Category: poetry

Categories
poetry

Arrival

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I remember. You will not have forgotten I will have been feverish when I hark back. I remember. You will take your tea three sugars not stirred, will lean across the table, press the cold teaspoon against my Parian cheek. You’re not what I expected, you will say. I remember. We will dance in the milk shadow of the sun as we run towards the eclipse, the colander half-moons scattering our skin. I remember. You will lie face down in buttercups, I’m measuring the beelines you will say, fancy a shag after? I remember. You will be swinging the keys, two for you one for me, the foolish spider plant snaking out from under your arm, half price from Aldi you will say, couldn’t resist. I remember. Your rough fingers will brash the nape of my neck, fiddling the clasp, the chain a cleave for your capital E. I remember. You will bring home a puppy, a bloodhound, you will name it Greggs, it won’t live more than a day. I remember. You will say the slap was just a dream, a blip between wake and kip, a dream you’d also had, you will say. What a coincidence. I remember. You will tell me how petals grow, that it’s all about a gene called jagged. I remember. I will slam the door in your grin every time you demand a fairy-lit crypt, a buddleia crown, a shroud of lepidoptera. I remember. You will remind me that your end will be a constellation of grief, illogical, and yellow. I remember. You will study the refracting light through the pond. Why, you will say to the frogs at the wake in your name, is the shine not taking the shortest route? I remember. You will chide the child we will never have because of the puppy that will not live, the way your mother will bilge and phlegm, your fault, Esme, your fault. I remember. You will stand in the village square in your sepal cloak, your dead Greggs held aloft, your psalms scoring blossom names across the heavens. I remember your death like it was tomorrow, the mouldering and wilting, your damson bloom. I remember. Your mother will say you’d always go first, that it was written in the anthers, that I’ll light a cigarette, kick her wretched corgi, Rex. I remember. You will say I’ve changed my mind, it’s not the end I want, there will be a scene, an almighty scene, the vicar rewriting his entire harangue. I remember. You will say you’re still mine, Esme, mine still, as I sit in the final pew in my final weep, the nylon grey hassocks firmament under my feet. I remember. That light, I will say to you, doesn’t bend the way you want it to, even now.

This piece was published by Otoliths, edition 70. Do head over to read the other works.

Categories
exercise poetry

Sentenced

Connecting birds, he thinks she said, saying it was all connections, not that he feels selected, not with that bruised feeling not the healing he hopes for, but that said, they have this something this voluminous vertiginous fissure of affliction that keeps them both distant and entwined, only she is distant and he, tall and abrasive for his age, connected to her by a ravelled thread a reckoning a blessing almost, he alone is entwined in the ribbons of her, tangled up in the fantasy of her as someone else entirely, nonetheless she isn’t rude doesn’t slap him down not in public at least, whereas in the bathroom (him naked her naked) the way her lip curls as a parcel bow scissored is no gift, he knows, no sirree, he knows as well as anyone else she blames herself as he blames himself, his lame attempt to take the shame, drape himself in it, a cloak of disgrace his just desserts, but then it isn’t him that’s dead but Sonny, Sonny the name that shall not be mentioned, even the shrine on the kitchen cabinet bears no plaque no card no image no black rimmed lettering, just a violet jittery candle with a flame that will not rest, of course back in the day grief tore couples apart, too, split them asunder, an axe through a log, a fish eviscerated, and so he reminisces (eyes half closed) about the old days the gold gays of obtuse rainbows of crocks of bold and he would (if he only could be arsed), compare them historically to those couples who stayed the course despite the odds, although this may not be true for the Mr and Mrs whose fox cub went under a steam train, or the Mr and Mrs whose dachshund went poof! in a cloud of ash, remember spontaneous combustion? he does she doesn’t, conversely she believes in fairies, the gossamer kind all lace and no snickers, and somehow her naive notion of elfin folk ignites their furious disagreements about communists (there isn’t much left not even righteous left between them now), by the same token they split the electricity bill forty sixty he paying sixty what with being taller and more abrasive for his age, correspondingly she rinses forty sixty of the dishes, her slavish desire for cleanliness fractured by her fury over his height his slights the way he picks his teeth with the cherub handled olive pick and Sonny not even cold in his grave.

Categories
blog poetry

Socks that mock

Anyway, take socks that sit too tight on the portly ankles of tumescent womenfolk. 

They’re black they’re rust they’re fawn they’re blue slush they’re peach melba they’re mushroom they’re mildew they’re tusk they’re cask they’re sherry they’re Campari and soda.

The grippers with the too grippy grip. 

The graspers with the too graspy grasp.

Mocking socks are discriminatory.

