Poetry. Short Fiction. Other Stuff.
There is a moon out there somewhere
Sucking its teeth on the beach rocks
Tonight you can stand on the sea floor
That rare silver desert
Tomorrow flooded salt seaweed
They’ve torn up the trees along the boulevard
In penance they pour truckloads of stone
Into that silver moon-mouth
A Canute’s prayer to the salt lip curled in hunger
I will not go hunting for that moon
Grinding rocks in its foaming mouth
Tonight I stand on the sea floor
That rare silver desert
Tomorrow flooded salt seaweed
The change is tiny,
But it is enough
For the treacle sunlight to ooze into the room;
For the frost to slough off delicate bouncing petals
And for grey clouds to slip off the edge of the sky.
The shift is small
But it is enough
To realign the broken rattling parts
In our highly-strung guitar-hearts
And unwind a tune we thought we’d lost
To frost;
Yes, the difference seems no different,
But it is enough
To nudge our compass points,
Inch us onto new courses,
And find our soul-sails
Filled with Spring’s warm breath.
Once more onto the bus, dear friends, once more!
And valiant bear your early morning dread:
In resting times, we felt not 6AM,
Could sleep til noon, knew showers, breakfast, friends –
But when the children’s shrieks blow in our ears,
Remember then you are a working actor:
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise poor costumes with conviction true;
Then lend your voice a bellowing aspect;
Let it ring through the chaos of the hall
Like a brass cannon, lest children o’erwhelm it;
Prepare as for a thousand interruptions,
Suggestions, questions, contradictions,
Where teachers rest and you take up the reins;
Now set your feet and stretch your hamstrings wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend and hum and siren
to limber up. On, on, you noblest Actors
Whose training comes hard won from drama schools!
Who dream’d not of Theatre in Education;
Who learned twelve parts; and morn till three have fought
And fall’n asleep among the props and costumes:
Dishonour not yourselves with feeble praise
Because you tread not boards in the West End;
You bring our country’s children their first theatre,
And teach them with your play. And you, good actors,
Whose limbs are sore and aching, show them there
The magic of performance; let none say
That T.I.E. is easy; for it is not;
Yet there is none of us so tired and worn,
That hath not noble lustre in our eyes
When we do stand before a packed school hall
Waiting for us to start. The play’s afoot:
Follow your blocking, and upon this charge
Cry “GOOD MORNING <INSERT YOUR SCHOOL NAME HERE>!”
I shall stay
here
a Lady of Shalott
Pulling threads from my tapestry
instead of adding them.
I shall have less
I shall do less
I shall be less
Until I am only the sum of my thoughts
Translucent on the sunbeams
in the perfect quiet of this room.
I shall light candles
and meditate
and live on the dust that falls from my skin.
Barefoot on the carpet
I shall walk spring meadows
and the distant traffic
will be my sea shore.
I shall uncouple from human speech
I shall become the art within the frame
The upright stone in the sand garden
Poised just so
in this beam of sunlight
unbreathing
unmoving
marvelling.
Brighton’s fountain war memorial
Is full of teenage seagulls:
Smooth, sleek birds
Barely out of the down of their youth.
They splash and preen and posture,
Unaware of the poppy wreaths;
They are young
And invincible.
Aunt Melancholia has come to visit,
With heavy bags blocking doors,
Weighed down on chests,
Under the eyes;
No need to get up for Aunt Melancholia;
She’d rather you didn’t leave the bed.
She’s seen how tired you look;
She’s certain you’re not eating right;
Let her tuck you in tight
And throw that nasty to-do list away.
She sheds and spreads
And fills the space,
Certain this time she’ll stay
Oh, forever, forever…
Will someone check on her for me and see
How many tears she wants in her tea.
Beneath the beanie
And stolen raincoat
Hides golden-glow,
Summer apple skin,
Dew-drop, sky-split eyes,
Velvet, breath-warm,
Ebony hair,
And wings
In slings.
Gloved hands
Clutch at the memory
Of a harp.
Through siren-traffic
Rush-hour busy-busy,
And the January sales stampede,
Golden music wends
Melting the slush
And warming small smiles.
In a winter doorway,
Spring blooms.
***It’s Beltane! I love Beltane 🙂 Dug through my old collection to see if I had any spring-related poems, and this one has the word spring in it, so this one’s for you. I hope your Maytime is a fruitful one.
We did the Joshua Crisp 20 Minute Poetry Challenge. It takes an hour.
You pick a theme, or some words that must be in your poem, you set your timer for 20 minutes, and you write. When the timer goes off, you share what you have and offer suggestions and improvements, which often takes 20 minutes, and then you set the timer for 20 minutes to rewrite. Then you each have at least one pretty good finished poem.
The first time I did the Joshua Crisp 20 Minute Poetry Challenge it was at the Mesmerist in Brighton, I was in love and in possession of a pint of good pear cider, and I wrote The Prince of Moths. This time our theme was London, and I got two things out of it. I think I was in a better mood than Josh, his poems were much bleaker than mine, and they’re great, check them out. But here are mine:
London
London is the termite mound;
Its tunnels go deep underground;
It echoes with the scurry-sound
Of worker feet.
London is the concrete space;
The nine-to-five, the rodent race,
Where robots dance the market’s pace –
A binary beat.
London is a time forgot,
Nos-tal-gi-a, a tourist spot;
A gilded town built on the rot
Of workhouse grind.
London is a unity;
Grim humour and a cup of tea –
A place where us and them can be
Of one combined:
Where we stand in solidarity
Of heart and humankind.
Slave Labour
The Romans drained the swamp
and raised Londinium
on the backs of their slaves
out of the tidal river water.
Today it is raised for a minimum wage
on the backs of the weary willing
in service of new emperors
still promising to drain the swamps.
***
Which do you prefer?
We wove ourselves dreams
of love songs and passion plays
sewn into scansion
and lay together
on a bed written in verse
blanketed in words
We both whispered tales
from firesides and desert plains
warm on our cold skin
and lay out against
the curve of the earth, the night
bright in our firelight
Amy Writes Poetry 