All 14 entries tagged Poetry

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March 28, 2008

Another Draft

The women bounce

on their smooth wet hocks

on the salubrious counters

of the place of ill repute.

Businessmen bid

for these moments of poise

gulping and baying

packed and packing memories

into their pockets,

where the notes have been

in the spaces in their liver cells

in their repertoires of banter

in their trousers

where the fabric tightens at the seams.

In amongst the crowd

a soldier glancing sideways

young

and duties tied down

beneath his suit.

He sends off texts to keep his eyelids cool

and his wallet closed.

The waiting girlfriend

dozing

reads his guilty grumbles

in the paucity of night,

shifting her imperfect limbs.

One dancer knows the soldier’s frowning eyes

comes, enticing, to the lip of her parapet

swaying always

and oiled like a gun.

It is the moment that

his warrior eyes are

resting dubious on the perfect thighs

the coiling elbows, haunch and wrists,

the pouch of her crotch.

And did his trousers tighten too?

And did the little lady know

at home?

Striking poses in stockings

young and desirous

awkward in the straps of lingerie

and pale.

Nervously eager to be naked for her love.

The noise cools

and every dawn

in the still neon pavement light

the dancers poke fags

into their mouths

and with sweat heavy vodka

and fistfuls of fivers

they clean off of their skins

the crusted eyeballs of the men.

And did she cry

that not her flanks

nor her breasts

nor her back

nor her calves

were like the ladies

that he saw?

She curls her legs

into her little chest

that lives for his custom.


January 31, 2008

Poem in imitation of Roger Finch

It is in the dark that I find the difference

between myself, the green ink user, biro penner,

and you, who blues out thoughts in fountains, scored wet

between our thighs and scrawled on our hot backs.

Nibbed up into us the words, and their oppositions,

inter-loop: some dry and some bleeding out;

Looped sighs over the kaggy handed words.

Looped sighs bind our opposing minds

into composing flesh and sweat. In the dark

our difference condenses, smudged under the finger

tips and the mouth, and the cry words and the language

of a sobbing groin. It is in the moment, repeated, that

our sentences find one another, and we are the same

writer, with different diction. Later I scratch out your

scent, verdant, in words such as melting snow,

silver polish and moss. And the sound is mine.


Termless: A love poem employing no terms of endearment or adoration

I.

She lets you open her

like the two halves

of a nectarine,

prised,

from about it’s core.

You liked the seed:

Licked it, and kept it in your palm.

Now, without you,

she shall never be whole.

II.

She screams out sometimes

in her sleep,

and you whisper her awake,

lips

close to the moon of the nose

that has taken in your smell.

The sighing mouth

that sometimes smiles around

your wide heat.

III.

She watches when your

thoughts come

and your frowns come,

and leaves little bruises

with her teeth,

upon your arms.

You comfort her in the old fears,

and the fear

of this new requirement.

IV.

She sits by you

with the silence of tea,

still warm

from your finger dance.

The tasteable smell.

Now her throat throbs

while dual skins cool:

Shared heat

made milkily.


Poem in imitation of Douglas Dunn's 'Land Love'

The gate is warming in the morning sun

and where it holds my arms. Over the fields

I see your head limp and I kiss our son.

The still cold breeze halts. It scents his hair

Where it stirs under my lips. Thin

and warmer; You approach us, bearing pears

in your thick arms. Our child gargles at the

orchard and the softening view. You

check, pause and smile in your journey.

Bulbous fruits red-rolling your hairs, and, damp

from the tree, wetting the shirt. You

are as toughened and tall he is plumped

and smooth.

The pears are for us both and our

fences whiten in the light. Faces

turning simultaneous to him,

pinkened by the wind and by the joy.


MOTHER TONGUE

These circular words are dancing:

Carving rings into our chests.

Thoughts as brands, compassed

and encompassing the strange world,

returning, unsolved, to itself.

Scarring the irreconciled hearts.

What can one do but tremble

when the bleak ideas come,

unanswerable and cold?

One of us frowns, black eyed,

into the unknown fibres of his night.

The other twitching in her terror

of old discontinued discourse.

Of the weight of all those words

that fail, and the need

to engender them:

In the shifts of naked skins

in the reverent lipping things,

kisses, irrelevant, and sighs.

