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.