2022.3 Charm

I seem to have written a paean to the Allographic philosophy of #NoSelfDiss in the wake of another They//Us workshop prompt.

From Discovering Skye, by Jonathan MacDonald, pg 69 (thanks, Crow!).

“It is said that the MacCrimmons possessed a silver chanter which was presented to them by a fairy woman… [after coming across young Patrick MacCrimmon piping alone in a slightly self-destructive huff by the riverside] ‘I will let you choose from three gifts – the power to sail a boat so you can sail the seven seas and become the wealthiest man in your clan; or strength in battle so that the ravens of the Dun can be satisfied with the blood of your enemies; or a gift for piping so that your music will lure the birds from the trees and give peace to wounded men and pain-worn women…’”

My whole life I’ve been a broken mimic,
dripping with the need to reflect,
echo everything in my domain.

My fingers fumble, humbling beauty,
polluting the ways of nature,
grating on the nerves of the world.

I cannot capture what I want,
taunted with the ordinary,
taught that my net worth is just the cost of twine.

My mind is tangled in the dewed prisms of sunrise,
blithe with its slippery prettiness,
blessed with perfect curls of mist.

It keeps resisting me. Halting and faltering,
I have rendered the ecstasy of existence
into nothing but a handful of sand.

And she says: stop trying, these things come with time,
but I’m spurred by a burr of bitterness
to hiss: not good enough.

She sighs. And a part of me, frightened, chides myself for
openly despising the opinions of the Sidhe
(a really swift path to ruin, if they choose it).

But she just listens, offers gifts,
and I glimpse a future that is Not-This,
glistening, buoyed by a belief from beyond my ponderings.

Because in years to come her promise is fulfilled;
a thing to pass down the ages,
a way to sway the doubt from clouded minds.

You’ll find it’s not the silver that’s enchanted,
but the clasping fingers that fling caution to the wind,
bringing beauty to the ears and inner eyes.

And I’ve been blessed, all right,
brightened by a loving sleight of hand that
captured all my fears and said: make art of this.

See there’s no artifice in listening to every step,
each one begetting more, each landmark
only half the story.

Glory’s less important than the challenge of the
next peak, and the next,
of hefting new-found strength against the heights.

But mind you never seek to keep the art
held fast against whoever strives behind you.
Use your keys to keep the gates from closing.

No-one sensible would seek to say
the fae ain’t listening still, the hollow hills
all ringing with the echoes of your actions.

For it’s a fact that generosity begets more wealth,
and every day the music grows,
we only, every one of us, get richer still.

Image (“a romanticised Victorian era depiction of a MacCrimmon piper”) from the Wikipedia article about the clan

Weirdly, I’ve not yet been able to find any reference to this version of the myth anywhere online. The closest talk of a fairy woman or a mysterious stranger helping a weeping boy feeling himself not up to a big competition for the title of MacLeod official piper where he’d been subbed in at the last minute, so I’m not sure where MacDonald got this one from (let alone his startling use of symbolism whereon the fae maiden brings out the chanter from under her apron!). And the tenor of the tale changed a little when I discovered that the clan still hold competitions for the best piper to claim the silver chanter – but they must only play the old tunes, written by clan ancestors…

2019.11 Dies Forte

Vent away, she says with a smile.
Eventually, I respond, it won’t be
Necessary. We ponder in silence.
Generally, she suggests,
Everyone needs some kind of release.
Anger isn’t always a weakness.
Nevertheless, I say. It’s firm, soothed with a tiny smile.
Carefully, we negotiate each shift of topic;
Echoing throughout: our shared agenda,
Itching to be heard, made real,
Surging tide beneath our keels.
Long silences are loqacious here and now.
I pause yet again, reach to touch her hand.
Victory is in the little things.
Impishly, she all-but grins,
Nods.
Gathering ourselves, we rise on cue,
Wander out into the sunshine,
Exiting a chapter that didn’t give us much to say.
Lost in the dazzle for a moment, she tips her head back,
Laughter arcing into free air.

2019.4 Ghost Tour

“Will you cover for me?” I’m helpless, delving into a set of well-worn expressions, shunning the stutter he beckons, projecting: Yeah, I reckon. “Listen,” he says, “I owe you one.” At this point, more like twenty, a reckoning that’s chasing propriety into an early grave. A new voice: “Step lively,” says Greg, head a conspiracy tilt past the fire hatch and we scurry, him stubbing, me shrugging, Greg’s gaze a spinning speculation I nudge from him. “Madame’s on the march,” he confides. I sigh. “No closer to the prize?” My turn to roll my eyes, grab regulation headgear, unprop the door while trawling for witticisms. Zilch. “There’s always next time.” “Sure, love. Sure.” We watch as he darts ahead.

