seventy-eight
A walk in the country
I am a fantasist - no doubt. Aren't all writers? And I love to pretend to be other people when I'm walking, or driving, or well, anything really. Today I pretended I was a Jane Austen heroine - nothing unusual in that is there? ;-)
Three miles to Netherfield
I was Elizabeth Bennet today except
I crouched to pee in a bush - and
I'm pretty sure she
never did that. And I
had a short skirt on and
my new pair of jeans and my hair hadn't
been coiffured by a maid.
Or maybe Lizzy did and dear Jane
omitted to say how she
unbuttoned her
bloomers and squatted in an
unladylike sprawl. It was after all
three miles at least to
Netherfield Hall.
But I was still her as I traipsed
ancient paths and
jumped age-old streams.
Sun flickering
across fields half smothered by
cloud. And the pheasants
were making a hell of a row.
I am a fantasist - no doubt. Aren't all writers? And I love to pretend to be other people when I'm walking, or driving, or well, anything really. Today I pretended I was a Jane Austen heroine - nothing unusual in that is there? ;-)
Three miles to Netherfield
I was Elizabeth Bennet today except
I crouched to pee in a bush - and
I'm pretty sure she
never did that. And I
had a short skirt on and
my new pair of jeans and my hair hadn't
been coiffured by a maid.
Or maybe Lizzy did and dear Jane
omitted to say how she
unbuttoned her
bloomers and squatted in an
unladylike sprawl. It was after all
three miles at least to
Netherfield Hall.
But I was still her as I traipsed
ancient paths and
jumped age-old streams.
Sun flickering
across fields half smothered by
cloud. And the pheasants
were making a hell of a row.
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Day Seventy-five
I'm back!
It's been an amazingly busy couple of weeks and poetry has had to take a back seat. I've not enjoyed not writing. It's been awful having lines and fragments of phrases launch themselves into my mind and not be able to do anything about it. I suppose I should have been taking notes; or freewriting; or at least writing something down, but my head space being in moving house mode has been in another world. So there you go - my excuse!
On the night we actually moved in to our new house. I won't say home because at that point it didn't feel like one. Both Matt and I had a similar feeling and this poem is an attempt to catch it.
Moving on
Arriving alive in that space
between worlds. Primordial,
primitive cave.
Such was that place - that gap
between lines
laid bare
on a big empty page.
It was cold - crammed
into that airless hole. So we lit
a fear-melting fire.
And the blackness outside
felt further away.
And the warmth in our bones held it at bay.
It's been an amazingly busy couple of weeks and poetry has had to take a back seat. I've not enjoyed not writing. It's been awful having lines and fragments of phrases launch themselves into my mind and not be able to do anything about it. I suppose I should have been taking notes; or freewriting; or at least writing something down, but my head space being in moving house mode has been in another world. So there you go - my excuse!
On the night we actually moved in to our new house. I won't say home because at that point it didn't feel like one. Both Matt and I had a similar feeling and this poem is an attempt to catch it.
Moving on
Arriving alive in that space
between worlds. Primordial,
primitive cave.
Such was that place - that gap
between lines
laid bare
on a big empty page.
It was cold - crammed
into that airless hole. So we lit
a fear-melting fire.
And the blackness outside
felt further away.
And the warmth in our bones held it at bay.
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.
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
waiting.
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.
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
waiting.
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.
Facebooked
Move all booked - I guess it's really happening then... I've seen this before but his use of logic can't be beat.
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.
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.
Facebooked
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
Autumn
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
off
they
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
nothing
more.
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
off
they
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
nothing
more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)