Day 23 – poem about idols

shakespeare_by_lastfirstkiss CROP

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.


everyone thinks
they know you
despite how little
anyone does
just make it up
facts don’t matter
only selling
outrageous lies
books to fuel
the author’s

still no idea
what you’ve
done to me
your name
in my skin
tattooed it
above my heart
the shadow
i am always

Day 12 – lies, damn lies & autobiographies

I am reading Rebecca for the first time after it being on my wishlist for … well, ages, & while I am loving it (& subsequently in that strange frisson between ‘why didn’t you do this years ago’ & ‘perhaps it’s exactly the right time to do it now’) I cannot help but think about the artificiality of autobiographical writing of any kind. Particularly after many years have passed. Hence:


the past is its own perfume

i don’t believe memoirs ;
cannot trust that upright
uptight autobiographical
lives as lies ;
lies as narrative ;
narrativlies ;

they’re all a fiction subset ;
diaries a sanctioned form
of lying ; journals a justifying
conversation with who
we want to believe we are

my scepticism stems
from my limited recall
where i no longer recognise
if some of the wonderful
seconds of my own innocuous
history happened as i believe ;
or whether years of retelling
has altered the original impulse
beyond recognition ;

i trust baser instincts ;
scent which can roar us
back to who we were
faster than einstein’s ride
but so rarely are key moments
accompanied by unique smells ;

even music, that effortless
time travel machine
risks carbuncles calcifying
accreting, cumulating
till the detritus of decades
is attached & the original
pulse ; long lost ; gone ;

memory ; is smoke

NB I’m not entirely sure it’s finished, or whether it’s missing something, or what … but running out of time & mental acuity. Thoughts & feedback particularly welcomed on this one. (BTW thanks Sarah for the editing advice – suggesting cutting 4 words – or more accurately one word, 4 times, either way, big improvement)


Smoke_by_rovokop copy