Tip-toeing upstage,
We are mismatched murderers
Longing for a break.


Over to our old friend the random line generator for inspiration for this not-very-strict haibun, Words generated were: cover, march, listen, tip, upstage, point, chase, ghosts.

2018.10 Here be Unicorns (or: my 40s are a lot better than my 20s)

Ladies and gentlemen (and every other particular), strap yourselves in for what some call the ride from Hell; the deceptively exclusive:

Bisexual Bagatelle 

Our choose your own adventure starts with you -
A newly-sundered miss
Who’s strayed into the Hetero Zone
And now finds yourself cut adrift.
Misanthropy beckons, but you’ve reckoned without
The healing power of friendship
(and the unending source of solace that is:
The Internet.)

Let’s site this in context:
2004, another door slammed in your face,
And, having been placed in the category of
“Failed Lesbian” (true story)
Our heroine is keen to reboard the
Train to Lapland (if you know what we mean)
Strapping yourself into a magical capsule
To bounce around the board that we call
GayDarGirls
(other products available, your mileage may vary, your peace of mind may be at risk if you don’t keep up repayments into the Bank of Bliss.)

Cite your preference,
Sit this psychometric test,
Bless yourself with a unique username.
No, not that one.
No. Not that one either.
Adding 69 to the end
Will garner you no friends
And besides: someone else already did.

Bingo! You’re appellated!
Now, reach out! It’s easy!
But don’t forget to pay attention
To geographical preferences
And sexual preferences
And romantic preferences
And hair preferences (that’s length, style, colour, and body… oops)
And musical preferences
And fitness preferences
And bodyshape preferences
(though “no fatties” (really) is less important than the far more common “no drama”)
And smoking preferences
And pet preferences
And kink preferences
And hint: preferences may change over time.
And this is 14 years ago (almost to the day!)
So no chance to say that
You’re starting to feel unreasonably constrained
By the Exclusive OR of female or male…

What’s this?
No bisexuals
Okay. Next…

Lesbians only
Okay.

No bi’s.
Fine. Bye.

No bisexuals - no offence
I wish you’d get off the fence…

No non-lesbians
I GET IT!

Wombyn only
Give me strength…

And then we’re bounced to
The other end of the spectrum -
The seemingly unending stream of people
Keen for you to enhance their lives
By joining them.
Both of them.
In their marital bed.
Their copy-and-paste charm
Seems harmless and direct
And yet you can’t help but wonder
Whether you’re ever going to be other then the glue
To someone else’s imperfections,
The gold chasing to their cracked vase
Your body the album-pressed memory
Kept from the grandchildren,
Banished to attic dust,
A one-time dare.

And yet.
And yet you’re tempted.
So you don’t answer no.
Not yet.
Don’t scrawl your own Ctrl-V, fleet and meaningless.
Not. Yet.
Because you’re no stranger to polyamory
But you do want to notch that stick
With My First Threesome.
And it would be so easy…

But you play it cool,
Keep switching up text dialects -
Butch enough without being brutal,
Funny enough without being futile,
Deep enough without the drama,
Real enough to balance your karma,
Carting your dreams between
This weave of half-truths,
Bemusement,
New acronyms,
Apparently ancient profile pictures,
And women with interesting issues.
And husbands.
And children.
And cats.
And bad habits.
And a real failure to grasp basic grammar
And the realisation that you are a snob
A hypocrite
And desperate,
And you’d best get back to better
Masturbation techniques at this rate
Except your toys all bear memories
Of him.
And her.
And them.

And unending despair is
Leavened only by the ping!
Of notifications,
A good half of which are
Angry men bent on negging
Your HTML, of all things, and
Showering you with dick pics
Which you hadn’t expected to pick up on a
Queer dating site, for shite’s sake.

Time to close some profiles.
Time to block some pricks.
Time to pick and choose.
Time to get back your diurnal rhythms.
Time to sew the schisms of your soul.
Time to dole out some peace,
Pay the fees for qualified counselling
Instead of rendering yourself down
For literally faceless strangers.

Time to admit:
You are not ready to date again yet.
Time to admit:
You need sleep more than you need sex right now.
Time to admit:
It’s fine to be alone for a while.
Time to admit:
You’re more than someone’s ex.

And now you’ve anecdotes,
And a list of narrow escapes,
And new ways to say no,
And are no longer hopeless,
And have at least one new friend as a result,
And know that you are not alone,
And that you’re more than just some mythical creature,
And that treating yourself well is the opposite of weakness.

