All 25 entries tagged Poetry

Forcing Myself…

So I have lost my writing ability of late. The ink has run dry and I am forcing myself to cough up words like the last of my bronchitis phlegm. With it being a new year, I shall endeavour to write more in hope it will unblock the well of inspiration. Thus far, I am still experiencing a drought.

You wrote of me
on old pub doors, chipping at the paint
with a yellowed index finger
stiff with arthritis,
toxic dandruff falling into the denim around your ankles,

You wrote of me
in hometown shades of canal brown,
and Spider park grey.

Of me, you blasphemed,
churned my name
until I was lemon curd in your mouth.

“4ever” glittered in spilt blood
across sodden bar tables,
wet with whiskey rings and strippers knickers.

: 06 Jan 2011 19:09 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

The Waiting Game

The Waiting Game

1

Childbirth smells like anti-septic,
and tastes, for some
like gin and tonic.

Her nails pierce the mattress,
her mouth fills with saliva.

“Push, yes that’s it...”

She’d always been so terribly punctual
(terribly, because it was ruining her life,
hours wasted being early)
and it was so typical
for her first child
to keep her waiting.

2

“She’s stupid, I’ve given birth to a stupid child...”

Truly, she didn’t mean it,
but she found it unlikely
the repetition of “Dodo”
was the first sign
of her daughters penchant for zoology.

She offered her an apology
in the shape of chocolate yoghurt.
The smears never came out of the carpet,
tears a futile stain-remover.

“Say something... please, say something for mummy.”

A quizzical look,
and tiny fingers wipe away saline outbursts
and offer dessert in the crater of a petite palm.

“Yoh-urt Mummy?”

3

The sound of heels in the porch
was as joyous as that first wail
from newly-born lungs.

She conceals her happiness however
behind the yells.

“It’s 3am, where the hell have you been?”

The worst thoughts had tormented her sleep,
the worst possible conclusions,
not even worth mentioning.

Yet innocence prevails
in that apologetic, yet nonchalant smile,
before innocence vomits across hallway tiles.

4

Twelve cups of tea
made waiting for the bathroom
slightly difficult.

It was the nerves,
curtain-twitching, nail-biting, postman-scorning
nerves.

The metal clatter of the letter box,
footsteps down the stairs,
crying... blissful crying.

A place, to study veterinary science
(not zoology)
at university.

Two hundred miles away.

“I’m so proud of you, but wait before you accept...”

Eighteen years waiting to not to be a parent
came too soon
landing on the doormat
as though out of the blue,
as though it wasn’t expected
as though there was a God
who answered Mother’s pleas

“Don’t let her pass...”

5

“It’s just cold feet, he’ll be here baby, I promise”

Tears in a chapel,
the photographer yawning,
pictures of the happy couple
looking less and less likely.

“Your Father was nervous too!”

“He left you on your honeymoon!”

She takes the punch to her pride
as daughterly love,
screams as the car pulls up
and sobs the whole way through the ceremony.

Push-pineapple-up-a-tree,
a Grease medley,
made bearable for the chance
to stand on her son-in-law’s foot
when he offers his new Mother a dance.

6

The hospital years:
baby scans and miscarriages.
A redundant womb waiting to be a Mother,
a Mother waiting to be a Granny,
interrupted by out of date magazines,
“It will never happen to me”
and a room full of coughing OAPS.

A daughter thinking
“Is Mum really that old? She can’t be.”

A letter from the hospital
confirms the wretched news,
“It will never happen to me”
swallowed like a bitter pill.

7

Waiting for the curtain to touch in the middle,
she tries to stand up and rip them down
but the little girl next to her holds her hand.

“Will I never see Grandma?”

She doesn’t answer
but nods
and cries
and smiles,
knowing she will,
but it will be a long wait yet.

: 20 Jun 2010 22:54 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Question 9, Part B

Love hearts in biro stain your weak efforts
Already sealed and stamped with a large ‘F’
Shakespeare mocks you and Einstein simply points,
Naked likes in an exam hall fool you.
You regurgitate equations and toast.
Your education starts to taste sour
And everyone stares with red pen in hand
Legs are shaking – anticipate the grade.
Your failure of a Mother downs her fifth
And the babies scream out for some comfort.
A hundred teenage pores drip with worry.
Life is an essay awaiting judgement,
Why bother? No one marks it anyway.

: 20 Jun 2010 22:21 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Idiot

We knew it was the end, the moment
He told me “You’re far too poetic”,
so I hurled my copy of Byron at him
crying, “why can’t you just accept it?”

Then to annoy him more, quoted Hamlet
“Well, I hope Milton makes you happy”
“That was Shakespeare, not Milton.”
“Well, your poetry, it’s, it’s crappy!”

: 02 May 2010 23:08 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Sharing

Sharing

We shared 204 microwaveable dinners
but never a fish pie,
I’m much thinner now you left me
the best thing about heartbreak
is the loss of appetite,
my waist 4inchs slimmer.

We shared 38 verbal fights
(and 2 with fists)
I don’t condone violence,
let alone that time I threw the iron at you
(but seriously, clothes belong on hangers
not the floor, I told you it was the last straw
if I had to pick up one more lip-stick stained collar
and you’d be out the door).

We shared 2 beds,
a single, which was cosy,
then a double.
The trouble was we didn’t share the covers,
you were always cold,
hogging them,
you were an unaffectionate lover with poor circulation
(if you know what I mean...)

We shared 13 photo frames
smiling half-heartedly on our walls
to fool other couples at pretentious dinner parties
that we were in love.

We shared 251 bottles of red wine
(please note, this was more than microwaveable dinners)
but it was the antidote to the arguments.
I’m doing the drinking for the both of us now.
I’ll even drink rosé, but who knows hey?
Maybe I’ll go t-total somehow.
Prove you wrong.

