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.

Do It Yourself

The table waits,

cradling the nail he

meant to hammer in that afternoon, but,

lost, on his way to the fridge, he

never now will fix.

Wasted in waiting,

for a blow that never comes

though

unexpected falls elsewhere.

The busted leg, its

grain split open waits

to catch every passing friend and

every time reminds

of missing piece.

I just submitted this for workshopping in my poetry class, so thought I'd share it with you all :-)

one day I almost died

It was a strange reminder,
a sudden recollection of the past.

For so long, I had lived under the shadow of death,
at that crucial time,
the confrontation of mortality was
face to face
scan to scan
day to day
breath to breath.

It shaped my whole being for a while.

I tossed it off glibly,
gladly,
in a way,
as soon as that hypothetical threat passed.

But it haunted me,
colouring my view a little darker,
a little greyer,
like the twilight when a storm's approaching.

Somehow,
somewhere,
sometime,
that tension wore off.

I haven't thought for some time now
how close I was to death,
how far I was from death,
how ever second,
every minute,
we all draw closer and closer
and yet remain exactly as far away as before.

Other cares have crowded in,
smaller in a way,
why should any of them matter
in comparison to the final embrace
of black isolation,
howling rooms,
never-ending silence.

But it's not simply the fact
that my firm conviction
(at least on Tuesdays, some Friday afternoons, and maybe one or two other times every week)
in the resurrection of the dead,
and the life everlasting,
amen,
has grown in stature and solidity
since those days.

But that my natural, human forgetfulness,
ability to be distracted,
failure to remember every day,
drags me further and further away
from old scabs I've stopped picking at,
until one day,
I brush against the old place
and realise

the scar is gone. 

ode to winter

Shadows lengthen - winter is here!

Frost breathes sparkling spirals,
transforming banality with fine, filmy fairy floss.

Winter is here!

Time is suddenly found for the long, lingering dinners
frantic summer's pace excludes.
Conversation winds and wends
conquering boundaries, dividing lines;
slow-cooked meals allowing slow, thoughtful answers.

Winter is here.

Summer sun mellows to winter, water-bottle friend,
warm rays become a couch to lean on,
arm to embrace.

Summer heat freezes, stifling no more.
Scarves, rather than suffocate,
caress, encircle, celebrate;
cacophony of colours,
trumpeting life in defiance of somnolent snow.

Winter is here.

I know world over,
winter means death:
frozen ground,
frozen bodies,
for evermore shrouded by the heartless snow,
concealed from summer's verdant glow.

Cold comfort's found
by empty fireplace,
winter slowly asphyxiating,
blue-tinged lips, fingers, face.

In extremity, winter frightens,
clarion call of death,
warning of unflinching finitude.

And yet,

winter calls forth resolute resistance,
brave battle against all-conquering elements!

What can be more triumphant
than the explosion of daffodils
after unrelenting frost?
The burst of bluebells from frost-bitten bulbs,
tingling their colourful victory
over death's pale shadow?

Winter is here.

But it shall not stay.

wounded

bruised
battered
beaten
worn

Can I get a sling for my whole body?

A bandage for my soul?

When you poke me, it hurts,
whether in jest or no.

When you slap me, it stings,
old wounds re-open.

I can't cope with much more at the moment,
please soothe my sores,
bind up my broken heart
and re-make me whole. 

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.

surprise me

The Comedian stood,
bold, sardonic, creative, generous, thoughtful and wise.

a howl from the rooftops,

a quiet question, echoing into the night.

"Who is the lucky one?"
The quick or the dead?

The ones who've exited this plastic fantastic,
super-charged and
super-disappointing earthly existence?

Or the ones left behind.

Like us.

Scattering our wonderings to the wind.

Answer back some time won't you?

Trump logic.
Please?!!

Give an irrational but truthful reason to continue!
Bless us with an unjustifiable, unreasonable basis for drawing in breath.

Beat my brain down from it's arrogant, desperate, frightened, weary, wounded sanity,
and let me live,
not in ignorant bliss,
but astounded enlightenment. 

anorgasmia

My life with church has always been

a fruitless, frustrating, wearying carousel

of weekly sex with no orgasm.

It's so exhausting and unfulfilling.

I don't wanna go!!!

The technicians stand around the bed making suggestions,

the number of participants,

the verbal content,

the soundtrack,

tweaking these things will increase arousal,

and on our system,

guaranteed,

you'll be screaming with joy

on a rostered basis.