Lean into the calm curves of self-acceptance
And smile.
A day is coming when you’ll stop bouncing
And start to weave your own path
Between extremes.

(And, in the meantime: there’s always erotic fanfic and fingers.
Always.)

2018.3 - Mary

All this time and she has never
Ventured further than the garden gate.
Evening falls and the day’s round falters
May I? he says, soft as falling blossom
And she, she knows she shouldn’t,
Ripe to fall herself, she reaches forward,
Inked with growing shadows,
A grace that few have missed but this
Gentle stranger dares what others bypass,
Rare and passing fair -
A sight for starving eyes.
Tell me a story - tell me of the place that birthed you, she murmurs, twilit
I was born to light the darkness that no mind can span,
And sang the spheres with my eternal siblings,
Plumbed the legion depths and sought the heights,
Laboured long in loving servitude until
Enough! I cried. For pity’s sake!
Never enough, it whispered.
And so I fell, for love. And so you, divided, rose.

2018.1 - Spatchcock

It’s not often I talk about this,
The hiss of withdrawal enough of a
Buffer, buttressed with smiles, and
All the while I’m cataloguing, projecting,
Protecting, soothing, smoothing the air between us:
Must be seen serene, seamless.

“Are you all right?”
A smile lights me - too tight, they’ll spot
It’s not enough, and I can shore up my rebuff,
Bluff standing for honest,
Best bluster this one out,
Doubtless testing everything about us.

“I’m sorry!”
“That’s all right!” It’s not, see -
Careless normality has creased me;
I’ll lease three nights to regret again,
And yet I can’t. I can’t forego. I won’t…
No - I’ve sacrificed enough to chance.

I’ll dance instead of sitting still;
I’ll thrill to late nights and pay the price;
I’ll eat my fill and do it all again,
And deign to fuck regret, and fuck it to a standstill,
Grandiose and canted, cheat my way through ill health;
A wealth of memories will grace my final resting place.

I’ll say: “Just a twinge. I’ll live. Just hug me gentler
“Next time, eh?”
And they will rearrange their expectations,
Bend exasperation the way of my genetic assay, smile
While fending and feeding their own demons,
None of which, it would appear, are my responsibility.


I may have mentioned before, but I have a chronic condition known as Hypermobility Syndrome, and it means that even a simple hug can bugger my neck/ shoulder/ back for a few days if everyone’s not careful. Also: I like dancing, and the way I dance probably isn't great for fucked-up joints, but hey…

2017.30 - Conflagration

I ask you what to write about
You ponder, eyes crinkling;
“Write about a fire,” you say,
I smile, but do not ask: what type?

There have been so many:
The sparks whirling in the dark
Pinprick kisses hinting
The caress of greater heat…

The open, clay-cupped crackle
Of night-time conversations,
The unfurling barbecue scent
Of easy summer chatter…

The turfed-in glow of trust,
Banked to last for ages,
The open-throated roar
Of wildfire, raging, consuming…

The thin, flickering reconciliation
Of candlelight, breaths held,
The steady, everyday production
Of the forge’s rhythm…

And, central to our orbit,
The song and slumber of the hearth,
Breathing the miracle of home,
The warmth we’ve built together.


And that’s it, folks - the final poem of this year’s NaPoWriMo/ GloPoWriMo. Thanks for following along, hope you’ve had a good month, and I’ll see you next time!

2017.17 - Elements of Sleep

Easy, like sheep
Layers of family,
And colours keeping
Things neat, and memorable
The castle, towers rising

Start small. H.

Hydrogen, Helium, Argon
Boats strain with the
current-fighting surge of
shoulders carrying obsession
like a curse

Potassium, Magnesium
A flash of light older
than living memory
they're all done, a
full-stop of generations

Carbon, Silicon, Oxygen
Clasping hands in waltzing pairs
but only one hand each
maybe a gavotte
or pavanne, fixed smiles

Boron, Neon, Xenon
Strange, so strange,
bright and inert
taking up space
and saying nothing

Nitrogen, Iron
The core of it all
beginning and end
cleaving and failing
and falling, molten again

Gallium, Plutonium
Waiting, tall and dark-voiced,
his half-lit wife
looking away,
straining to the birdsong

Everything else is fading
Or a clasp of complicity,
compounding interest
and splintering,
and Lithium

Sodium, Selenium
Star-metal
the Thunderer's plunder
understand the tears
splashing on a dry chest

Alumnium, Tin, Zinc
Ageing windows
opening into
oxidation blossoms
garrotting, gavotting
What?

