Confession

Forgive me Father, it has been two months since my last poem. My words are far from good, they are not perfect, but I have tried to do the 'write' thing. My creations are flawed but they are sacred all the same. Please look at them, judge them but show mercy. (Hee Hee...you know how us Catholic girls can be....)

Little Raven or Thank you Mr Nash

Bruised but not broken,
my tender wings, so heavy.
I lift them slowly.
I raise them upwards,
to the sky,
and bow before the stars.

A casual moth flits past my eyes.
I cry as I watch its moonlit waving wings,
I leap,
into the scattered darkness
I fall,
I float,
I dive,
Alive.
I rise.

I fly.

Breakout

I just loved him out of habit.
Regular routines of romance,
my part only,
I played,
my role of rejection
to perfection.

And now I am alone,
I realise
I've been this way for years.
So many tears,
wasted words,
and love
that ricocheted off deaf ears.

No more of not enough,
No more want, unwanted,
Invisible no more.

No more.

He's opened the cage door.

I'm out, I'm up,
in terrifying shades of blue.
He looks so small from here,
can hardly see him now.
My wings are stronger than I knew.
Gliding, climbing, falling, soaring,
I sing to the sky,
dance with the clouds.

My broken heart still beats,
it pounds,
and sounds,
like destiny.

Memory of Place (Inspired by Memory of Place-art installation at St Mary’s by Keiko Mukaide)

Floating little, lazy lights 
are drawn towards their trickling end.
Burning orange, amber, yellow.
Safe, encased,
in buoyant bowls.

Light through glass, it
flickers, dances,
circles slowly, ripples,
rests.

Moving always, nearer
to the edges,
to the final fall.

Huddled in amongst the rocks,
they wait, protected,
precious things.
Until they are returned again,
to start their dance once more.

Their watery song will keep the rhythm,
guiding them, enticing them.
Their glowing, pulsing love parade,
a pilgrimage, as one,
alone.

Their light will always shimmer,
on the water, on the stones.
Their light will always dance with joy.
A journey to the known.

Glass Tree (Inspired by Memory of Place-art installation at St Mary’s by Keiko Mukaide)

A glass tree hangs above me,
see-through, still and strong.
A hundred perfect, brittle branches,
float,
suspended,
long and lonely,
only inches
from the ground.

They waver slightly, caught
by currents. Cool air through a hula skirt.
Far too clear to ever handle.
Much too clean to touch the dirt.

Frozen, in its rigid beauty.
Wistful, willow, of
crystal tears.
Formed in fire, now
long forgotten.
Left to
reflect
a former light.
An echo, carried
through the years.

Paper Willow - Wishing Tree (Inspired by Memory of Place-art installation at St Mary’s by Keiko Mukaide)

If wishes were willows,
they’d line every street.
They’d rustle and crinkle
their white paper leaves.

They’d hang low and heavy
with the weight of our woes.
They’d lean and embrace us
in long silent rows.
They’d keep our small secrets,
in loosely tied bows.

Almost new...

The poem below (Fall Out Bird) is a bit of a cheat poem, because it isn't really new.  I just found it in an old notebook, where I'd obviously left it until I could come back and tweak it.  So I quickly tweaked it and stuck it on here in the guise of new work.  It could probably do with a bit more tweaking, but for now it's another step towards new stuff, so I'm o.k. with it.  Hope you like it (if anyone is actually reading this-hee).  Oh and it's inspired by the first line of a Fall Out Boy song, hence the title.

Fall Out Bird

You're a canary,

I'm a coalmine.

You rattle your cage,

but there's no escape.

My winding black tunnels

stretch longer,

plunge deeper,

and daylight is so far away.

You chirp on your perch and

you fluff yellow feathers,

but cold, heavy blackness is 

weighing you down.

You gasp and you sway

as your shrill song is

silenced.

This air is too toxic,

it poisons your lungs.

Time Flies

(Inspiration from York Art Gallery)

Dirty brown feathers,

on tired, old wings.

Resting now, dusty, detached.

The ticking has ceased, for

this time has run out.

No more beating heart,

beating sky, from beneath.

No more slippery air,

sliding through, falling down.

A home made of glass, 

lined with leather, and light.

Where words are your nest,

misty relics your eggs.

Muffled now, hushed voices

sing for you, slow.

Then flutter away, in

hard, wooden steps.

Storm

(Inspiration from Castle Museum)

Thunder rattles brittle windows,

blackened sky pours down.

Water splashes shiny cobbles,

Lightening cracks the ground.