Mocking socks are misogyny.

Mocking socks can fuck off back to the factory. 

What to do with socks that mock?

That cauterise and baudelise and turn toes mauve and ankles cantankerous?

Some say one should ship in the snippers, pinch each sock with two fingers and snip snip snip until the throttling stops. The trouble with the snipping is the inevitable unravelling, an unfurl here and an unfurl there until said socks have dropped beneath your ankles so deep into your soles you’re forced into a waddle that’s either John Cleese or excuse me dear where’s the nearest public facility?

Ach, I hear you cry. Why buy the mocking socks at all? Haven’t you heard of soft tops?

Soft tops are topsy turvy.

Soft tops are wrinkling monstrosities. 

Soft tops don’t fangle with frocks. (But they wrangle with sandals). 

Lock ‘em up the sellers of strangling socks.

Lock ‘em up dwellers of shrill ankles and sock bankers.

Categories
found poetry poetry

Worse neighbours than a church

Borrowing fragments from two women talking loudly in a library.

Talking pet shop next door lovely book shop huge thinking somewhere else any busier so many customers I volunteer on the way they ask you questions I get my bus pass certainly not defeats the object could you do (a hit?). April it’s been dead quiet twenty-one forty-nine marauding people destroy your rest don’t go there to run around not the fastest along the front there must be if you’re here there isn’t the crematorium not many houses go on get off. Crumbs what a shame.

Born in the hall.

I knew there was something wrong your car was in the street with the doors wide open.

Yadder yadder yadder.

I was very keen not to have one I would wiggle along Great Western five minutes to get there too late a journey is fine unless you lock out the window the left wiggle drops off to regulate the hospital not done only once takes so long parked felt bad taking a patient of course the medical students always remember.

Placenta.

Something can’t quite can’t remember fifty miles multi-story (see what I did there?) they’re usually lying it’s not clear call centre hell no evidence oh no no record of that oh my word awake early dozed cat half-five party time (woman A makes cat noises) all facilities available must be hard never did last summer honestly usually about seven very gently on my nose actually asleep no claws worked out the other day it just got (woman A laughs) wow a bit over attached just give me the drugs literally drive in vultures going around around around around the smallest spaces.

Fourteen.

Go in frankly you go in yourself almost completely blind not just round the corner next Monday one night don’t hospitals enjoy urgency (woman B checks phone) doesn’t know where he is twenty-one past my three in the morning remember parking last park last year the whole flipping lot out of hours doesn’t have accidents in the house (woman B checks phone) we don’t have that issue wouldn’t mind if you yeah yeah yeah no it’s not unreasonable that’s the thing but I’m not that’s your problem changing light lovely coffee little bit shortbread wee bit she walks he walks out lovely pubs how the crows fly lovely lovely lovely opposite the kitchen.

Dogs in beds.

It’s a bit you know cats are clean I don’t know not all shower the dog merging nice walk in the postcodes when we were younger still on the go God knows what probably the biggest on the lead very close others to be fair I mean a small child I do remember I remember single carriages oh my goodness sorry catching (woman B yawns) just a single bed quick useful in that bottom terrible cough just after new year lovely cosy a bit of a hike that bed in an uproar so frequent honestly bypass sometimes advertises think mmm (woman B receives incoming text).

(Interrupted by librarian scrubbing desks).

Guess they want to wherever whenever foreign even English speakers which bus should you get oh my word biting because being picked up just coming the way the wind shuts your eyes yes yes yes that night vents yet almost we don’t either much easier dehydrate they were annoying me you weren’t were you funny hot water (woman A checks phone) bottle your feet fancy feet warmers push into them plugged in obviously cold cold shoes cold feet old fashioned work just the first time don’t use. (Church clock chimes across the street). Bells.

Would always never noticed until now funeral service (woman B checks phone) just randomly peal funeral there are worse neighbours than a church side streets woman crying you can’t wont don’t understand drove the hearse message them can’t can’t can’t can’t pissed understand, understand?

Image – St John’s Church, Edinburgh.