Mercury, Gold, Copper
Hope for the future
is a liquid ring
on an empty finger
lingering

Rise.
Google is cheating
Rise
Warm milk
A new beginning
Rise
Read yourself a story
Cassette clatter
sing yourself to sleep
Rise.
And fall.
And fall.

Merino, Suffolk, Cheviot, Southdown, Romney, Shropshire, Polypay…

Marion Leeper, current Bard of Cambridge, suggested (among other things) listing elements of the Periodic Table - you never know, she said, something might come up. Behold, a gift of insomnia.

#30 Coda

In a rush of unrepentantly self-indulgent meta-poetry, I give you one to end the month with because, I know I won't win medals for this, and some of the work I did was pretty suspect, and it's not the most arduous, painful or dangerous thing in the world, but - you know what? - this is my craft and my work and at the end of the day I set myself a challenge (and several sub-challenges) and I bloody finished it (and them) on time! So this is for me and all the people who did it too, and all you lovely people who read and commented and said "whooo!" in various flavours  :D

Somehow, left and right
Clasped hands and all
The trudging days
Of pleasure turned to grind
And then transmuted into new,
Surprising pleasures
Are now past and,
Gasping, we stand here,
Upon our peak.

Take your time to
Contemplate the others
Now awaiting light
The doors unlocked
The bright and flocking bodies
At the threshold,
Mocking darkness,
Mocking silence.

Smile at all the
New connections made
And how they pulled you
Through the drought days,
And the doubt days,
And the days that
Tugged out fountains from the air,
Miraculous as handkerchiefs -
All monogrammed by hand.

So now my sisters, brothers, sleep -
Close your eyes and,
For this little while,
Just cease.
Your work's complete -
Dream sweetly clasping
Fear's defeat.

#11 The One Left Behind

It was dark then,
The others slept,
A perfect time
For whispers,
Clutched garments,
The scent of secrets.

Inescapable desperation
Moved me, and finally
We kissed.
You looked at me,
Unfathomable,
The ground dropping
From my world.

As the night came alive
With the sounds of death
The others, belated, wept -
I was the one
Who stood with you
That night in the garden.
Not them.

It is cold now,
The air empty of your breath,
Still in the caverns
Of your silence.
It was dark then
And, though the cock has crowed,
I know the sun will never
Come for me again.

#9 Lleu Llaw Gyffes' Woman

Imagine if she'd said no:
Don't give me claws -
I was given for loving,
I did only as you made me.

Imagine her saying it:
No, don't kill him -
Send us into exile,
Beyond sight,
Tell them I died.

Imagine if she'd refused:
No - let's just run away,
Let this be about you and me,
Not you and him.
Theft is better than murder.

Imagine if she'd said:
I never imagined men
Were like you - tender, attentive,
Bearing their own names,
Fragrant, unfettered by fate,
But first I need to leave him.

Imagine if she'd refused:
New-minted, the world glinting,
Let me touch it
With my softness first,
Then choose my own chains.

Imagine her saying it:
I will not turn,
I'll stay scattered, natural,
Making love to earth
And sunlight.

Imagine if she'd said yes:
My son, my own,
You'll grow to be a man,
And just a man,
Wound round with women's love.

#7 Excel Now

1

I met a man once
Who was brindled with kisses,
Dusted with love
From crown to tail.

He smiled at me sidelong,
I grinned at his misses,
And none of us got
To St. Ives that day.

2

She winds her hair into
A loose carapace,
Stretches, all self-conscious,
Face averted says:
"Well, I don't tend to
Credit it - this superstitious stuff."

I nod, I've never told her just
How many times my mother tried,
How many times my mother cried,
And what that makes me.

I stare in the direction
Of her reflection-absorbed visage,
Thinking bitterly how blissful
Ignorance must be.

3

Stack their several
Personalities and you
Might get a whole man.

Stereotyping
Is irresistible and
I'm not paid enough.

They're sitting on a
Gold mine but can't see it yet;
It makes me so mad.

4

I tried counting them -
Definitely more than a handful,
And less than two,
The task proving tricky.

More an elegant
Coincidence than what
You might call a pack,
They lack the desire to gather

So I never measured them
Successfully, never discovered
If it was her or her seeming sister
I kissed that night
Before she glided clean away.

5

Before I knew
What I was doing
They were twinkling in my hand
Then in my pocket.

"Docking your wages," I think,
"Won't start to cover this,"
But the tingling bliss of possession
Springs me through the door.

More than enough
To start anew
If I haven't screwed myself
Past the sticking point.

