Breathe

I have  been experimenting with "snapshots" of moments in a poem where i give ten minutes to free write without editing, then i grab a colourful pen to cross out parts that seem to over detail the poem and what i'm trying to say.  The outcome is hopefully one sentence which attempts to create an image, a moment and a place.

The original (Terrible blackberry quality photo and typed):

Holding hands as tight
as cement between pavement slabs;
dragging themselves for another drag
on menthol cigarettes out of
parted mouths. They sat
on the tops of cities, bare feet hanging
down, half awake eyes
scrutinizing the sunrise
while blowing the smoke out of their lungs.



What was left after the green editing pen got crossing out happy. (Again terrible picture quality, My apologies)

Menthol cigarettes out of
parted mouths. They sat
on the tops of cities
scrutinizing the sunrise
blowing the smoke.




Finally, I swapped some of the words around to create a more linear structure to the snapshot. However, it could be argued that the original order made it more fragmentary and as if it is a memory snapshot! This was the finished poem, even if it is a little one.


They sat on the tops of cities,
scrutinizing the sunrise, blowing the smoke
of menthol cigarettes out of parted mouths.

A Grandma's Idea

I watched with despair as my Grandmother picked up a pen and began to draw over the newspaper.She   took a sheet of the newspaper and ripped a section off, forcing it into my hand.

"Poets could win £1000 for writing moving verses about their home town. United press is holding  a free poetry competition for all ages. Poems must be no longer than 25 lines, counting blank lines with a maximum of 160 words. Send your local poem by email or post. the closing date is December 31."

This is why I have been so quiet. Writing a poem about your home town is a lot harder than you would think. So when writer's block says hello, I usually try to tell him I'm busy by going for a walk.



However, a walk had proved to be a bigger barrier to finding the words. Now I had the choice to write about the river and how the canal boats rest on the side of the bank when the sun goes down. There was the Long alley almshouse's to describe, how they face St Helen's church with slitted wooden window panes.Or I could write about the lock, how the water level rushes and gurgles to rise. There was the Abbey, the flowerbeds and ducks that nest in the ground. There was the weather stained memorial to Prince Albert to bring to life. There was so much choice. I never knew how much history Abingdon within the streets i've been walking on for years.


I am still working on the poem. The deadline is 31st of December so I think having a few more walks won't hurt. Who knows what I will discover around a corner?

The time of a memory

Curious fingertips of a raindrop touched

The Pink shaded blossom which curved around

 Each petal on the branches of the old tree.

She watched from the window,

Remembering the kiss that was planted

Just after the cherry tree by enthusiastic lips

On her mouth that had mocked the idea of it.

Wrinkled fingertips were pushed against the glass

Washed clean by the water droplets

On the window pane. The rain

Of the world held time while she looked out

With memory, not aging at all.

Towards the light

A shade of ebony shadow drapes itself

Over the fireworks that explode into the sky;

As the colours burst with their flight

The small crowd applauds in the back garden

That became a display for the night.

A child steps out, a sparkler in a tiny hand-

Towards the bonfire, unaware of his red stripe scarf

Tucked out of the coat. Fascinated by the sparks,

His wellington boots leaving a foot print path behind

As he walks towards the flames.

A woman rushes after,

Panicking like a mother. She picks

The boy up to carry inside the house, past the throng

Of people that on look and did not move.

He peers over her shoulder wondering what he did wrong.

A touch of an impression

They have forgotten how to kiss other people,

As well as each other, Megan thought,

Sitting across the living room from them

 With crossed legs in a short dress

To be ladylike for her boyfriend’s parents.

She smiled awkwardly when they looked over,

Thankful to the television for avoiding conversation.

Their two bodies had empty space between,

No gentle touches or linked fingertips;

They watched the screen, small talking

With false enthusiasm about the programme

Like they could think of nothing else to say to each other.

The room was immaculate and she pitied the sex life

If a house was this clean. Her boyfriend came

Carrying a tray of biscuits, a tea pot,

 Sat down next to her after asking how many sugars.

She put a hand on his thigh,

Enjoying the way he tried to avoid her eye.

The swan

As a child, I’d watch her spin

With perfect controlled coordination

To the gentle humming from inside the music box.