Well it never happens,

and the appointments,

and the discussions,

and the arguments

just make it worse and worse and worse.

Heightening the expectation that is already disappointed,

calling for a something that is never going to

come.

Why torture me so?

It blinds me to the other values of this bride of Christ,

the other reasons to pursue her.

If satisfying sex is on offer,

but never delivered,

just like any horny teenager,

I'll dump her and move on,

seeking nourishment for my deep

social

psychological

physical

emotional

spiritual need

somewhere else.

But we're engaged,

not married yet.

The consummation awaits,

the glorious union with you.

The truly orgasmic, exciting climax

when all creation will find it's fulfillment.

So stop dangling this dangerous fruit.

Like all long engagements,

this situation has its pitfalls,

not least the seeming stretching

of every second into an hour,

every hour into a year,

enduring the not-so-great while waiting for the best thing ever.

So when we launch into the same routine again,

next time,

turn the lights down low,

turn the music up,

but never get to the point where the heaving and sighing gets anywhere,

help me to remember that it's a lie to expect anything more.

There are other reasons to love her anyway,

and to continue to hold at arms length

those doctors who promise easy solutions,

but no real answers.  

being kathy bates

So apparently I think I'm Kathy Bates in Misery...

That anyone trapped in conversation with me is just wondering,
"when is she gonna break my legs so she can keep me here?"
"how can I escape?!!"
Hoping that I'm not going to further display my mental disturbance
by drugging them,
tricking them into something resembling friendship.

Cheerful isn't it,
the assumption I'm blackmailing, manipulating everyone.
That they're being polite at first, because they have to,
but soon would rather be anywhere but in the room with me.

I think like that about you sometimes too.
That you're just loving me out of obligation,
and soon you're gonna leave me too.

In this room,
alone,
forever,
where I rightfully belong,
with only the emptiness and waste to talk to,
a fitting punishment for whatever it is my mind thinks I've done.

Why do I think I'm Kathy?

Why?!

even today

Depression's worst on sunny days,
when Spring is in the air.

More justified, more rational
when black clouds gather Winter storms
or Fridays fall alone,
with tissues, pie and bed.

On glory days, with spirits high,
the laughter of friends ringing in azure sky,
the gutting fall to darkened deeps,
emptiness,
harsh inner voices and
distress

seems more potent,
draining,
hopeless.

Even on this day
I cannot be content.

silent

I can't talk to you.

Not that there's nothing to say,
I simply can't form the words in my gullet,
they stick and swallow,
strangled before daylight's meet.

So how long can we stay like this?

Silent.

Until the words eat through my chest?
Burning through my flesh?

Will you "put up" with my silence?
Or will you walk away?

Loose my tongue
or lose me.

solitary

A really comfortable prison cell,

that's what I've built myself.

It's different than the usual grey walls,

barred windows,

prison food. 

It's the kind where I get to cook what I want,

use the bathroom when I want,

and even visit the outside.

But at the end of the day,

the door slams shut,

locked,

impenetrable social barriers, 

tyranny of distance.

The wardens of darkness patrol my mind.

I lie under my blanket,

staring at the cold, blank roof,

wondering how I can waste the day tomorrow

to distract me from these four walls,

this small space,

this tight trap.

in the air

In the air

where wild birds soar,
free-wheeling, released,
conquering city smog.

In the air

above this mild, mean, melee
of trampled faces,
broken dreams.

In the air

where cleansing light meets gentle breeze,
no towers, walls, defences
to block brightness, darken, squeeze.

In the air

we'll meet Him.


In the air,

we'll greet Him.


We'll finally be free,
in the air. 

as a fool returns to her folly

my heart hurts

I want to keep striving, keep trying,
to swallow that vomit,
reinvestigate whatever taste I may have left behind,
chew over the chunks,
so maybe I'll realise
why I spat it out in the first place.

my heart hurts

You could grind me in a mortar,
make me dust with a pestle,
then still all my pieces would strain
to re-form,
re-gather
in order to repeat
the foolishness I've repented of.

It's not a sin,
it's just stupid,
the tempting kind of stupid
that spreads salve on the hole in my hurting heart.

Elijah's complaint - 1 Kings 19

Crouched in the cave,
weary from the journey.
Head spinning,
knees knocking,
remembering the fight.

