Category Archives: Creative

After-birth

A white room.
The clock swam,
Wavered and loomed,
Like an artificial moon.
While I rippled in 
Concentric circles.

Buried in my cocoon
She beat with paper wings
Against the drum of my belly
A light tattoo

And then
Pushed her way through
The darkness
Took to her wings
And flew.

He came dressed in the coat

Of my womb

Delicate china head

Miles of Aegean eyes

Soft mouth that suckles

Helpless pink hands waver

Unaware

Featherless birds above his head;

When he cried my breasts

Ached milk

Like split coconuts

Into the paradise

Of his mouth.

Today he is four

I look into his eyes

And see

War.

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Filed under Creative, Musings on Life

Pebbles

Pebbles knock against my bones

I turn like a dog in his basket

sway in the hollows beneath my numb limbs

but the light is fading

Flies swarm our picnic leavings

so we pack the dirty plates

and wrapped in our crumby blanket

sore stumble to the car

 

In the car park

a lone plastic cooler stands

on a white line at the edge of a parking space

well used and forlorn

 

I talk through the medium of car door

 

Words fall from my dry mouth

like stones

instead of water

I drink you in

taste days spent writing

the metallic tang of dehydration

italics and ideas

half boy half man

the small animal

of your tongue

resting on my upper lip

 

Days and nights

of liquid bliss

whispers, wishes, wanting

and kisses so

long

we come up for air

divers

contorted limbs burning

heads bursting

staggering drunk on lust

blood migrating south

on the updraft of our breath

 

Curtains half drawn against

the summer light

I forgot to guard my heart

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Filed under Creative

Genealogy

 

At the railway station she pushes and elbows her way through the crowd. She just wants to get on the train, not to lose sight of her sister, for this part of her journey to be over. She doesn’t know that she will never see her parents alive again. She doesn’t guess that this moment will be replayed forever in the scribble of her pen. She doesn’t know that she is a poet, this Jew child escaping Hitler. Forty years later she sits at a desk in the semi dark of twilight and writes a poem for the grandson she will only ever see twice. He is tied to a dining room chair by a bed sheet, pulling faces at his sister, similarly restrained. His mother is sitting in the kitchen next door, crying softly, her cheeks red from the effort of wrapping the sheets around her children, tying tight knots. In an hour the children will be asleep, forcing the chairs to tip, their small faces soft in repose. A string of drool escaping from the lips of her son makes a wet patch on her shirt as she carries him to bed, her eyes still red. Somewhere in the endless heat of the Middle East their father is learning to fire a gun in the desert. The children are as far from his mind as the reality of death, so life affirming is this moment; what purpose is in the crook of his arm as he aims and fires at the horizon, how much a man he feels. In a bar five miles from the home of the children, a man with a jowly face and sallow skin around his eyes is drinking whiskey. He does not look like a monster. He has sad eyes. He is lonely. One day a woman who he has never met will be hanging dead from a noose made from shoelaces and neckties knotted together, and her last thought will be of this man. But he will never know her; never look into her eyes and see the hatred floating on the surface, like filthy petrol scum.

 

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Filed under Creative

Biography

So many girls and women in my story: it’s overflowing with them. Blonde, brunette, red headed- all of them serious. And fathers and daughters- absent fathers and present fathers: it’s all the same in the end. They thread their way through the girlhood self-narrative like clumsy stitching. These women are artists, scribblers, diarisers, poets, novelists- to varying degrees- the best a published author, never populist, but in print; the worst a writer of terrible, cliché poems about sexual desire. And then there is me, who has the biography of a writer- the miserable childhood, in which survival relied upon the reading of others, de-coding their double speak; the voracious book reading, classics all devoured like so much breakfast cereal by the age of eleven; the early attempts at poetry, aged 9 and later, the implausible short stories with nuggets of gold; the love of language, leading to the first class degree in literature at a good university where a published author lecturer nurtured and nudged raw amoebic talent; the urge to write, to speak, to sculpt, to capture, to understand; seeing the profound in the mediocre every day, measuring time in sentences, paragraphs and chapters instead of minutes, hours and days- but the novels don’t come, they won’t write themselves. Life comes. And now, even when history is at my feet, begging me to write it, I see only a basket of snakes, weaving in and out, hypnotising me- I cannot even see which tail belongs to which head. I could become a snake charmer, but a snake charmer is not a writer.

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Filed under Creative, Musings on Life, Personal Growth

The Best Moment Award

Image

Awarding the people who live in the moment, 

The noble who write and capture the best in life,

The bold who reminded us what really mattered –
Savoring the experience of quality time.

Thank you to the lovely Adventures in Wonderland for this award…read her here: http://alisonanddon.wordpress.com/2013/05/02/awards-awards-awards/comment-page-1/#comment-1011

Rules of the Moment Matters Award
1. Repost the award and award description
2. Give an acceptance speech
3. Pass the award on, and notify the nominees.

Acceptance Speech

I am just a small

intake of breath

A mote

A hairs breadth

Infinitesimal

A poem

on a grain of sand

Invisible; illegible

ineffable

That you can even see me

Is

incredible…

I would like to nominate the following lovely bloggers:

http://alicekeysmd.wordpress.com/   (because she writes about stuff that matters)

http://knockedoverbyafeather.wordpress.com/   (because she is brave and would make an excellent pirate)

http://ramblingsfromamum.wordpress.com/   (because I suspect she knows how to make pirate grog)

http://myspokenheart.wordpress.com/    (because she has a soft heart with pirate-y edges)

http://whimsymimsy.wordpress.com/       (that girl is all pirate)

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Filed under Creative, General

A Poem Is

A poem is a volatile moment

In a centrifuge

spun like

liquid air fractionally

distilled to smoke and

mirrors

<>

A poem has the character

of sky

each word a small sphere

of rain

catching the light

above the horizon

magnetic effluvia,

dancing lines

of subtle matter

<>

Poems, are tributaries

merging and convergent

to the heart

<>

Thank you to the beautiful Susan for inspiring this poem with hers: http://susandanielspoetry.com/2013/04/28/its-not-a-poem-unless-it-rhymes/

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Filed under Creative

The Lost Boys

Only red in

your dread rimmed

sleepless eyes

darting over freezing streets

swooping through derilict

buildings frantic

calling all the while

for your nestling

But

The roads that grew you

will not give up their secret

familiars fail you now

as another night falls

casting long shadows over

an empty house where

a small, vacant chair

whose arms bear

little rings of milk

stains sits

 

dawn finds

your broken chick

a bloody valentine

lying in a nest

of painted leaves

 

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Filed under Creative