2017.23 - Text

She writes
A titration of dipthongs
And longing,
Belonging nowhere but
Cupped in the liminal
Giving up normalcy
To eke out impressions of
The ineffable.

It is a bargain she struck
To summon fortune from necessity,
A tincture of grace
To face down the inevitable,
Ebbing energy
While she dances in the dark
Harking back to all the promise made:
A lady of enviable potential
Eddying now.

Tell me how this is better!
She howls on the bad days,
The aching nights,
Bites back tears and
Fears of the Reaper:
The cheapness she will show
Blown like dust,
Unremembered.
Unremarkable.

She is dizzy
In the grip of herself and,
Absolutely at the plummet’s nadir,
Hears herself say gently:
“Remember the connections made,
The way they breed more,
Warming the world with fractal acts
Of passion,
Hands held, however briefly,
Leaching us of loneliness?

“Remember.

“Remember generosity’s
Tender reach.

“Remember the greyness,
The taste of a battened-down life.

“Remember the incomparable colours
Of love with all senses stretched.

“Remember.”

She does.
She dusts down darkness,
Sparks flying
From drying eyes.

It’s time to write.

2017.22 - A Sofa Called Despair

I think I’ve come under a spell -
I’m not writing poems so well;
My brain’s had enough,
It’s been filled with dry stuff,
And my eyeballs are starting to swell.

It’s not that I don’t love to write,
But I’m coupling words every night.
#amwriting (Whatever!
I’ve jettisoned clever,
And am scribbling any old shite.)

But I can’t quit while I’m still ahead
Even though my Muse fucked off to bed.
If you cannot do better
Just get bloody meta
And write about writing instead.


Turns out that doing poetry admin is antithetical to writing poetry. I knew this, but I can’t just stop for April. Either that or all the late nights are draining my creativity. Or it’s just one of those days. Anyway. Limerick. Still on target. Bah. {twitches}

#1 Cage Aux Folles

Look at me!
Free to flap my wings
And chatter,
Map out my plot
In sensuous tread,
Admire my bob-tail colours,
The graceful wire
Of my horizon.

My song was made for flocking
No mockingbird, I chirp,
Flirt with my admirers,
Gulp down the praise
Thrown in handfuls,
Swing in short arcs,
Giddy with ambition.

Once, a small hand
Managed the insinuation of bars
Stroked my neck,
Begging for a dab of
Glamour by association.
I closed my eyes,
Leaned into a snatched caress
Blessed the owner with extra trills
That echoed long beyond departure.

They fade now -
Admirers and colours -
One drawn to the next songsmith,
The other to the too-small space
Beneath my feet.
I strain my gaze
To hills that were only ever vistas,
Heave shortened breaths,
And listen for the bell.

 

Inspired by a visit to The Birdcage, Norwich - image is a LuLu Guinness Birdcage Umbrella (thanks, Google).

Cross-posted to the Cambridgeshire NaPoWriMo blog.