Categories
found poetry poetry

making history

emotional or beloved or selfless and historic and solemnly and remarkable though dedicated though young though precious but unsurpassed but selfless but faithfully after greatest after kind after touchingly although beloved although moving although emotional before good before golden before inspiring if deep if unparalleled if solemn once treasured once beloved once deeply when historic when dedicated when public so joyous so unstinting so reassuring until difficult until long until inspiring that deep that unparalleled that everlasting as infectious as beloved as esteemed since grand since passionate since greatest

Categories
poetry

ladybird

She loves me she loves the knot in the hedgehog’s halter. It was their battle cry, you said, BACKWARDS, DOWNWARDS. The hog wore a purple silk cumberband encrusted in cod. Everyone was into fish those days, even the evangelists. You poured prickle into my eyes and held my land in the cup of yours. The sea was too high and too wide for your upper lip. Later, the hog kicked up hell about the purple, less so about the cod. It’s hard to take a fence over a salted fillet. You leant in, whispered about an array, said it would calm it. The waiter had FUCKU tattooed across the fingers of his right hand. In red. Upside down for those of us who weren’t him. Did he want to fuck himself? I made a mental note to ask the hog. The hog was big on skin art. You were still going on about arrays. And then shoals. For someone just out of solitary that was quite the ticket. They found the hog on an atoll, hunting babies with a butterfly net. Exported it with all the others in wooden wine crates. You demanded to know if I’d been loyal. Huh, I said. A ladybird, trapped on the waiter’s C, couldn’t get past either end of the capital.  

Categories
found poetry poetry

Abba and Federici have a cosy chat about misogyny

We’ve been talking about women. Taking a chance. Loose promiscuous women. All of their sadnesses, our sadnesses, captured in that conversation. I said thank you for the music. He said women were demonic beings. It was stupid and naïve thinking. Especially coming from Caliban. At some point he took the stage, the pulpit, called us all a bunch of wrinkly rodents. Why did it have to be me, I said, knowing me, knowing you? He said you could be frosty sometimes, an unusually diplomatic recollection of the atmosphere in those days.

I stood up. I said, let me be nothing if within the compass of myself I do not find ephemeral magic. (That digital recording cut out all the hiss.) I sat down. We all admitted we’d become tired. We were worse than any other woman, helping the corporates destroy the fruits of wombs. We cried to dream again.

Next up was the real gold on the visitors. The hunt for visitors was a turning point in women’s lives. Torture and terror were used to force us, the conversationalists, to deliver other names. Did we deliver? We did. How could we resist? Dum Dum Diddle. Be not afraid, we said to those we landed in the fray. It was a strange and strangely irresistible conversation about totalitarianism. Any man could now destroy a woman by declaring she was a conversationalist. And so he did. They do. Dobbed us in to the Met. Who let the man in? Who’ll let the women out? 

When you go, when they slam the door, be not afraid, the isle is full of sounds and sweet airs that give delight. They promise it won’t hurt.

Categories
musings poetry

Singular Us

I am writing this to you, no for you, you would be god could be god if I believed, permitted you to believe, cast you in that role but I don’t, don’t grant you how could I? he maybe she they, if you insist I’ll get over myself gift you the belief all seeing knowing mining reams of baleful show don’t tell you’ll have to interpret what I mean without words.

(Even if I don’t know myself.)

You, like I, must read between the lies I put down scrabble around spending more time on rhythm than hues although your hue, who? is glimmer dark, just one fold away from bewilder but maybe you, she slides her hand between the silks, feels for the real I’ve hidden there, biding myself, all of me, I and all of us, the singular us a rabble of letters I’ve yet to join up. 

You’ve always had such lovely joined-up writing you say to me I blush and sometimes I can’t make it out one of the singular us just wrote it down a moment or so ago and now none of us can make it out, one of us titters when reading it out, I can’t bleed my own writing the you in me says what does it all mean do you think you could help us out? 








		


	


	

		
		


			

		


		
	


	






	



	


		
			

				
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					Flash fiction poetry				

			


			
fall from grace

		


			

		


		
	





	


		


			
		


	


	
	


		


			

It starts with a trip, a misstep, a twist of the knee, the wrong lean, the wrong righting, righteous instead of right up and then she is done, face falling and flat lining, pavement coming up towards her, the roar of the bus, the bawl of brakes, the oil burn smell of acrid nearly, pot-holed tarmac dancing meaning, falling flailing until all about her isn’t grey concrete diesel grubby chip fat but violent turquoise, French lemon, olive tart, she is falling, fumbling, floating, tender rose coral on the turn of the tide, underwater psalms of sirens blessing mermen, bottle-nosed dolphins bundling and nuzzling, still she glides her arms outstretched her legs in freefall her caramel trenchcoat undone about face, rushing air spool sweet in her lungs, weightless about her girth her belly gone until suddenly, no not suddenly, a dandelion soft landing lips down, Venus sea fans about her cheeks, everything violet camber green she lands, is landing, from her fall from grace. 


		


	


	

		
	


	






	



	


		
			

				
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					poetry				

			


			
a short poem about war

		


			

		


		
	





	


		


			
		


	


	
	


		


			

a sho t





po (gro)m





abo (r)t





war