All 21 entries tagged Poetry
August 28, 2006
Writing about web page http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/5292102.stm
It's been a while since I last posted, but I've begun writing regularly again, and here is a poem that was inspired by the news story given in the bbc link. Obviously, it isn't an acurate account, only inspired by how the story moved me. Enjoy.
- * *
And there is always a way. A way in, a way out. A way.
Away – I flew from there like a swallow urged onward by the wind,
my feet pounding the pavement harder than necessary,
attempting to ground myself and prevent my weak knees from buckling.
run so far
in all my life.
Master. It was his way of hoisting my white flag, allowing him victory:
“Master”, I call, tears automatically coursing down my cheeks at him command;
“Master”, the slow strangulation of will, the hard iron cuffs about my skinny
wrists, carving his mark: “Master” into the bark of my bone.
He found me on the way to school. It was as simple as “Hello”, as simple as
a handshake. A How–Do–You–Do. Simple, yet, as is the way with fate, that hand–
shake sealed a contract (I was not old enough to know about small–print)
and hand–in–hand his grip tightened and off he walked, trailing me behind, my
And the tears.
Ten years. Those words mean not a thing to me. What is eight years?
It is not 365 times eight. It is not twelve times eight. It is not measurable for me
except by the childhood I lost, how much I missed my mother, and the memories
I’ll never have; high school boys, the parties and a sweet sixteen. Sixteen was never
But there is always a way, a way in, a way out. There is a way to condense eight years
into an acorn, and
July 14, 2006
Quick note from Florence – I'm alive and it is HOT out here! (weatherwise)
More soon about the travels…its been wonderful…but first check out my first (second) published work, thanks to Roy :)
A few of my poems can be read in issue IV of Platforms Magazine
The magazine is general very cool so check out the other sections too, and while you're at it browse the back issues ;)
June 08, 2006
I found this in my notebook. It's not great, definately needs redrafting but I thought I'd post it all the same...
sunlight fades and night
crawls into bed
beneath the covers
wraps a gloved hand a–
round my pupil
and darkness dissolves
into that non–space between
sleep and trying
too hard to
in which I toss
of elves who have discovered a new
these irritated limbs
for twisting thoughts
– a flutter –
butterfly beside my ear
each frantic wing–beat
I see the spider's web that's latched you on
I’ll ease into your fragile frame
set you free
(or is it he?)
and heavy whisps of thought
push through my ears
slide along my hair
and out into the air;
I spin my mind throughout the room, around
releasing slaves of memory
who’s chains I wove with this same
upon each strand,
a single tear is thread.
a salty river flows
glazing webs that grow
throughout the room
as if they wear
the morning's dew—
turned these self–indulgencies
into a natural work of art
June 04, 2006
Three days 'til my Poery and Society exam and I have begun to wish I'd taken an interest in it earlier. Due to various reasons, mostly my attitude towards the course, I haven't worked as hard as I could have this year and now that I am beginning to read the poets of the Romantic and Victorian eras in more depth, I am finding myself enjoying them more and more.
What I really wanted to blog now, is my discovery of Middle Eastern influences in Poetry of this period. Two examples:
Shelley's The Revolt of Islam, a poem in twelve cantos. The revolutionary radicalism in this poem was too much for Shelley's publishers and he was forced to revise it considerably and publish it under another title.
Matthew Arnold's Sohrab and Rustam. Rustam is the epic hero of one of the greatest works in Persian literature, The Shahname and Sohrab was his son. I haven't had the chance to read the poem thoroughly, but it may be Arnold's version of one of The Shahname's many stories concerning Rustam and Sohrab's lives.
April 26, 2006
slipped slit split spilt
crass sounds born sharp and shattered
crack bracken underfoot and river
wide eyes ravage a bridle wild
scrape rack rude unwound unbound
and in dismay away away
go break her broken battered grate
swim in and out and fringe and fire
blush black a lilac cataract
see-see see-saw saw-she he
wish one and two and three’s for free
she’s free she’s free
globules drip role slide gloop gloop
a troop a trollop a whip a whoop
here shudders she his udders hung
strung up the window widow stung
swap smack this wrist my mouth and toe
and tiger’s tongue a-licking liking locking
April 06, 2006
I cam across this poem of Walcott's and was compelled to share it:
Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
January 28, 2006
The train is constant; it chugs through the sole of my shoe and ends its route somewhere
near a cochlea. Blind to noise, we take tea together, while teacups rain from the heavy sky
and litter the ground with broken shards, grey against the sand. “Where
do we end?” you ask Five
whilst counting dis-
located fingers (we have only just begun, but Zero already told you that).
