Remains

I started this as an exercise in practising description while on holiday recently in Scarborough.  We’ve stayed right next to the castle for 2 years now and I love what an atmospheric and melancholic place it is, especially in the early morning or evening when it gets shrouded in mist.

Built up and battered
Down with pre-school
Accuracy; now
Preserved for field trips
And visitors – A
Bitter wind stings the
Pink cheeks of these
Intruders as they
Wander between the
Lego brick ruins.

Breath frosts on touching
The biting air; tongues
Savour salt and the
Chill makes sensitive
Teeth ache.  Icy rain
Begins to fall in
Crystalline sheets –
Splattering the mossy
Whiskers on grey, green
Stones.  They wave in greeting
To the fat teardrop
Prisms bouncing off
A rainbow of brollies
And waterproof jackets;
Lifting from the remains
Like a liquid portcullis.

The Waiting Room

The waiting room chairs
Were hard, red plastic.
They said; ‘don’t get too
Comfortable’, and
‘Move along, please’, while
Digging their edges
Into the backs of
Her thighs.  They left pale,
Pink marks as impermanent
Reminders when the
Smiling nurse called her
Name, and she stood.

She returned to the
Waiting room, later
That year.  Sweating
Under layers of wool
And polyester.
Heartbeat erratic,
Watching bare branches
Through the glass as they
Bent and battled against
The late winter storm.

She sits motionless,
But would much rather
Run – through the double
Doors and away; to
Embrace an icy,
Bitter freedom on
The outside.  To curl
And become a ball
Of arms and legs and
Torso.  Safe on the
Second hand sofa –
Where no one can reach
Her, to tell her that
She is no longer
A mother.

Playing with Haiku

I’ve been playing around with haiku lately as a means to keep me writing.  Here are three I wrote inspired by my pets:

Guinea pigs

Balls of fluff squeaking,
Nibbling then hide from
The hand that feeds them.

Kitten

Curled up on my lap;
Purring, soft.  A cold blooded
Killer in training.

Rabbit

Fierce, old girl.  She
Defends her terrain.  Bite marks
dent skin to prove it.

Mantelpiece Krakatoa

I’ve been playing around with old exercises from A215 to see how they could be improved and this is one of them; find an object and write a poem comparing it to something that it reminds you of.  So apparently my living room candles remind me of volcanoes!  I’ve played around with the original poem so it (hopefully) has some rhythm now and have also tried to fit it into an iambic pattern (the number of syllables are different in the verses), although I haven’t managed that completely.  I have to say I found it a lot easier to re-visit a piece that already seemed to lend itself to a form rather than to start from scratch with a form in mind.

The red polished summit
Is encased behind glass.
A smooth sided outcrop
Of waxy igneous rock.
Forming to melting fingers
They flow to reach skywards.

Crackling;
The blossom scented lava
Bubbling;
In the perfumed caldera
Spilling;
Down the malleable flank.

A quick puff to snuff out
The flame, now pliant magma
Can solidify to
Fragrant obsidian
Its bulbous ridges formed
From smooth, waxy granite.
A cherry blossom scent to
Substitute for pungent ash.

Summer Days

Edited after playing with line length and cutting some bits 🙂

It’s always too warm
Here.  You sit shrouded
in the humidity,
Breath feeling laboured.

And it always smells
The same, no matter what
Time of day it is;
Of sweat and gravy,
Disinfectant and
Overcooked cauliflower.
“Smells like old people”,
You would have said once,
Removing yourself
From the vicinity
As quickly as possible
To avoid catching
What they’ve got.

 

You can remember
Summer holidays
In Greece; so hot you
Prayed for the relief
Of a cool breeze on
Your skin.  You remember
Warm seas offering
Temporary respite,
Supple bronze limbed
Children perched on white
Plastic sun beds; giggling
And bickering,
Slipping rubbery
Flip flops over small
Brown feet to guard
Against the baking sand.
“Don’t go too far!”
Laughter scattered in
Chatter and salt.

Next to you he stirred;
Looked up from his book,
Eyes hidden behind
Black lenses, smiling.

 

Your children go on
Their own summer holidays
Now; tell you about
Them in piercing
Detail, while you smile
And nod; stomach tightening
As you remember.
It’s not that you begrudge
Them, you just sometimes
Wish you could tell them
That summer days,
Go by too fast.

Old Crows

After my earlier post I decided to just sit down and write and chose one of the first things that came to mind.  I love the symbolism and imagery that surrounds crows and that made them as good a topic as any.  That and I’ve been re-reading A Song of Ice and Fire so blame George R R Martin 😉

Sentinel.  We keep our eyes below us to
Peep at you from our treetop vantage.
We sit; black eyed and beady, our voices
Recite a mantra; squawk, rattle and caw
Keeping time between knobbly branches;
A gloomy chorus line of feathered pallbearers
Hidden behind a screen of crisping foliage.

