(no subject)
Three poems, for those that are interested in such things.
First was an exercise in defeating writer's block, which is where so many of my poems have started, and like most poems that start that way I don't think it's very good. It got lots of positive comments on the writing forum I put it on though, so I figured I'd chuck it up here and see what normal people reckon.
[Intentionally left blank]
Write what you know
- what have I known? Pain
I cannot write your lines yet.
Love
I've written many dirty letters for
but not this kind. My love for you
does not take well to verse.
Ours is a washing up kind of love, I think.
Then joy?
I've known joy, but, do I know her? No.
A great aunt of sorts, we meet on bank holidays
or infrequent sunny afternoons. She is not
for pinning down. But you
oh I know you. You've stared me down
and I've slung my hook a thousand tired times.
I know you
bitch. You start every song I've ever sung
every word I spit
I spit at you
you half kill me
and I kill you too
- some days it takes an army;
today, just
w
Second one was written for a writing forum contest - brief was:
1. No more than 10 lines; no less than 4.
2. Any style you wish to use...although we all know how I prefer...well, nevermind, I'm not judging.
...although any who want to throw money my way is more than welcome...
3. The subject is apples and oranges and how they may or may not relate, but most of all, how the idea of them inspires you.
4. I don't much care for fruit.
I wrote:
I hung my shoes on an apple tree
while you slept on the back seat,
halfway to Paris. My toes
held the heat in the lavender field.
We rented the top floor
so I could use the rickety wrought iron
lift and drop orange pips off the balcony.
You snored. I forgave you.
----
The third was written just now, without a brief. Don't know if I like it or not yet. It may be cannibalised for parts at a later point.
Syncopation
Focussed on feet
she dropped her noose down low tonight
scraped these cider-lacquer walls and scooped down
against the table leg.
[This is a sturdy leg. She trusts
this leg, worn and cool and stiletto-scarred.]
Strangers first, of course
two tanned, upright and earnest upper heels present their lines
light hairs rest unashamed above the trainer and thick
dry sock - this foot does not expect attention. This foot
plants itself below the swollen calf and takes the weight
without a thought.
[Her tongue sidles to the fore - his flesh is rudely close,
could be bitten or tasted, pressing so upon her - but they move;
sail off an inch and gone]
Sidestep and slightly stagger
curlicued toes stutter, try to step and stop, pulling at their
lamé straps, big toe biting at the bit, small greedy nails
pinching with the rest. These feet have friends;
Vacuum-packed
around the straining veins, tired skin rubs against cheap leatherette;
then flat tyre feet flap by in ballet pumps, toe cleavage gaping.
One hot pink lump pops out of purple crocs
absently rubs
a sweaty itch against its sister, lets the breeze embrace it,
spreads plump barely misshapen digits awkwardly and
drops back to the briefly clammy cage.
[she fidgets, pins and needles
crackling in her calf, stretches, and refocusses; the known]
Two inches reveal her nearest friend; shaving rash and slightly
mismatched socks. Flats. Her boyfriend? Mid-calf boots
once laced green, one yellow - sloppy bows. Embarrassed shins.
Reaching out toward her, almost pregnant, baby pink
well-moisturised, just pressing out of cutesy loafers, trails of
trainer sock gauze loiter by the toes. Man-sized woman feet
wear well-fitted 3 inch heels and cross neatly to her left. Faded
Converse shyly nuzzle one another, and one man's Doc Martens
lean unknowing upon the knock-offs to his left.
They dance a slow dance. Not in time to the dim bass beat
or the shrills and squawks from the crowd, not to the clack of pool cues
and billiard balls, nor the chink and slam of the till. They move with their own
time, effortlessly jamming with the strangest jazz - you hear a bit of beat
sometimes, see one toe touch and the next foot shuffle - hear the laughter
crescendo as the twitch rallentandoes and that low voice keys in as the loafers
lean to the Cons - [but she's watching for the bit you can't see, you see,
she'll dance for the gaps alone.]
