The third of three pomes all exploring absence in different ways. While not completely successful, it is the most successful of the three.
every so often your absence
is more noticeable, like today
the removed from the rainbow
…a heart only air
the that is all hole
…a night without any stars
the bullet the glass
…a spine with every missing
the who cannot blow fire
…a fish without
BONUS POEM: April 19, 2018
It can speak for itself.
swan wings : the saw of the air : the piece : oftentimes : of return : the peace : the safety of a new place : where no one : any one : has their way : but every one : will prosper : coming through the lock : reflection ripples : relentless birdsong : playing dogs : oars up & back : leaping into the unknown river : willowy light : birthplaces : spires into memory : across time : making a mark : that lasts
Been playing round with some hare-inspired poems. This is my reconstruction of a West Country legend of a witch who takes the form of a white hare.
while hunting : in the afterbones : of night : her siren warning : sways over the valley : a white hare warms me : goldeneyes gleaming light : look away look away : must not stare : into her eyes : or my soul : she’ll steal : a swift shadow approaches : white haired woman : wooing me : face of ashen grey : begging me to stay : look away look away : white belly : dancing bare : on the heather : from dusk till dawn : hounds bray
look away look away
BONUS POEM: April 12, 2018
Part of the holiday experience is visiting places my ancestors left a century or more ago. This is one of them. EDIT: formatted lines the way I wanted them to look last year, but couldn’t owing to facebook.
wandering round the churchyard at St Winnow
good Cornish stone sprouting
among green dandelions
& wild cowslips
long ago some single
still yet-to-be great
great great great grandparents
left what they thought a harsh life
for one with more
in the far off dust
a short prayer away the Fowey
like silver slate
I walk over lusciousness
wanting to make amends
for a hiccup of snow amongst
stones so weatherworn
we vow we’ll remember
when a generation
or two is the most
most of us get
so though I might be
given the perfection
of their forgetting
I don’t believe
Unexpectedly found myself grapepicking for a few hours yesterday. Oddly, it’s not as much fun as I remember it (& I don’t remember it being any fun at all). All of which point to the fact that I was bone-tired & sore when I got home last night, & although the pome had been written, WordPress was as slow & creaky as I was, & so when midnight ticked over I thought, stuff it, I’ll just have a wee nap & post it early in the am (when I invariably wake up & wonder why I’m not sleeping). This did not happen. I slept very well.
Then most of today was spent writing & researching, until I’m now under the pump to get two NaPoWriMo posts up before midnight. Oh irony, your name is Alanis.
they know you
despite how little
just make it up
facts don’t matter
books to fuel
still no idea
done to me
in my skin
above my heart
i am always
This began as a draft in January. I have redrafted, edited & posted it today for obvious reasons. It is the first poem this month not generated via Word Games.
we live in a world, where, when a beloved famousity
dies, social media bloodbaths into a whirlpool : wailing
wallowing, teethgnashing, pedastooling, & deifying —
alongside attacks, assassinations & ruthless debunking.
since we have capacity to celebrate celebrity demises
en masse, it has become de rigueur to do so : vehemently
& publicly with status updates & changed profile pics
alerting the indifferent world of your immense loss.
trolls rumble from caves, dragging into the light
their democratic right to demonise — reminding us :
fame isn’t bestowed solely on saints & that as much
darkness lurks under the skins of those we idolise.
meanwhile, the day-to-day tragedies go ever on, untweeted
— as do the friends, daughters, grandsons of those left …