Scavenger.  We feed on leftovers and others’ waste.
Adaptable to the taste of this and that.  In times
Gone by you provided flesh for our banquet – cold;
Texture like jelly, fresh meat.  Heads darting up and
Down; peck and swallow we fed.  A grisly flock;
You said death followed our tails as nights follows day.

Old crows.  Gossip passes between us in haste.  Quick
Tongued and bold we chatter and spread; a black mass
Of feather and claw – wings outstretched, taking flight;
A rush of air to sever claws from bark.  Soaring, smooth,
We glide.  Wings brace and flap, searching eyes – still ever
Moving.  Unchanging grace silhouetted against grey skies.

An Epiphany

This is another poem I re-worked from an exercise asking us to write about a memory.  This is a tongue in cheek recollection of my teenage self going to see my favourite band for the first time.

An Epiphany

Crushed together in a mass of bodies, I feel the sweat
Beading and tricking down my back.  Its surreal, the thrum
Of the sound check feels unreal; a vibration through my limbs.

Clad in leopard print and purple feather boa – placed
Together they put Bet Lynch to shame.  Sharp ends of
Cheap feathers cling and dig into clammy skin and thick
Black eyeliner melts.  However much I try to be cool
I am a damp, feathery panda who can no longer lift her arms.

The lights dim and a roar rises from the crowd.  Unfamiliar;
A mad dance begins in my stomach.  As if suddenly allowed
Bodies push forwards in unison and there he is, standing proud.
Below Nicky Wire I feel cowed; I am staring up at God,
Allowed to gaze from here; and I have never seen anything quite so
Beautiful, as that six foot man wearing inch thick make up and a red tin hat.

My Kind of Place

I adapted this from an exercise I did early on in A215 asking us to write a passage or a poem with cultural references.  I used the late nineties as a backdrop and now feel brave enough to adapt this into poetry form.  I will probably keep working on this though as everytime I look at it I decide to change it again!

My Kind of Place

I never felt tension in that queue; the faint
Whiff of potential violence was always there
In other nightclubs – enough to subdue a bellyful
Of vodka and lemonade.  Here that was rare –
The badly constructed line winding through, slowly
Descending the staircase; Doc Martens and
New Rock boots stuck like glue to a carpet,
Turned from blue to brown through years of wear.

Fusty, smoky, dry ice blew to infiltrate our intoxicated
Procession as we crept into our lair to hear The Smiths or
The Manics spinning on the venues CD player and
I would think, ‘this is my kind of place’.

It would come later in the night of course.  After
Copious amounts of cheap lager and vodka.
By then we were too drunk to care or feel remorse.
United in our self imposed difference, asleep to
Outside; the course of Clinton, Blair, Iraq and Kosovo –
Only individuality and music mattered, no matter how bleak.

Our discourse wasn’t true though.  Not entirely; All skin-deep.
No bloodbath here every Friday night, but we would compete
To be diverse.  It just took a while for the glitter to fade
From our eyes that’s all.

Matryoshka

I wrote this when experimenting for the poetry TMA.

Matryoshka*

A traditional Russian nesting doll the matryoshka is a set of wooden dolls of decreasing size placed one inside the other.  In Russia they have come to be known as “Little Mother” being symbols of fertility and motherhood.

Her shiny red smile,
Is full of life.  Nurture
Reflected in curves.  Bulbous,
A red bouquet blooms upon
Her middle.  Sterile
She shatters into pieces.

The smile decreases on
Her tiny daughters.
Bright red petals fall from
Her abdomen.  Resting on
The mantel, her wooden
Façade remains unchanged.

 

*(Pronunciation:  Mat-ree-osh-ka)

 

The Night I Was Born

I wrote this as a tongue in cheek effort for a life writing exercise on A215.  Now I really should get on with that TMA….

On the day I was born, it was actually
Night-time.  Late November also, not
Quite Christmas, and my Dad has sworn,
That six foot of snow had settled on the
Paths outside.  The paramedics had to warn
Not to trip (or possibly drown) through the blow
Of the wind and ice that came from the storm.

This is a lie, although it has stuck.  Such a
Luxury of snowflakes would make the record books.
Although my little myth is nice to look upon;
It makes me glow a little and smile – that people
Remember; the mistook flurry that night
When I was unborn and important enough
That I partook, albeit unknowing, in a family fairy tale.