Tears collect in the corners of my elongated mouth as I
gag, gag, gag, gag, gag
gloves on my hands like leather skin of a minotaur leading my deaf eyes ‘round each corner,
jerking muscles beneath my touch,
hoof in my hand,
horn in my hair, shattered
He leaves me by a pool, yellow water, rippling red: my reflection
emerging to meet me.
It’s been a while.
We are glued, my self and me I rise from the water
and watch my habitat evolve: the serpent and the lizard making love,
chasing the call of a distant whale through the purple sky.
The reptiles interest me most. They want to break
apart and resign to genetic dictatorship, yet
they cannot resist: the serpent coiled
around the lizard’s scaly
back, thrusting and writhing, tongues
flicking in and out with pleasure.
They are too immersed in their reptilian tantra, oblivious
to the quicksand gradually consuming their rapt forms.
The plain unfolds itself to me and on the mountain’s tail I am met by a withered virgin,
feet bleeding at the end of cankered ankles (the Ram
and the Virgin,
each a grotesque
image of the other, mirrored mouths open in silent scream, forever forward, forward, don’t
Bones emerge from beneath my skin.
I bleed to the river, misting what we know and what we will know, cracking
cups, sipping the entrails of an oyster shell, piercing
our eyes with darts, crying and laughing as we dance back-to-
back through shifting spotlights of pink and indigo
fade to black: how
could we have managed all of this?
N.B. I have played with the form of this poem a lot but the blog with not allow me to post some of the physical ways in which I have manipulated it. In my opinion the line breaks also need a lot of work. Don't let that affect your reading though!
‘It will even be affirmed that much learning deadens or perverts poetic sensibility.’ ~ T.S. Eliot
To Be Poetic
rain drains the grey sky deadened and hung-
over after a night full
the wind’s acute sensibility perverts
and whips the sea
waves clawing the air
for the seduction of their coveted globe
(no amount of learning or
strength of will
can change the temporality of such a lover)
centuries of love poetry have affirmed
that there is an undeniable attraction to
(even wolves admit as much)
December 30, 2005
I'm back from the East and ready for a new term at Warwick…it's going to be hectic with The Lover, One World Week and Orpheus coming up, not to mention my degree! But I'm rearing to go…
Here's another part to my poem, it's rough (as always I'm a terribly lazy editor for my own work) and if I manage to write another part to the poem this will become part VI, the final part. Enjoy.
From an Iran Air Bowing 711
Tehran irritates the landscpae like a white rash, dry scales on
smooth coffee skin of the Alborz Mountains
which lie like sleeping bodies, tanned beneath the Eastern sun.
they've been lying, slumped over each other in a drunken stupour
for eons, and empires, kings and dynasties have passed them by like
flowing water, constantly renewing but essentially the same.
distant snow-capped ridges are women folk,
veiled in satin so that their peaks and curves are highlighted;
skiiers long to run their ski fingers
over the bellies of these gargantuous brides. we rise and the sun casts
shadows that shade the shrinking mountains like a frozen sea mid-
storm, waves tossing in a wind that blows against the determined sun;
the blade of our wing slices the clouds like soft cheese
as we score our route from East
December 26, 2005
Here's another rough draft for you, comments very welcome.
cirlcing like beweildered magpie, unsure
in which direction to begin looking: shoppers are surrounded by
gold, silver, jade, emerald, royal red, quileted together
in the corridors of the jom'e bazaar; there are
reels of the finest fabric, fit for a sultan's bride,
and the glint of jewelery relfects in the pupils of many
stall owners and shoppers alike. everyone
has one eye on their hand-bag and the other on the next
potential bargain, each person weighing their neighbour
against the demand and haggle for every treasure:
piles of sequinned slippers, heaps of silver pendants, sprawling
veils that waver in the breeze and beckon,
they are impossible to ignore. the tired expressions
of merchants sat upon their laden sheets, go unnoticed as we
shove cheap notes into their chapped hands and move on.
Yesterday in Tehran there was a bus strike. The bus drivers here are tired of their long hours and extremely low wages so they resorted to protest. The interesting part for me was that they did not stop work; instead, they drove through the streets of Tehran refusing pick up the queues of people waiting for a ride in the pouring rain. The strike had not been sufficiently publicised and there were thousands who had no idea there were no bus services available. The buses would stop on busy street corners, displaying their empty seats through rain-blurred windows, and waiting bus users stood in the middle of main roads to block traffic and delay the rush hour. The bus drivers deliberately paraded their empty carriages in order to anger people so that they would create enough fuss for the people who need to be listening to hear. The people in chare don't care if there are no buses, they have their private cars and like the extra budget pocket money, but hopefully they'll start to care if/when people start smashing bus windows in frustration and block traffic to agrivate the horrendous traffic situation here…what will it take for them to listen?