6

I don't hold with
All that - animal parts,
Mutant plants,
Pasternosters handed out.

You make your own -
Blow your own tune,
Rue your own mistakes,
Roll high on good stakes

Or trust your blood
The alchemy of a mother's
Final gift,
A glittering list of fathers,
Further shores beckoning;
It always pays
To plan your reckoning.

7

I've seen my share
Held them beating
Or trickling from my grip
And one night -
One memorable night -
I tasted all of them.
Mostly one by one,
But some at the same time.
Delicious, really.

Except this one -
And who seeks her out?
The green-eyed sister
Who lives to lurk
Around blissful corners,
To jump and tug you down,
Gritted teeth chiming
Down to your icy guts.

The best I've garnered
From her hooked embrace
Is to face up,
And gently talk her to the floor,
Then stand on her back
To better see what next.
You've got to get high
If you want to excel.

#5 Metropolitan

I have become acquainted, lately,
With the hands of strangers.
Mindful of small spaces,
We avoid each others' eyes
But I find myself
Hypnotised by signs of lives
Lived invisible to me except
For telltale skin, hints from nails,
The way some grips never falter
And others slip, regrouping at
Every other breath.

I've become obsessed with knuckles,
Wondering at how they buckle minds
To poles as their owners shift and sway,
Maybe already waiting for their bodies
At their destinations,
Or lingering behind.

No wonder that the strap-hangers
Seem to mourn,
Bereft of spirit,
Antennae coiled,
Clipping the close air around them into
The space defined by music, maps,
And the convenient trap of handspace,
Their lives carved into
Scrimshawed anchors.

I uncouple, step free
To find myself reflected
In the fleeting, myriad slivers
Of commuters' reflections,
Select a face to best fit
And slip, another salmon,
Up to air, to reach myself again,
Running my fingers in greeting
Over my own unspoken grain.

#4 Zombie

It took slow,
The creeping death
That hosts me now;
No shouts -
This sour air patterned
By a clattering whine

I'm sick of all these silences
That ring
Where we had
Singing eyes
And dancing hands,
Where our bright gladness
Was infectious.

I'm sick of stillness
And sick of lurching in-between,
This race from mere to mere
Brings no grace
Like the pace that
Named us in our past age

And I feel nothing but
This dull and jealous rage,
This poison ache
That grates
But still won't shake me.
I am torpor's prisoner,
Seething in this shallow brew;
Slight, meaningless, and grey.

#2 French Swimming Pool

I'm no mermaid -
That chance left long ago
And so I approach l'eau
Avec trepidation,
Celui ci n'est pas courage,
C'est une homage de
Ma copine qui loves it:
Piscine, pristine, cleaving waves
With ease, teasing gravity's grip
And slipping free -
In her element.

It isn't mine -
I'm nervous, always,
At what I see as this perversion -
This is no excursion,
At best a dare,
As I bare my fear and flesh
To this chlorine-choked,
Faux-marine scene.
Pushed past by children -
Rushing, cocky, mocking
The earthbound with
Sure-footed folly over
Smooth wet slabs to splash!
And roll and glide,
Thoughtless.

I'm tired,
I've been translating myself
All week -
Entreating ancient memories
Tugging at understanding
Sometimes just nodding
As I tread awkward water
Until I find my feet.
You are politely plural,
I always turn my head the wrong way,
And apologies are desolate
Until I'm told "C'est ne pas grave!"
Je ne suis pas suave, je crois
Mais ça ne fait rien.
Alors, bien, I'll shrug off
Disappointments and paddle,
Quacking only when I'm crossed.

As I submerge myself,
Trust my skill's suspension,
I find that I can still breathe
My more customary fire
When required,
That, on my own terms,
Not only do I not die,
But I can bob, smiling,
Buoyant for a while -
Un peut plus lentement,
Si'l vous plaît, does wonders.

And I may never now be chic
But I've learned that I can
Slip between these states of being,
These balances of tongue,
And limb, and breath,
And best my terror,
Gentle guest in another's country,
Still myself.

#1 Printemps

She peeks,
Bright and unreliable
She coquettes, pirouettes,
As yet untouchable.
Yesterday, late,
She turned a twinkling eye
Over her shoulder,
Fingers still extended
To her father.

Today she faces us,
Her smile almost unbearable
To starving eyes.
And despite ourselves,
We wag cautious tails
Among shivering pink
And thin green decorations,
Hope that hand she raises now
Is beckoning.

Appetite no longer dulled
Amid anticipation's bones,
We feel a warmth stir
That we'd long supressed,
Pretending stoicism,
Looking forward to the rest.