I’m one year into a degree in English Literature in Creative Writing. In a few weeks, I start the bit that matters, the modules that count towards my degree, including a module in writing poetry.
It’s been a full-on, rollercoaster ride of the year, as anyone who follows my ‘personal’ blog, anadventureinnormality.blogspot.com, may have guessed. One of the consequences has been that I haven’t written as much as I meant to, a year ago; only in the last few months have I started to sit and write, and even then not enough, quel surprise. Sylvia Plath used to sit and write a certain amount of words – a thousand, I think – every day. Until she’d created enough potential material, she kept writing, even if she disliked everything she was creating. The better half of ambition is discipline.
I’m hoping to submit a few pieces to some poetry magazines/e-zine’s soon, if I can work up the confidence. Any feedback on my work is much appreciated!
So. Have some poetry. Don’t eat it all at once.
this: neurons firing,
crossing cell continents
like meteorites, each
exact, as if a hand
traced the way in stars.
things untouchable are
remade: the first times
for everything, like
two lovers meeting
eyes and first looking, or
the time of the train that
they found themselves on,
against the lines between
her eyes and his, as if
this line was a line
too far, untouchable,
like the thought of that still
untaken first kiss. take
a thousand years,
and try to trace this:
neurons into atoms,
lovers to dust, and this:
two eyes meeting,
become other, as
once you were this: strangers,
parting ways at the gate,
his hand brushing hers,
Fucked-Up in France
(n.b. I don’t usually swear that much, I promise. ARTISTIC LICENSE. okay?)
Fucked-up in France, and down
a grand or more, the three musketeers
finally make it to the gare de nord,
an hour past the last eurostar
to Britain. They’re ready to drop,
stop in the station and cry, call
Porthos’ mother, try not to remember
how far we’d flown, or how much further
for Athos and Porthos, and their homes in Yorkshire –
or the end of Aramis’ debit card.
They’re ready for the last steps, then,
to the seedy one-night-stand hotel
on Rue-St-Quentin, where Porthos’
beleaguered case re-scents the room:
shampoo, sweat, cider, and glass
clinking in the seams, the aftermath
of booze and sun and cards
still in their veins. And though it’s late,
and the streets outside
are drunk, they’re still out, stumbling
to the only McDonalds they’ve ever seen
with a security guard, for chips
and tea and pickpockets and stars
and commuters and culture and tourists
and cars and sleep and cat-calls
and cafés and bars and something
to fuck time, home-long hours away
from the morning.
Life swapped her for old parts.
Like shells, the corners of her ears
gathered dust and birds
plucked her hair, made nests.
Instead of breasts
she stitched broken lightbulbs
to her chest, where they
caught the flesh and cracks
became fissures, and men
mined her veins for gold.
Cancer swapped her moles
for pills. She counted them
with sore fingers which
shrink to misplaced toes
and rusty screws
fastened her jaw.
Her heart went for a rusty zip.
It opens, sticks, closes like this.
– and God, running
his fingers through dry earth,
and the fingerprint furrows
of terraces, turns the clovers
cupped hands up and dead-heads
the old stalks with hungry bugs,
gets on the train, the hot buses,
the glider, the bird of prey,
the lines chased over surfaces,
maps part-known, loved, lived –
More coming soon. Possibly.