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.

#12 Rolling

She's looking for a new name
A way to shake fate
And take on the rain.

She's searching for fresh hope
A place beyond coping
No longer alone.

She's calling down fire
A blind strike to burn
Her way out of the mire

She's opening to clean air
Daring to reclaim fair
Share fortune's favour.

She's summoning the tide
Riding the wild crests
Arms wide to net the moon

She's standing her ground
Pounding earth
To bring forth thunder

She needs to be tree and stone
Hearth and forge
Shore and wave
Wind and lightning
Heart and breath and blood

But just now
She's looking for a new name
And it will be glorious.

#8 Catharsis

You are the runaway horse
To which I strap my ire
From time to time.

Reclining on a fat cushion of
"There but for the grace of..."
Well... who will ever know...?

You are cut out of ply,
Ragged-edged,
A pledge to the future

You occupy sly corners
Of my psyche
A shouting sandtrap

That era was exhausting
A forced march through
The further ends of every Bell Curve

You gave me these things:
Assonance, orgasms,
New definitions of arrogance

Consider this a thank-you note
For, if nothing else,
A kind of immunity.

This is dedicated to all those who will know what I mean today when I say "fucking BEIGE".

If you don't want to be in a poem, don't fuck (with) a poet.