I wanted to pull her off the pedestal,

The spring that holds her straight;

She was so slim. Her tutu wide like wings;

Her arm span broken from the snapped off limb;

A mistake from when I accidentally dropped it.

Her features were long, eyelashes

In a constant flutter. The baby pink leotard

Clung to her small waist until the broken arm length,

The jagged ceramic, white underneath.

She was so delicate to be touched.

 I refrained from breaking her until after the music stopped.

Celebration!

I am very happy to say that i got a 2:1 overall in my creative writing degree.
it has been a tough three years; The library became a second home more than usual in the last year. I even  managed to get a first in my Independent study which was a collection of poetry!

The last three years have taught me more about the world and how important language is. I cannot communicate how wonderful it feels to come out of study with a degree. for once, (and i know this is terrible for someone who wants to be  a writer) I am lost for words!

Hope anyone that gets results back got what they wanted!


xo

To Anna

You speak in sentences like withered flowers,

Each word a dying bud.

Loss of colour, loss of interest,

No substance. I water with my own lips

Repeating phrases to help the cure

You think this gives.

If I were blossom, where were the curves

That my petal skin should touch?

Under the moss that has grown so thick,

Guarded and untouched, divided

By dead rot, red blood

In my rooted veins.

I have grown amongst the weeds that consume me.

You have taken all the buds from my own roses

And I am left with the thorns.

Praying up there

Thomas closed the bedroom door

As if he had gone inside then sat

Down on the floor at the top of the stairs.

His Parents unaware;

The shouting, the accusations,

The family affairs.  Rows and raised voices

That echo versions of the truth.

His mother had grown cold

Like the dinner that they didn’t eat.

It’s the third time this week.

He buries his head into his knees,

Blue striped pyjamas now dirty with tears,

Little hands raised over ears.

His mouth moves with silent speech

As if he was praying to something within reach.

Ending the season i thought held love

What happened to the vegetable patch

That you told me in January would eventually

Rival your mothers

As her tomatoes are always different colours

And never red like the sunburn

You got last summer,

Which I was careful to avoid

When we shared the bath with the lukewarm water

While my parents were out.

Do you still have the apple tree that we sat

Under in your garden in late February

When you told me spring felt close

As the daisies started growing more than the moss:

I made you a bracelet which

Tinted my fingertips

Green from stem chains like the grass stain

 That never came out of my favourite blouse

When I misplaced my footing,

Falling over by the edge of a river bank

At which you laughed at me for hours.

Neighbour of a certain nature

http://hollyleaves.deviantart.com/art/Neighbour-of-a-certain-nature-361080891

His front lawn is the colour of the street
In the springtime where the bloom grows underneath
the planted pile of red bricks 
that eventually became a wall.
Out of sight, sat Michael;
He was once the local gardener 
But now only does his own.

On his knees, worn gloves on old hands
Cutting back trees, a rusted green watering
Can next to him in case he needs
To water a forgotten flower amongst the weeds.
They are clever, hiding behind petals,
Only seen by the eyes who look,
Hiding in every nook and cranny
Of the flowerbed where a gardener does his work.

Beginnings (or endings if we never see each other again)

Let's pretend we're on a speed date. Right now. Think of it as a getting to know each other exercise. (your hair looks lovely by the way). we've just started talking, getting on well, had a few laughs but it's still a bit awkward.  I don't really know you and you don't know me; you've probably been dragged here by your mate and didn't even want to come. Then you utter the question I hate the most; "So, tell me about yourself?" 

How am i supposed to tell someone that I spend my free time looking at cat pictures on the internet?

I'm not into sports; to me, the Superbowl is something you can fit a whole bag of Doritos into.  I'm not in a theatre group; my best marks in A level Drama came from  playing a man and never knew whether to be flattered or insulted. I don't know how to cook anything without a microwave. My hobbies involve spending hours in book stores, geeking out about star wars, trying not to be a wimp on left for dead 2, creating outfits that show how terrible my fashion sense really is and stalking pugs. At university, i was probably known for writing terrible poetry and making the class discuss it.

Apparently a first impression can be made in one tenth of a second, and if you're still reading this, hopefully i'm making a good one. This is going to be my scrapbook blog around writing.

So if you want to stick around to see me again, follow me. (but not in the sense that you find out where i live) 

xo