We shared 23 ice creams,
and 6 holidays,
a getaway
from the suburban everyday
and then I’d find out you booked
self-catered
and I was your waiter for the week
because “seafood didn’t sit well with you.”
Then you’d announced in front of honeymoon couples
“go to hell! I’m not paying extra just to eat at a restaurant that just happens to be on the seafront.”

Oh you old romantic you,
taking me across the Atlantic
just to frantically serve you tea and toast
whilst you roasted in the sun,
and boasted that you looked brilliant with a tan
and that I looked like a lobster.

No, seafood really didn’t sit well with you,
but you still managed to give me crabs in Ibiza,
and you confessed over pizza in Rome
that you think we should just stay at home next year.

We shared everything,
1034 days, 9 dark secrets, 212 lies,
just to find, our traits didn’t match.
So I can eat my crayfish
and you can soak up the rays with another floozy.

Now we share nothing,
and I eat prawn sandwiches alone
in what was our home...
And I doubt you ever think of me...
and what we shared,
unless you walk past the chippy.

: 26 Apr 2010 00:25 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

A Howling Work in Progress

I saw the worst minds of my generation
try to quote Ginsberg like they knew what the fuck he was going on about,
like they too, could feel the beat from lecture hall seats
before hesitating,
to eat packed lunches their Mother’s had made,
ungratefully scorning her over-zealous application of butter,
before returning to pretend that they related
to poems about cocaine and gutters.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
idolise Oscar Wilde and tattoo his oh so quote-able brain
across their backs,
and proceed to talk about crack,
riding in their Daddy’s cars, who bought them the insurance,
hoping no one caught them, washing it for tenner in the alley
so they could go and watch French films they didn’t understand at the cinema.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
discussing capitalism in Starbucks,
drinking mocha-crapa-cinos,
calling knock-off bottles of pinot grigio “Vino”
throwing out their Nike trainers
because they saw some programme
where a kid called Teeno worked for 10pence an hour in a sweat shop.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
diagnose themselves as depressed,
as they undressed for anyone who bought them a drink,
coughing up lungs in nightclub sinks,
writing diaries that they thought rivalled Anne Frank’s misery,
bitterly putting “KEEP OUT” signs on bedroom doors
but who never ignored their parents calling “dinner” from the stairs.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
looking shady whilst buying records in HMV
even though they didn’t own a gramophone,
and moaning how unbelievably alone they are in their partiality for
post-Marxist-afro-cuban-experimental-nintendocore
because the lyrics really reveal the existentialism of their inner Hades.

And I saw the worst minds of my generation
trying to write poetry,
trying to rhyme words for the sake of it,
trying to make it look like they could take a word and match it with another,
and if they were really good,
it would only rhyme a little,
reading Philip Larkin just because “they fuck you up, your mum and dad”
and then standing in front of you guys,
with a complex and a with a poetic creation,
as if they really were any better
than the worst minds of their generation.

: 18 Mar 2010 20:26 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (3) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Performance @ Curiositea, Warwick campus

Follow-up to To be performed. from emily's coffee cups & poetry.

[media] [/media]

: 14 Mar 2010 22:27 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Performance Poetry

Creative Writing assignment from last week, unfortunately I've been ill and was unable to go perform it with my class. I love Wednesday too, why do I have to be ill? Okay, self-pitying over (I've spent the entire day in bed feeling sorry for myself, no need to use up pixels and giga-space or whatever you call it, pitying myself any further...)

EVERYONE:
Your verbal venom
Like sherbet lemon

A palpable sunset

On your tongue

let it run, run, run
down your throat

MYSELF:
each note
the swelling of violins
your lips a flaming ring

crying

MALES: goodbye

MYSELF:

We dined

Certain of maturity
Ordering a bottle of red
the very one that led
to our untimely demise.
We lined
up our insecurities
like green bottles on a wall
and watched them fall
as we shot them down.

EVERYONE:
Your verbal venom
Like sherbet lemon

A palpable sunset

On your tongue

let it run, run, run
down your throat

MYSELF:
each note
the swelling of violins
your lips a flaming ring

crying

MALES: goodbye

MYSELF:

We entwined
And lost our purity
in the glorious sheets
that smelt sickly sweet
of your Mother’s perfume.

We timed
how long it took
17,468 desperate hours
only to realise our
traits didn’t match.

EVERYONE:
Your verbal venom
Like sherbet lemon

A palpable sunset

On your tongue

let it run, run, run
down your throat

EVERYONE WHISPERING AND GROWING SLOWLY LOUDER UNTIL END OF POEM:
Run, run, run, run.. etc.

MYSELF:
each note
the swelling of violins
your lips a flaming ring

crying
goodbye

We find
ourselves together
in two separate beds
replaying things said,
ruthless untruths.
Lies.
Crying things like
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

: 04 Mar 2010 01:17 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

This is the Rhythm of the Night

I met you
When I was at my worst.

You licked those wounds
Saliva healed
The tombs that held my
thoughts.

And my soul
silently
slept.

: 25 Feb 2010 03:32 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Patchwork poetry from Howl, Metamorphosis, There Will be Rainbows & Paradise Lost.

That cool reflection, the coolest possible,
was much better than desperate resolves
at midnight in the railroad yard, wondering
where to go.

I felt really bad for having had
that attitude.

I was a fool to think when
finally
given a nice and subtle happiness,
as a foundation by others,
that was enough.

In bed
like a dead
sophisticated instrumentation.

This technological
psychotic
politicised
non-sensical
cigarette in
an empty room,
where we wake up electrified,

I will effuse egotism,
to play your songs in the clubs
and coffee bars.

: 22 Feb 2010 01:03 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem