Fireworks popping off underneath skin,
an explosions against the brickwork.
Blood so bright it burns my retinas
and when I dreamed I can see it,
the splash,
the sizzle of colour.
My own fists tight as un-popped corks
deep in my dressing gown pockets,
buried under lint and hidden things,
like the sound of bone
crack
on plasterboard,
always plasterboard,
this fuse pulled taught between my shoulders
unlit
and your face so dark with thunder
the crash of it in a plate on the kitchen floor,
slowly starts to clear.
I feel like I need to preface this poem with the fact that it is not a description of a real event, or specifically based on one real individual. We’ve had sporadic fireworks for the last couple of weeks, so if anything, those are the main source of inspiration. Right with that out of the way, here’s an audio recording of the poem, and a note to say go and check out the rest of the poems written for tonight’s DVersePoets sound prompt.
Carol J Forrester 
I am pleased that this wasn’t for real… but it is a story told way too many times. Would have loved to hear you read it, but I can only see 2 seconds of that.
It issues I’m afraid. I’ve fixed it now.
‘My own fists tight as un-popped corks
deep in my dressing gown pockets’. I particularly like this.
Domestic bliss is overrated, isn’t it? And firework season is upon us, or is it? Well done.
Thank you Francis. I’ll admit I’m not a fan of fireworks season. Round here they go off for nights on end and I quite enjoy my peace and quiet.
Thanks Carol, I really enjoyed your reading of this – wonderful soundings – ‘crack of plasterboard, always plasterboard’ – and that long link between ‘unlit’ and ‘the crash of it’ – The building of tension as fireworks moves indoors, fists in deep in pockets – and that final explosive of the plate on the floor. So good.
No access to Audio at present (oy, don’t ask); will listen later. The writ, though, is so powerful I can hear it in my head anyway. Gooooooood stuff, CF.
You had me at “your face so dark with thunder”. Honesty and open truthful communication are the hallmarks within our home and our marriage; albeit there are, and can be fireworks, followed by clarifying and some closure.
What stands out for me is the tension that builds and builds and builds with the relief of the breaking plate at the end.
Incredibly wordsmithing here especially; “this fuse pulled taught between my shoulders unlit
and your face so dark with thunder,” speaks and portrays so much!
I listened to the audio, Carol – your voice sounds so young! your exploration is frighteningly real and among the noises, you captured something uncomfortably familiar in the lines:
‘My own fists tight as un-popped corks
deep in my dressing gown pockets,
buried under lint and hidden things’
and
’…face so dark with thunder
the crash of it in a plate on the kitchen floor,
slowly starts to clear’.
In November, my daughter is doing squats to raise money for Refuge.
A fantastic sound poem – that sound of cracking knuckles always makes me cringe and you brought it to life here. I also like the sinister undertones of an unhealthy relationship-glad it’s not real!
Onomatopoeia – ing it to perfection. Adds such power.
Yes, thank you for the clarification – that’s a relief. The sounds you evoke are shocking.
Fists “tight as unpopped corks” is a fantastic simile.