But what are these

when she cannot find the lies

to form your comfort?


December 06, 2007

..The World Is Going To End in 6 Hours..

Exercise: A three or four line poem about what you would do in the face of the certainty of your demise within the next 6 hours.

...BLUEBELLS... 

Now, my kiss can trust you.

It is the unevaluated promise:

A deep clammy dedication,

fearless of it's future.


November 26, 2007

PORTRAIT

 

Another boy has a head

like a peach

and drooped eyes like

an old lion

that is always displeased.

The forehead glides between shapes

of wrinkles and smiles.

Brief.

Jerked like a cough with

the ruckling face.

There is always a square fingered

hand

rubbing a tense

jaw.


THE HEATH

 

 I wrote this for my first year mini poetry portfolio for Michael Hulse (back in the day) and found it today. I reworked it a heap as it was shockingly incoherent etc.

 

The Heath

Keats.

Aisle Graffiti.

Biro lines, whose brains have had the

memory of who left them,

washed out

by lecturing voices.

A gooey diatribe dragging

its permanent noise

over grey coughing tiers.

Bars. Squares. Insipid light.

White pages.

Bad thespians in the art of the leaves.

Autumn leaves that

You and I

smuggled into folders

full of notes -amputated- and various poems.

They are underneath our rested heads.

Tangible colour and reality

seducing

our elbows.

Our arms have been

detatched

by synthesis, by torpor, and we stare

and we long

for the crisp damp death of the leaf.

They shall probably dissolve, fantastical,

crumble

on contact with your amorous cheek.

Have our faces become plastic

moulded into blankness?

Is there a biro that could sketch them?

They are speaking to us

about words

about autumn

in this cocoon of phlegm, and brains.

The trees are shielded by electric hum.

The trees are curling and gone.

The journey here and skirts

Dance, eclectic, in the licking hackles

of the gorgeous air.

The wind wants its browning

children.

It wants our books.

It asks them back to its bosom,

to blaze and to die.

Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis:

Season of mists, they say, and today,

out on a yet inviolate heath

a man and his girl stuff soil

into each others throats and clothes.

Their hands are digested by the villi of wild thorns.

Galimatias.

Thrusting and breaking and renegotiating

into skins and the graffiti of skins.

Briefcases abandoned on the grass.


Another Poem

POSTBRIDGE 

We canter up their scree slopes

with our backs to the wind.

Here is fierce, bold, a

woken snake sliding out over a man’s bare thigh.

Cold air ready to bite us off of the stoneway.

To strike.

And the gorse breathes,

rising out over and under the hands.

The day printing us into the underbelly.

Crisping, here comes the night.

To the west it can be seen, slow,

closing the heads of the valleys

and the faces of the flowers.

Burn-cloud tatters of the awe setting, the orb death:

The sun sets

and over the moor we

are not watching

for a pebble that clicks.

Beast shift.

Squeezed out

from spoor treads

into the sharp stream

from air.


November 22, 2007

BIRDBOX POEM

I have painted this poem on a Bird Box provided by David Morley. I sanded the box and painted it on with part-oil part-Acrylic freehand. I also decorated the box (which I inteligently did not photograph) with some dubiously scaled native birds. The final coat of varnish was ill-advised as it smudged the oil remenants but it still looks ok. It will be up somewhere on campus at some point. 

Linnet, we

fall up onto the arms.

The sky feast

plateau

where our man makes seeds.

For our children the seeds,

and here in the vale

we spit into their mouths.

Quick the

drop eyed dew pecked

flash.

Trill into the arms,

trees

eat us up

and exhale the songs.

Rustle flit woken

into the sharp day

and holds

the little branches.

The flights fall away

from the downed chests,

Dipped into air and rising,

elastic, a winged sea.

They go;

the singers of the light,

the singers of the dark.

The winged sea flooding,

drenching the gables

and bristling the fields:

the worm-lookers.

Man cuts and turns the clods

and the flock floods the rows

and unsown soil.

Flights fold and expanding

England dilates

under their wings.


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  • Charlie! you filthy filthy girl! Still, all this is very amazing. well done :) didn't see you over e… by Adam on this entry
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