Day Two

I had lots of plans for todays post from long rants against the govenment to the wonders of bondaweb. But it's late and I'm slightly tipsy so I'm going to use the suggested prompt and write some haikus about my day.

Waiting in for Saltash
They fix some mortar
But I can't offer coffee

Off to the British Library
Drink tea with my dad
Permanent collection- wow

In Shoreditch with Amnesty
Arms trade treaty signed
Pride, relief and Prosecco

A Poem for Emerson, With His Back Turned

I hold my palm to the small of his back
The last connection before we fall asleep
And through it I feel pulsing
the spoken and unspoken
the heat, the heart, the desire.
I hold my palm to the small of his back
And it burns.

A Poem For Other Lizzie, My Sometime Sister

We reflect each other
Crafted by the same matriach,
Sharing the same touchstones:
Norwich spires and waterfront
Two sides of the same triangle.

But in each other we see more than a reflection,
See in each other our deficiencies made ample:
The confidence
The figure
The order
We each lack.

And even though the mirror's cracked,
It's hard to reach through.
I can't make you whole-
You can't make me shine

But together we can be strong.

Poejazzi

Last night I played along with Poejazzi's twitter instructions to write a poem. It was a lot of fun and inspired me to be more creative that I usually would be on a Monday night. Instuctions for each verse were tweeted at five minute intervals with time at the end for editing before submitting it to them. I'm not completely happy with the poem-partly because the instructions given meant I ended up repeating things and taking it in directions I wouldn't have otherwise and partly because I never am- but I'm happy I did it.

Also I've tried and tried to find an image of the statue I'm talking about in the poem. We have it by the fireplace at my Dad's house and it's the second one we've had. I assumed they were reasonably common but Google disagrees. So you'll just have to imagine.

Statue

As the sun loses it's force and the colours dim
I sit adjusting.
You watch me
and glint.
My knight.
The gold takes on a deeper hue
emanates rather than reflects.
You guard the fire place
keep my memories safe
remind me of the years I've cycled through while you've stayed
thirty centimetres high
sometimes dull, sometimes gleaming, always there.

I fell once
landed on the corner of the fire place
the brick gouging my forehead
opening my eye
blood crying down my cheek.
You were taller then
and you watched
cold
and reflected back the red
trickling down your armour.
But today only I bear the scar.

Outside the gravel crunches.
The cat returning home,
or foxes investigating the bins
(no hot ashes but there is a chicken carcass)

Or maybe it's him, returning home.
Shame faced?
Triumphant?
Glaring or in glory?
We don't investigate.
I sit.
You stand.
Statue still.

But what if he's not alone?
What if he's brought company?
How many feet is that crunching?
And what would I do? How can I have this conversation with someone else there?
(Except you
You are always there
cold and reflecting
and scarless.)

She can see me
see in through the window
although it is dusk and I haven't turned on the light.
And I am there
just sitting
just still
just waiting.
And she wonders if I know,
and if she should feel guilty.

She shouldn't.
I don't care.
Or I do
but I can't show it now.
Everyone just acts the best way they know how
in their own circle
and sometimes that fits together like cogs linking hands
and sometimes there are better wheels to turn
And sometimes the wheel stops and it's beyond your control.
So we sit
You and I
Statue still.

A poem for Hannah, now we are grown ups

When we met we were starting out on our own
We were showmen
We were shamans
We'd leap out of bed, transform from pyjamas to party clothes
We'd spend hours drinking tea and learning lines and dancing

I've known you from root to tip
Through the different lengths of your hair
You remember parts of me I've forgotten
We colour in each others back-stories

In Barcelona sunshine
In Norwich clubs with our feet stuck to the floor
In London Fields and London's Parks
In love, in a way, I suppose

And now we are grown ups
I suppose, almost,
With real jobs
And boyfriends
And flats of our own

And I am so happy for you
And so sad for me

A Poem for Matthew who Cheats at Scrabble

They aren't words
They are collections of letters found in a book
But they are meaningless
They communicate nothing.
Except superiority.

And behind those
Other words.
Some telling,
Some joking,
All of them floating unteathered
From context
From meaning.
They are words
But I don't know how to read them.

A Poem for Tim who Made Me Cry

Thank you
and sorry
And Thank you

This should be 16 lines long
But it won't be
I don't have your experience
Or your rhythm
and neither of us have the time

And there are too many overlaying train tracks
And too much distance to the sea

But Thank you
and sorry
And Thank you

A Poem for Ronen who Photographs People Naked

There is a list
a challenge
and a chasm between me and the person I want to be who could complete it.

I don't know how to start,
how to open my self up or strip myself down or cover myself over.
My organs feel heavy in my chest.
They are rearranging themselves
they are hoping...

My sister calls
the person I know and love most in the world.
It is stilted and awkward
the sirens on the main road makes her hard to hear.
We converse as we walk
always.
She hangs up so she can take her cardigan off.
Where she is the sun is cruel and tickling.
In London I shiver

In 4 months we will be in Spain with our father.
Who we love.
She is scared of losing her identity untethered from the things she wants to achieve
in the heat and relaxation she will twist and writhe and snap.
I will be alone
as is expected.
And forgotten spanish wont help-
Ne se porque tiene que ser asi
pero como se dice
es lo que hay.

Until then I have plans, ideas, hopes but no destination.
When you have achieved what you were aiming for, achieved fulfilment and a nagging sense of deception what next?
My organs rearrange themselves in my chest,
they too are impatient.

There is a list
and a chasm
and my nakedness won't bridge it.