Thursday, 30 April 2015

2015.30 - Unsuitable

My darling now I must confess
That I don’t love you any less
Than I did before
It’s just: I wasn’t sure 
If my passion was under duress. 

It seems, as your best friend opined,
That I’m just not that way inclined.
See, your bits aren’t like mine –
Does that make me a swine?
To continue would be quite unkind.

Yes, that’s right – I am “one of those”,
Born this way – it’s not something I chose.
It’s not you, it’s me,
You can keep the CDs...
There’s no chance of a lift, I suppose...?

No, you’re right, I’ll just be on my way
After all, there is no more to say
I’ll be gone in a trice,
You won't have to ask twice –
Out there it’s a gorgeous new day.

Wednesday, 29 April 2015

2015.29 - Afon Tam

She says she wants to be a stone
The weight of care is hers alone
Tree calls out to sky
Water beckons why
My fire won't
Bring her home.


I've been meaning to play with Welsh poetry forms for a while. This is a clogyrnach.

2015.28 - Harbour

I think I've nicked the first line (or something very like it) from a song I heard tonight by Rrose Sélavy, but she said I could have it, so that's okay. :) Check out her music - it's glorious! :D


Shadows ripple under my skin.
You have touched off tremors
With the brush of your voice.
We are vibrations answering
Age-long echoes.

I know you sometimes
Want to run, escape your bones;
You twitch percussion
And I itch to clutch your wrist,
Whisper: hush, breathe,
Summon the hardest virtue,
Everything will come,
This too shall change,
All debts are paid,
Pile these heartfelt platitudes
Across your lap.

But, when the high winds take you,
You can only stomach
Semaphore and Morse,
Coarse-grained patterns,
The most casual of plans,
Permissive maybes.

And I will blaze in the grazing
Glance of you,

Tuesday, 28 April 2015

2015.27 - Shades of Bentley

Hereward the Wake
Ate a lot of cake;
Drowned his face in orange squash
Then refused to have a wash.

Rosalind Franklin
Liked to straighten lank pins;
Decorated lampposts
With things that looked like damp ghosts.

Stephen Hawking
Loves to watch a cork spin;
Doesn't know why,
If you ask him, he will sigh.

J.K. Rowling
Will often stop for bowling;
Gets fed up as hell
When asked to do a spell.

"Syd" Barrett
Imitates parrots;
When asked if he likes cages
Says: well, it's all the rage, yes.

Susanna Clarke
Goes punting after dark;
Sings carols to the bats,
Says they have some lovely chats.

2015.26 - Typical

Quick work eludes Robert
Today - Yvonne’s upset is
Occluding PowerPoint

And sadness doesn’t feature...
Great - Hilary’s just knocked:

“Zap Xiangyang,
“Call Vienna, Bob -
“NOW: meltdown!”

Momentarily numb
Bob vascillates, caught:
Xiangyang zipped?

Lurching, knowing
Jian holds grudges,
Face drops,
Sighing absently.

Phones Oliver,
Intimidating underling:
“You twit - remember Ecuador?!”
Wilts quietly.

2015.25 - Guides

We have rambled rivers,
Picnicked up trees,
Known the salt savour
Of true hunger,
Lost the map, and
Made our own ways.

We have carved curves,
Following the gentle, unexpected
Way of seams and grains,
While they have slapped
Metal rules on thin paper,
Applying architecture.

They summoned canals,
Eschewed fords for bridges,
Dismissed hills,
And took their best shot
At regulating sunset.

And sometimes
We turned out to be
Collecting twigs,
While they printed certificates,
Presented themselves.
And why not?

They have inspected the
Serried rank of plantations
And never found them wanting;
We floundered in mudpits
And learned new terms for it,
And why not?

They sit in straight lines,
Stacked like cups,
While we wanderers
Excel at getting lost.
And why not?

Because the world is wide,
Smiling at satnav and dowsers
Alike, and I like being lost
With you, knowing that we
Can find our way out of anywhere,
And that, anytime we like,
Will find our way back here,
To the clearing with the
Tiptoe view of the sunset
We never even photographed.

Monday, 27 April 2015

2015.24 - Logbook

Today in the Allographic workshop (Finding the Narrative, with Matt MacDonald), we put together twelve words/ phrases between us with which to make a poem. They were: sand, running, flocculent (thanks, Emma!), it, 2001, Caribbean, the sensation of cat's fur under fingertips, Justine, green, teeth, winnowing,  bloody.

I cheated slightly (you're supposed to work all the words in explicitly), but hey...


Your footsteps are already fading,
The sand winnows into plumes,
Ash-breathed, kiting westward.


We have said nothing,
Loud enough to break glass.
I suck silence from between my teeth,
Start to make lists.


I still run, hunting calf-burn,
Celebrate heat in the clang of
Ambitiously green liquids in
Frictionless bottles.


I coo between gritted teeth,
Inch, bark-bellied, as you advise from below,
Summon the sensation of cat fur
To reaching fingertips, clench thighs against
The trembling.


A blue-and-white summons:
Justine has friended you.
Gape at the warmth of shallow waters,
The sudden fan of creases
I will never feel beneath my thumb.
Find myself on the driveway,
Stale cigarette smoke tugged into my lungs.


My kitchen is a haven of strange scents,
Abruptly, I am someone with a steamer,
And buckwheat tea.
You dab dots of jerk seasoning,
Suck your finger, grin.
The steamer falls, to be attended later.


"Wow, where did you learn that?!"
I lie with a nameless book.
'Flocculent' is your word - a nest of
Tiny morning dreads.


I emerge into cotton mouth,
Iron filing dregs like sweet penance.
A half-known ache pulling me to my right,
Your comma shape a gravity well.


He packs the bloody space with cotton wool,
I breathe the bitterness of
Doing the right thing.


You are salt water on my chest,
A shuddering warmth calling my arms,
A coiling strike upwards at my throat,
A tsunami in slow motion.


I click, gaze, scroll west,
Ease shoulders into unfelt heat.
It's good to see you made it, after all.