----
Thoughts/critiques welcome on any/all.
First was an exercise in defeating writer's block, which is where so many of my poems have started, and like most poems that start that way I don't think it's very good. It got lots of positive comments on the writing forum I put it on though, so I figured I'd chuck it up here and see what normal people reckon.
[Intentionally left blank]
Write what you know
- what have I known? Pain
I cannot write your lines yet.
Love
I've written many dirty letters for
but not this kind. My love for you
does not take well to verse.
Ours is a washing up kind of love, I think.
Then joy?
I've known joy, but, do I know her? No.
A great aunt of sorts, we meet on bank holidays
or infrequent sunny afternoons. She is not
for pinning down. But you
oh I know you. You've stared me down
and I've slung my hook a thousand tired times.
I know you
bitch. You start every song I've ever sung
every word I spit
I spit at you
you half kill me
and I kill you too
- some days it takes an army;
today, just
w
Second one was written for a writing forum contest - brief was:
1. No more than 10 lines; no less than 4.
2. Any style you wish to use...although we all know how I prefer...well, nevermind, I'm not judging.
...although any who want to throw money my way is more than welcome...
3. The subject is apples and oranges and how they may or may not relate, but most of all, how the idea of them inspires you.
4. I don't much care for fruit.
I wrote:
I hung my shoes on an apple tree
while you slept on the back seat,
halfway to Paris. My toes
held the heat in the lavender field.
We rented the top floor
so I could use the rickety wrought iron
lift and drop orange pips off the balcony.
You snored. I forgave you.
----
The third was written just now, without a brief. Don't know if I like it or not yet. It may be cannibalised for parts at a later point.
Syncopation
Focussed on feet
she dropped her noose down low tonight
scraped these cider-lacquer walls and scooped down
against the table leg.
[This is a sturdy leg. She trusts
this leg, worn and cool and stiletto-scarred.]
Strangers first, of course
two tanned, upright and earnest upper heels present their lines
light hairs rest unashamed above the trainer and thick
dry sock - this foot does not expect attention. This foot
plants itself below the swollen calf and takes the weight
without a thought.
[Her tongue sidles to the fore - his flesh is rudely close,
could be bitten or tasted, pressing so upon her - but they move;
sail off an inch and gone]
Sidestep and slightly stagger
curlicued toes stutter, try to step and stop, pulling at their
lamé straps, big toe biting at the bit, small greedy nails
pinching with the rest. These feet have friends;
Vacuum-packed
around the straining veins, tired skin rubs against cheap leatherette;
then flat tyre feet flap by in ballet pumps, toe cleavage gaping.
One hot pink lump pops out of purple crocs
absently rubs
a sweaty itch against its sister, lets the breeze embrace it,
spreads plump barely misshapen digits awkwardly and
drops back to the briefly clammy cage.
[she fidgets, pins and needles
crackling in her calf, stretches, and refocusses; the known]
Two inches reveal her nearest friend; shaving rash and slightly
mismatched socks. Flats. Her boyfriend? Mid-calf boots
once laced green, one yellow - sloppy bows. Embarrassed shins.
Reaching out toward her, almost pregnant, baby pink
well-moisturised, just pressing out of cutesy loafers, trails of
trainer sock gauze loiter by the toes. Man-sized woman feet
wear well-fitted 3 inch heels and cross neatly to her left. Faded
Converse shyly nuzzle one another, and one man's Doc Martens
lean unknowing upon the knock-offs to his left.
They dance a slow dance. Not in time to the dim bass beat
or the shrills and squawks from the crowd, not to the clack of pool cues
and billiard balls, nor the chink and slam of the till. They move with their own
time, effortlessly jamming with the strangest jazz - you hear a bit of beat
sometimes, see one toe touch and the next foot shuffle - hear the laughter
crescendo as the twitch rallentandoes and that low voice keys in as the loafers
lean to the Cons - [but she's watching for the bit you can't see, you see,
she'll dance for the gaps alone.]
----
Thoughts/critiques welcome on any/all.