I knew, and I waited,
I had teased and cajoled.
Your perilous power
rested a moment in my gnarly hands,
so I waited and waited for the tension to grow,
then struck a deft, dazzling, dramatic blow.

But the dance took it out of me,
sent me tail-spinning,
loop looping,
nose diving,
over again.

How much longer do I have to keep tapping out your show?
Pulling rabbits from hats
to blind patrons,
carnival rats?

When will you come,
with your hordes,
with companions,
to sweep savagely down
through this rebellious crew,
once for all showing
nothing up their sleeves
no one behind their eyes?

birthday birthday

In 8 days, I turn 27. I have no fixed address, no "career", no children, lots of debt and a somewhat heavy sense that I should have it more 'together' by now.

But my life would not have even been possible in other centuries, other cultures, so despite the mild discomforts, I rejoice in the sacrifices of others that have led me here. For all it's strange disconnectedness, skating aimlessness and burden of potentiality, it is a blessed, blessed life, graciously kissed by love. It's a gift, fashioned for me and given to me by the hands of others.

I am sheltered, fed, warmed and embraced by immortal beings who've opened their lives to me, so I also have a comforting sense that the Lord goes before me, walks beside me, and pushes from behind me. He will never forsake or abandon me. He knows my future, my present and my past, and is weaving it all together in the tapestry of His glory.

But this morning, all my brain would say is, "yeah, you're homeless, careerless, family less; just as it should be. 

You're just a fat fuck who looks like Chastity Bono, wastes time like a stoner and deserves nothing better."

Thank you for the love Jesus. Thank you for caring when you totally don't have to.

Thank you for the love Father. Thank you for guiding and watching over me, even when I sleep.

Thank you for the love Holy Spirit. Thank you for shaping and transforming me, from stunted garden weed toward fruitful, handsome wheat.

"Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them was written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written."

not to worry

The foxes have holes, you said.
And you were right.

The birds of the air have nests.
It's true.

But the Son of Man has no place to lay His head.

How did you deal with it?!
The itinerancy. The impermanence.

3 years on the road,
three Passovers,
three passings-by,
of loved ones,
of places you visited frequently,
of people you met only once.

How did you deal with it all?

A leaderless leader -
everyone depending on you for everything,
you depending only on God?

Teach me!

Teach me how you knew man, so you did not entrust yourself to him.

Teach me how you survived, when even your closest companions
were distanced sometimes
through ignorance,
weariness,
hunger,
ego
and human-ness...

Tell me how you did it,
so faithfully,
so well,
when you were so alone.

Show me how to do likewise.
Show me how not to worry. 

face down disciple

I HATE your plan.
Your plan sucks.
A lot of what's happened so far has been awful,
and painful,
some of it tears at my heartstrings,
some of it tears at my throat, burning, strangling.

Your plan has been hard so far,
and I'm done with it.
I'm tired.

I know what I want the rest to be like!
I know how it could be, should be.

It's quiet and peaceful,
With lots of love to give and receive,
and very little lost.

I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO FOLLOW YOU ANY MORE!!

You make everything too hard,
You ask me for too much.

I can't give everything!
Then I'll have nothing to keep me warm!

I know why Judas kept a hold of the purse strings -
it drove him mad to see you waste it like that.

I know why Jonah went to Ninevah -
anything but follow where you called.

I don't know why Abraham took a walk with Isaac,
and found the wood,
and raised the knife.

I don't know why you got up again at Gethsemane and kept going.

I just want to lie here on the ground a little longer...

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 the meat
so necessary 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 black shadow,
powerful truth, now spoken as command.

Resurrect!

And light will blind her,
breath shall find her lungs again. 

Worst Confession Ever...

So here it is.
The type of night on which I wish I had a boyfriend on the end of the phone line,
Who I could text and say,
"Are you still up?"

I don't know why it can't just be you,
or some other friendly friend on the line...
I'm not even sure particularly of what to talk about.

So far, I've tried distracting myself with prayer,
Church history,
Elizabeth Gaskell
and Words With Friends.

None of that's really working, but it'd give us something to talk about...!

Of course,
Cosmo wisdom says this is the worst kind of public confession to make,
because it oozes desperation.

When really, it's just a hot night,
and my Prozac,
or my toothache,
or my heartache,
or whatever,
is keeping me awake.