The crack in the glass.
A slight increase in temperature.
The just-ajar door.
A subtle nudge.
The loose thread in the jumper.
A gentle tug.
The snowball at the top of the mountain
waits for that one, tiny push
to start the avalanche.
23 February 2009
This was written immediately following a discussion about being tempted to have an affair: How little it would take to move from something innocent, to something with serious, even disastrous, consequences.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
15th February
In the shop window:
the wide-eyed teddy bears,
clutching pink, satin hearts;
the cushions of crimson velvet,
embroidered with “I Love You”
in silver thread;
the tea-tray-sized cards,
offering a dozen, padded, red silk roses
“To My Girlfriend”;
the gold-rimmed, champagne glass pairs,
packed in boxes
displaying them through
cut-out, cellophane-covered hearts.
All half-hidden behind the
paper banners stuck to the inside of the glass:
”Half Price Sale”.
16 February 2009
I was deliberately trying to use "clunky" language to convey the tackniess of the items (just in case you thought it was all a bit "over-wordy")!
the wide-eyed teddy bears,
clutching pink, satin hearts;
the cushions of crimson velvet,
embroidered with “I Love You”
in silver thread;
the tea-tray-sized cards,
offering a dozen, padded, red silk roses
“To My Girlfriend”;
the gold-rimmed, champagne glass pairs,
packed in boxes
displaying them through
cut-out, cellophane-covered hearts.
All half-hidden behind the
paper banners stuck to the inside of the glass:
”Half Price Sale”.
16 February 2009
I was deliberately trying to use "clunky" language to convey the tackniess of the items (just in case you thought it was all a bit "over-wordy")!
Comfort
The window-pane lens
focuses the sun’s winter
rays on one bright point.
Propped up in bed, with
the curtains open, I feel
my sore throat drenched in
the white-hot linctus.
4 February 2009
And another on the same day! Still not sure about the title, I considered: Heat, Warmth, Soothed, etc. I am also aware that one swallows linctus, so the effect is felt on the inside of one's throat: oh, well!
focuses the sun’s winter
rays on one bright point.
Propped up in bed, with
the curtains open, I feel
my sore throat drenched in
the white-hot linctus.
4 February 2009
And another on the same day! Still not sure about the title, I considered: Heat, Warmth, Soothed, etc. I am also aware that one swallows linctus, so the effect is felt on the inside of one's throat: oh, well!
Thaw
The trees weep cold tears,
as the fluffy, white duvet
slides from their branches.
4 February 2009
The 4th of February was obviously an inspiring day! I seem to be writing a lot of poems with one-word titles at the moment...
as the fluffy, white duvet
slides from their branches.
4 February 2009
The 4th of February was obviously an inspiring day! I seem to be writing a lot of poems with one-word titles at the moment...
Stain
A single, red rose
lies on the snow. Blood on a
clean, white handkerchief.
4 February 2009
This was something I saw during the big snows we had a few weeks ago. I've been very slow to put it up on the blog, as I've had rather a lot going on. As with so many of my "pavement poems", one is left wondering about the "back story": some tragic love affair, or just a florist dropping part of their delivery.
lies on the snow. Blood on a
clean, white handkerchief.
4 February 2009
This was something I saw during the big snows we had a few weeks ago. I've been very slow to put it up on the blog, as I've had rather a lot going on. As with so many of my "pavement poems", one is left wondering about the "back story": some tragic love affair, or just a florist dropping part of their delivery.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Crossing Over
The child minder crosses
at the lights with a push-chair
and a little girl
in a pink, woolly hat.
The little girl is skipping.
I have never seen
an adult skip. When do we
forget the steps to
The Dance of Lambs in Spring?
16 January 2009
I'm not sure I've achieved what I wanted to with this poem, but I was struck by the two thoughts that stopping skipping is definitely a sign of crossing from childhood into adulthood, so it was ironic I saw this when the child was crossing the road; and that it's as if growing up involves forgetting something beautiful, like a dance (and skipping is, of course, sort of dance-like...) Hints of "A Dance to the Music of Time" as well, I suppose...
at the lights with a push-chair
and a little girl
in a pink, woolly hat.
The little girl is skipping.
I have never seen
an adult skip. When do we
forget the steps to
The Dance of Lambs in Spring?
16 January 2009
I'm not sure I've achieved what I wanted to with this poem, but I was struck by the two thoughts that stopping skipping is definitely a sign of crossing from childhood into adulthood, so it was ironic I saw this when the child was crossing the road; and that it's as if growing up involves forgetting something beautiful, like a dance (and skipping is, of course, sort of dance-like...) Hints of "A Dance to the Music of Time" as well, I suppose...
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Vicarious
Half my life ago,
I lay with another black
cat with swelling sides,
waiting for her babies. Now,
my womb howls for each child who
drowned in its warm, red darkness.
10 January 2009
I wrote the poem below, about my pregnant, black cat Grizzabella, on 14 August 1983, which is actually pretty close to 25 years ago, though I didn't know that, until I checked the old poem...
Mother-to-Be
She is unsure of her ballooning body…
Sometimes, she mistimes her jumps,
And has to claw her way to safety.
Sometimes, she lies in the garden,
Smugly spreading her stomach to the sun,
Her swollen teats, two rows of white-iced cupcakes,
Topped with sugary-pink jelly tots.
Tonight, she sleeps on my stomach,
And I stroke the dark and velvet fur,
Feeling the tiny lumps
Writhe under my fingertips.
I wrap her whole body
In my flesh, and whisper –
My babies,
My babies.
Since then, I have had William, Alice's still birth, and all the miscarriages, plus I am too old for children now, so the contrast seems particularly painful. I fiddled with it for ages, and am still not sure I have the best version. Not at all sure about the title either: oh, well...
I lay with another black
cat with swelling sides,
waiting for her babies. Now,
my womb howls for each child who
drowned in its warm, red darkness.
10 January 2009
I wrote the poem below, about my pregnant, black cat Grizzabella, on 14 August 1983, which is actually pretty close to 25 years ago, though I didn't know that, until I checked the old poem...
Mother-to-Be
She is unsure of her ballooning body…
Sometimes, she mistimes her jumps,
And has to claw her way to safety.
Sometimes, she lies in the garden,
Smugly spreading her stomach to the sun,
Her swollen teats, two rows of white-iced cupcakes,
Topped with sugary-pink jelly tots.
Tonight, she sleeps on my stomach,
And I stroke the dark and velvet fur,
Feeling the tiny lumps
Writhe under my fingertips.
I wrap her whole body
In my flesh, and whisper –
My babies,
My babies.
Since then, I have had William, Alice's still birth, and all the miscarriages, plus I am too old for children now, so the contrast seems particularly painful. I fiddled with it for ages, and am still not sure I have the best version. Not at all sure about the title either: oh, well...
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