My mother taught me
to eat mangoes.
Sliding the long knife through
We would push from beneath,
the leathery skin against our
fingers. A broken rubix cube
of bitesize fruit unfolded,
We stood together,
gulping down morsels
before the kitchen sink.
The juice ran down our chins
spotting sweet, onto the immaculate steel.
White cool box
that pulses, remembers, can’t know for sure.
Emptied in a February freeze,
Contents tipped down white, crumbled cliffs
to a tealgreen, icy sea.
The spark is gone.
in the water. Sweeping debris out to the expanse.
Sometimes driftwood takes years to resurface.
A polished piece planed and smoothed by salt and sea
is quite different the second time around.
When you cut off a chicken’s head, it’s
Which keep it running round
for hours afterwards.
I write to inform you of my
– oh, well how to put this delicately?
At first I was smitten, needing, and sure
That you were mine and I’d always be yours.
The thought of you with another – why –
My little heart would pound, tears fill my eyes…
The notion of exclusivity I so had bought;
I was smug in the sureity we’d never cut short
Such a wonderful wisdom, a lesson taught
In every book/song/film that came my way…
Apologies, I digress – I write then, to say –
That since we’ve parted, I just can’t make this stay:
My subscription to your traditional ideals of love has ended, and I do not wish to renew.
All best wishes,
A Girl Who Used To ‘Belong’ To You
– Sept. 2012
Once upon a time
I was fairly certain we would never be apart.
Like fresh-picked peas in a pod
the metaphorical chalk and cheese
hair gel and teenage boys
the stake in a vampire’s heart
marmite on toast
dirt encrusted in a bicycle chain
the rule and its exception
it has been an age since I breathed you in
– even accidentally.
Electrons in an atom are part of the same system; separated
only by a fizzing eternity they might not even know is there.
At our fingertips is every form of connection
but we cannot make the link.
Oh, great initiator, blessed with your presence
to set in motion a fire.
What burns must be destroyed,
must turn to dust
fizzing with dropped tears.
x is the sound of the spark.
We marked an x after every message, every sentence
but that spark, too,
The spark starts, and then it leaves,
but the fire rages on.
Why, then, must we call attention to the abandonment of the spark?
Our fire spits and burns with eagerness, shooting its own sparks into the darkness,
but to stop feeding it would bring the darkness all around.
This is note for me as much as for anyone reading this that April is National Poetry Month.
And as such, I will be participating in NaPoWriMo. After last year’s NaNoWriMo defeat (acknowledged and decided upon to make myself feel better) I vowed to participate in NaPoWriMo this coming month instead.
I’ve always considered myself to be more a poet than a fiction-writer. The reasons for this are probably more complicated then I have yet realised, but when asked I tell people it’s because I don’t have the intellectual capacity nor grand ideas to Write A Novel.
This may be true.
What is also true is that I like poetry. I like taking little wordy snapshots of what I see and/or feel or what I make up for others (often fictional) to see and/or feel. I like to play around with words and shapes, and sometimes sounds, in a way that fiction can let you, but which my brand of fiction doesn’t. I want to be self-indulgent, and with poetry I feel that I can do just that. And I don’t even care whether it’s read or liked! Fiction wants readers to inhabit and get lost in its world, poetry stands alone and asks you questions. I like that.
In addition to NaPoWriMo, April is also the month of Finishing LIS Assignments and Going on Holiday – so I picked a good time to write a poem every single day. However, I guess that’s the aim of the thing: overcome adversity and keep swimming.
So, if you’re so inclined, please do check back over April where I will hopefully be posting the products of my NaPoWriMo challenge every day. (Apart from the last week, during which I will be abroad. I’m telling you now so you know I’m not cheating.)
Looking forward to a busy April!
Life awakens, relinquishing secure dormancy
to become ephemeral and sudden in the quickening heat.
Wings uncurl, words return, birds soar
above the reflective pool, bodies creating waves
when they return
to the surface, to land.
the ripples still form,
spreading wide across the water,
searching for the source.
Tree trunks sit like prehistoric bones;
Old. Dead. Together.
Sun-bleached and stripped of bark,
Someone’s initials scratched into dead flesh,
Lean toward one another.
Curve up. Curve down.
Couples sit on smooth soft logs;
Old. Young. Together.
Untouched leaves remain,
But new life spring, expectant.
My hands still grow cold.