My window seat is draughty,

the wind, it reaches in.

Water pools on tinted glass,

my warmth comes from within.

This trinket box, I'm cradling,

this pretty, silver, tomb,

it holds a secret, small and precious,

that makes my cool face burn.

My thoughts are embers,

sparking, dancing,

leaping through my rainy eyes.

They fly to you, through

storms and darkness.

They call to you,

from broken skies.

Ink

Ink
Sinks
Into skin.
Colours bleed
Into blood.
Steel stings,
Scrapes,
Sears,
Scorches,
Stains my flesh.

Awakening

Awakening is the name of my MA Dissertation.
It is a long short story, with poetry weaved through.
It is a story about a girl who has lost her inspiration, and rediscovers it in an unusal way.
It is about awakening creativity, passion
and the inner self.

Below are the fairy tale themed poems from the text.

Red Cloak (from Awakening)

You claw at my skin,
Slashing and shredding.
Such terrible teeth
To tear tender flesh.

You scrape at my bones,
So savage, you ravage me,
Rip me and ruin me,
Gobble me up.

You followed me here,
Through the woods,
Through the wilderness,
Shadowing, Stalking,
Preparing to pounce.

You waited, you watched,
With magnificent eyes,
Eyes like burnt amber,
Devoured the darkness,
They glowed, as you growled,
As I reached out my hand.

I teased you, I tempted you,
Begged you to bite me,
Invited you in,
To my little white home.

And now you consume me,
You swallow me down.
I hide in your belly
As heavy as rocks.

My blood flows with your blood,
My heart beats with your heart,
My feral soul haunts you,
We howl at the moon.

My cloak lies in tatters
Beneath your huge paws.
A wolf and a wildling,
We now hunt as one.

As White as Snow (from Awakening)

As white as snow,
As red as blood,
As black as ebony,
My face betrays me.

I reach into my own reflection,
Though I cannot reach the one who watches.
I cannot touch the one who taunts me,
Tempts me, tricks me,
Hunts me, haunts me.
The mirror cracks
Into a thousand icy shards,
To stab me with.

My heart is knotted tight like branches,
In a twisted, tangled tree.
I wait in wintry woods so silent,
I wait for death to come for me.

It knocks on my door
In a long black shawl,
Face and voice disguised.
It wraps me up in coloured ribbons,
Combs my hair with poisoned teeth,
Lures me from my loneliness,
To murder me.

Yet still I breathe,
I cry, I scream.
I hide away, I sleep, I dream.

But fools soon forget to fear the dark,
Young girls desire dangerous things,
Forbidden fruit tastes so delicious,
And angels often lose their wings.

I surrender to my destiny,
With just one bite, I faint, I fall.
I slip into my sleeping death,
No longer fairest of them all.

A Hundred Years Of Dreams (from Awakening)

The woods reach through my window,
Branches break the glass.
Their tendrils trail around my bed,
Where no one else may pass.

Leaves fall on my pillow,
To scent my golden hair.
It spills onto the floor
And there entwines
With roots and vines,
They twist around my leaden limbs
And climb with ivy
Up the walls.

My blanket’s weaved with blood red roses,
My fingers’ pricked with flax and thorns.
I rest in this,
My sleep-cursed crib,
I’m waiting to be born.

I tire of my slumber,
A hundred years of dreams.
I see such things behind these flickering lids,
Inside my silent world, I scream.
Tears leak out of eyes shut tight
And trickle down my cheeks,
Like sugar water.

My damson lips are ripe and full,
I murmur and they part.
They’re ready to be tasted,
By the one who’ll come,
To wake me,
To take me, to his heart.
I yearn to be awakened,
I’ve slept too long now, in the dark.

Bluebeard (from Awakening)

I hold the key to a secret chamber,
I clasp it in my hand.
Silver, smooth, hard and heavy,
It weighs me down.

I stole it from the monster,
But the monster first stole me.
He tricked me into wanting him,
He plucked me from monotony.
His hunger made me wonder,
What a feast my flesh may be.

But once he’d roused my appetite,
He laughed at my desire.
He teased me with the taste of love,
But hid his heart in darkened rooms,
His passion saved for bridal tombs.
For fatal fantasies.

He left me on our honeymoon,
He left me to explore.
He gave me every key, for every cupboard, every door.
He showed me the forbidden key,
He told me where to find the lock.
He dared me to deceive him, disobey,
His eyes, they begged me to betray.

