super-late mega update

Here are the poems I submitted for my final folio in my Writing Poetry subject. There's a sonnet in there, so watch carefully! Some fiction, some faction, some familiar, some totally fresh. Enjoy!

imitation

Having never been aware

of the advent of wikipedia.org

I failed to prepare a suitable section for 'personal life',

being far too focussed on ruthless and bloodthirsty dictatorship.

The whimsical facts apparently so necessary for modern audiences eluded me, and all I can supply instead are the numbers of lives I took, while defending the voice of freedom.

Apparently though, I look good in a wig,

but everybody wore them,

so I'm not quite sure why that's surprising news.

In your time if a man wears a wig,

he's singled out for public blandishment,

as though it is right to demand a full head of hair til death do you part upon the altar of age.

But no! It is not right! I demand a fair trial!

A people's court!

The swish and spring of the guillotine!

Ah, Madame Guillotine, I always dressed for you in the finest of white stockings,

applauded your efforts to shave the unruly beard off the national escutcheon.

I also quite enjoy having a huge, weapon,

rising up above the crowd,

statuesque symbol of...

symbol of...

My advice to all future dictators is simple,

and garnered from my experience and that of my friends.

Don't allow young women to meet with you in your medicinal bath.

Don't shoot yourself in the jaw (it hurts).

Don't encourage the people into too many rash and swift executions, yours will be next.

Do however make as full use as possible of such words as 'committee', 'public' and 'safety', and I can recommend a little brandy in the morning

to get in you in the mood for

signing endless documents

and meeting with smelly men.

Spurned, or, Human Error

He was a barb:

a fragment of glass, swallowed accidentally.

He scraped first at her lips,

(her words caught)

next, her throat

(shredded, twisted into knots).

But it was the long, slow descent,

through metres and metres that nearly killed her:

internal bleeding the least of the worries

as they lay together,

(her heart screaming)

him sleeping, her distressed.

     Never had a minds meeting,

     never nothing but a near miss.

Childhood

When you were leaving,

and picking up your keys from the console table,

and rifling through your bag,

and going on about whether you’d need a taxi for this evening,

I wondered if I should tell you that

in my dreams last night

I floated on a magic carpet

in a scene not dissimilar the sequence in Aladdin

that we used to watch together

while mum cleaned the kitchen

and let us eat popcorn

and sang along loudly when we turned the music up.

I didn’t want to listen to the details of your day,

but remember the feeling

of flying without falling,

that even though,

usually,

sitting on a carpet is not exactly comfortable

for long periods of time,

in transit, this one felt

like a soft cushion of air,

plush fibres

and a large dose of subconscious recognition

that I was still lying on my own bed,

cradled by the extra, sheepskin layer I put on it in the winter,

and we used to speak of such things

when I was less anxious

and you were less busy

and we generally chatted

between our bunks 

after lights out in the evenings,

so pointless in daylight saving,

as the glow through the plastic venetians

continued to reveal the

shapes and textures of the room. 

In earnest voices we'd discuss

almost any thought that crossed our minds,

the way we felt when tuna-bake was served again

on silent Sundays, 

a gastronomic ritual we both disliked. 

We'd speak about the books we'd read

and I'd advise,

from my obvious maturity

the best way to deal with grandparents.

Are we grown-ups now, 

is that the problem?

The reason I can no longer speak

of frivolous dreams

and vague impressions?

Do suits impose a verbal prison from which

no ordinary words can be spoken,

only business mish mash and 

public speech?

You said, “goodbye, I'll see ya later”

closing the door before my reply. 

“My magic carpet's better than yours,

and I don't give a stuff about your boyfriend”

to the empty room,

the blank door, 

the missing voices. 

word to Derrida

You are a black hole,

whose centre is a vacuum. 

I am a solar system, 

whose centre is a sun.

for Paris

Not cold in her grave she lies,

but hot.

Baked back to clay by unforgiving sun.

Three days have passed,

but life's light does not sink down,

piercing thick layers of soil to touch her.

Life's light has not reached

her stiffening, suffocated body at all.

Her silent lips are mimicked now

by silent stares above.

She speaks not death's dark secrets,

while blind teachers disclose empty truths.

Platitudes.

Milk stuff,

to minds starved of meat,

so needed for their journey ahead.

Paris died.

Small child.

And every womb cried out,

empty arms groped for their beloved.

No no no no no no no.

Don't worry yourselves about it,

it didn't happen,

but it did,

so we should shut up now

and eat some chocolate.

Hallmark words will not revive her,

no kiss of life can now resuscitate.

But yet,

your voice may find her,

through soil and darkness penetrate.

Unafraid of death's dark shadow,

powerful truth, now spoken as command.

Resurrect!

And light will blind her,

breath shall find her lungs again.

sunset

Soon your hands will wither.

Those veins you can barely see now

will strike new wrinkles in your skin,

rise up over softened crevices.

Your neck will slouch,

descend to meet the breasts that

also have descended

down down down

to meet the bottomless belly

draped over wasting thighs.

Soon, soon, as time reveals, exposes,

your body will fold in, replace,

become unrecognisable.

This skin contorts, transforms,

is plastic

in the image of its maker.

A constant reminder

of your fragility, changeability, liminality,

the fine, filmy substance of your physical existence

in this epoch.

You should EMBRACE

this final, flaming, sunset spark,

the glory unparalleled of being allowed

to dance and shine before your maker.

And then, look forward

to dawning again,

upon a world remade,

fresh light,

new skin,

new blood.

Remembrance Day

She knows the names

of the trees

on their walk

through stippled grave stones,

untamed grasses.

Spring sun spears

fat broad leaves

Moreton Bay Fig,

Acacia,

Larch.

He wonders and wanders,

from tomb to tomb:

the naming of things,

a mythical art

too puzzling for him to scry out.

“Oh look! An anchor,”

salvage of ship-wreck,

called in now for memory's mark.

“Was it Cutty or Dunbar?”

he used to remember,

worrying now that it's all gone, too far.

“It's ok darling,

let's visit your Mother”

nervous of what they called

'undue distress'.

Gently she guides him,

past white mausoleums

small mound,

black cross,

Robyn's nest.

“She's dead?”

and he kneels,

“Ten years in November”

“It doesn't seem possible”

“Well it's quite certain now.”

“You're angry.”

“Just tired. I want to go home.”

“Well we shall,

by the butcher's.”

And so they return.

Past Moreton Bay Fig,

Acacia

and...

?

abnormal

So it turns out it's not normal,
this feeling that my eyes are always three hours more tired
than the rest of my body.

The optician asks,
"have you noticed anything abnormal recently?"
I say, "what's normal?"

She smiles quizzically,
thrusts the machine in front of my eyes,
makes a few adjustments and says,
"not your sight".

So, now I need to wear glasses.


So it turns out it's not normal,
this feeling that my body is just a body,
with good bits and bad bits,
bits that I quite like,
bits I think other people like.

The photographer grimaces in concentration,
stands back with his head cocked to the side,
then tucks me in behind dresses, bridesmaids and the flower girl,
my concealment now bringing the photo back to balance.

So, now I feel like the photogenic failure, and just want to hide.


So it turns out it's not normal,
this feeling that every day is a melancholy farce,
another opportunity to feel disconnected, depressed and alone.

The friends smile in happiness to see me,
warm hugs, loving eyes,
offers of support and an understanding attitude.

So, now I have to remember that I cannot measure normal.

from praises of panadol

My hollowed body and heavy head have kept me sofa bound,
house tied,
as I rally slowly from brief illness.

I had almost forgotten to pray,
reach out,
seek mercy,
glorify,
because I have paracetemol,
so the worst passed quickly, almost painlessly.
Fretful fever, ravaged throat and thumping head soothed swiftly,
suffering curtailed.
So easy to forget you in scarcity of need,
elevating gift to the glory of the giver,
praising PanadolTM instead of You.

But when I fell, and shivered, and shook on the couch,
room spinning, knees knocking,
shortened breath and screaming mind,
I remembered that without your grace, I'd be dead,
and for a moment or three, I was afraid.

Centuries of small steps:
hand washing,
miracle drugs,
room ventilation,
corset freedom,
plentiful red meat,
vitamins,
clean water,

countless quotidian blessings
conferred lavishly by You
are really all that separates me from
crumbled, forgotten headstones telling tales of
deathly flu,
terrifying plagues,
early deaths
and the truth of human frailty.

You've known all along it takes the rush of the storm
to quicken our pulse
and draw us to you,
calling you from your cushion of rest
to calm and to guide.

So in my brief gasp,
freed undeservedly by you from drawn out fearing,
I echo with David the blessing You deserve.

"Praise the Lord, my soul;

all my inmost being, praise his holy name.

Praise the Lord, my soul,

and forget not all his benefits—

who forgives all your sins

and heals all your diseases,

who redeems your life from the pit

and crowns you with love and compassion,

who satisfies your desires with good things

so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s."

Bethesda

I was stranded by the pool.
As usual.
Too nervous to de-towel and hop in,
afraid of my bare legs and arms.

Other bodies,
already splashing, racing, enjoying themselves
were suntanned,
svelte,
care free.

I wanted to find a corner where nobody was watching
and slip quickly and quietly into the water
where distorted wavelets could cover my horrid flesh.

There!
Right there,
in that shady corner.
No one would see me there.

I slid in and bobbed around
mildly enjoying my anaemic delight.

But the water held no healing powers.
And when I hauled myself up the ladder,
I was just the same as before.

I didn't want anyone to watch me.
I didn't want anybody to see me at all.

My mind was on one object,
and one object only.

Hope.

The hope that one day this would all change,
that I would move freely and easily through the world,
make friends,
have a name.

And when you came by,
I didn't realise at first what you were really offering,
I didn't know the solution you provided was what I needed most of all.
We were disconnected,
remote from one another.
I hiding in transparent water,
you standing strong,
speaking soft,
thinking bold.

I missed it.

I missed all those chances.

But you kept coming,
kept being,
kept knowing
that eventually I would understand.

"There is something worse than being sick.
There is something better than being well."*


*this is a quote from a sermon on John 5 by Simon Manchester. 

sunset

Soon your hands will wither.

Those veins you can barely see now

will strike new wrinkles in your skin,

rise up over softened crevices.

Your neck will slouch,

descend to meet the breasts that

also have descended

down down down

to meet the bottomless belly

draped over wasting thighs.

Soon, soon, as time reveals, exposes,

your body will fold in, replace,

become unrecognisable.

This skin contorts, transforms,

is plastic

in the image of its maker.

A constant reminder

of your fragility, changeability, liminality,

the fine, filmy substance of your physical existence

in this epoch.

You should EMBRACE

this final, flaming, sunset spark,

the glory unparalleled of being allowed

to dance and shine before your maker.

And then, look forward

to dawning again,

upon a world remade,

fresh light,

new skin,

new blood.