And so, I turn the silver key,
Just as he wished I would.
But any hope of fantasy is drowned in blood.
I feel the vision stain my soul,
I glimpse my destiny.
But something stronger takes control,
I turn, I flee.

I leave the castle made of stone,
I run into the shaking trees.
I curse his name beneath the moon,
I vow to slay my monstrous groom.
I’ll stake his heart, cut off his head,
I’ll stain his blue beard red.

Portrait of Jean Abercromby

(Inspired by painting of same name by Allan Ramsay & Day Dreams by Alfred Walter Bayes)

He wants to paint my portrait. I suppose it was to be expected, I did marry a painter. I feel… unusual. I can’t quite describe it. It’s the way he looks at me. It’s different now. I’m no longer his Jean, his forever love, his sweetheart. Something has shifted in his gaze. I catch him staring; while we’re eating breakfast or talking, or when we make love. He looks at me with a cold determination, just for an instant. It’s as if he is weighing me up, sizing me, turning and analysing me. I am no longer a heart, a mind, a body. My flesh is merely a colour. I am angles and lines. I am shadows and light. I have become his subject.

Yesterday he brought me a posy of delicate, wild flowers. He said he picked them from the edge of the woodland that borders our estate. He wrote me a love letter and brought me tea with honey. We talked and kissed and sat on my tiny settee until late afternoon, when I dozed off, as I often do on an afternoon. I awoke a little later to find him sketching me in his little book. He had pulled my gown over the settee and placed my posy next to me. It was then that I realised how perfectly the flowers in my posy matched the flowers on my gown; red, white and blue with green leaves. Should I have felt flattered to find my husband drawing me while I slept? Perhaps. But there was that keen look again, that steely eye, that firm mouth. This was not a loving husband seeking to capture his beloved’s image to treasure. This was something else.

He smiled at me and put down his tools. ‘You are beautiful’ he whispered. ‘A vision. The afternoon light is your best. Tomorrow you will sit for me, in my studio. I am ready to paint you.’ He took my hands in his, putting aside the love letter I still held, and kissed them. Then he led me into the garden and we walked through the willows and along the riverside. There was a faint mist floating just above the water. It drifted silently towards us. It touched my skin as I stood at the water’s edge. I shivered. He drew me closer to him with his damp hands and held my shoulders. ‘You need a shawl’ he murmured. I smiled at him. ‘A lace shawl, yes, and a pearl choker around your neck. I have one. Yes, yes, and you will wear your blue dress.’ I turned back to the misty river, and felt my skin grow cold.

The trail of war

(Inspired by painting of same name by Sydney Carline)

As I walked over the fields, kicking up dirt with my scuffed tan boots and tripping over the hard rocks that jutted out of barren earth, I came across an eerie thing, an old abandoned playground.

It lay a few fields ahead of me, but I could see it in the dimming daylight; all bent and wonky. Rust-coloured climbing frames and a broken roundabout. As I came closer, I felt my pace quicken. I realised I was excited. It was just so absurd. In this wasteland of dirt and emptiness, of unploughed fields, of nothingness, here, was a children’s playground. In a field, miles from anywhere, with juicy green grass, the only grass I’d seen all day, here it stood, silently. Seen only by me and the heavy white clouds sitting so close above, that looked ready to drop like a feather-heavy duvet and smother the whole scene.

I felt my feet running, almost skipping towards this mirage, but then I noticed something, something wrong, something I couldn’t quite place. The climbing frame, it wasn’t a climbing frame, it looked like, no… a propeller? I stopped running. I stood still, suddenly a little scared.

Sunday Suburbanite (written in workshop with Gerry Cambridge)

You blind my eyes with yellow,
Like the sun that tans your skin.
You’re a Sunday suburbanite,
Mowing and edging with grassy delight.
You look after the pounds, they
Don’t do it themselves.
You work until you burn, the flames escaping
From the inky dragon on your back,
A back that carries the burden
Of our home in steady strides.
You wake me up like coffee,
Strong and bold. Then leave me
In the cold of your kitchen.
You must return to the sunshine
In your garden. You are the
Sun in Sunday after all.
You roast outside, like the dinner
In our oven.

What feeds my soul? (written in workshop with Linda Hoy)

The movement of pencils
On empty white pages.
The trail of black letters
Appearing on screens.
The thoughts and emotions
That churn up my stomach.
The stillness, the whiteness
Of spaces between.
The dazzling fringes of
Internal images, pictures
That move, sing and dance
In my mind. The satisfied silence,
The pause,
The digestion, of pieces of me
Rendered whole and complete.