Honeysuckle Wife #DVersePoetics

Cut me off at the ankles or so you said,

stood astride my stump, saw grinned.

‘Not so pretty now are we’

either of us.

 

Spent the winter finding my roots,

you brought on your hot house girls

throwing out the deadheads

before they even had chance to wilt.

 

Spring freshened up all that toughening

from too many years the same.

Found new shoots moving upwards,

more bend, less bark to my bite.

 

Summer and I redecorated it all,

cloaked myself in colour,

announced my presence, my survival.

Dared you to try cutting me down again.

 

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A Garden Variety Hurt

I looked up what ivy was supposed to represent,

after we called the man with the poison

to clear the wooden fence panel right to the root.

This creeping plant,

that works its way between the cracks,

and closes its fist so slowly,

so quietly,

that you cannot see the brickwork break,

it’s supposed to represent friendship.

I thought about you then,

how I’d failed to see how deep you’d planted yourself

until the moment that you cracked me clean in half.

Like ivy, you keep coming back

no matter the cold or the drought,

there is no prying those tendrils loose,

no poison that will make this shadow of you wither.

I must live with the damage you have caused.

I must somehow learn how not to crumble.

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NaPoWriMo – Day Nineteen: Orchard Blossom

Version One:

 

Version Two:

Poem Oachard Blossom 2

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I’m still playing catch up with NaPoWriMo so here is my response for Day Nineteen’s prompt. It’s a similar technique to found poetry but instead of using a page from a book you salvage from a second hand shop, you write your own paragraph and then turn it into a poem. If you want to see the original paragraph it’s included below.

The only issue I have with this prompt is that it doesn’t have much in the way of contrast as the prose I based the poem off uses quite poetic language. Part of the uniqueness of found poetry is that you sometimes have to work quite hard for the lines. As you can see by the first piece, it would be quite easy just to add line breaks and blank out minimal amounts of the prose to create a poem out of this. That’s why I had two attempts at it. The second being more vicious with the black lines.

The blossom from the plum tree has melted away like snow, leaving behind the green spindles of fragile flesh, that might hold the promise of fruit come autumn months. Beside it, the pear and cherry still hold their flowers. Taller than the other two, the cherry holds its clusters higher, closer together. Like pompoms above a cheerleader’s head, celebrating the strangeness of a warm spell this sweet in April. The pear seems more down to earth, more content in plodding onwards one season at a time. While the cherry’s spine creeps longer and longer still, and the plum spreads its arms to either side like a dancer preparing to bow, the pear stands quietly, dusted in blossom until it is time to let go.

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Snowdrops

There are snowdrops growing on the hill beneath your house.

I don’t think they’ve grown there before

or I would have seen them.

Felt their green stems bend beneath my back

as we tumbled one over the other

down the slopes free from winter covers at last,

bathed in the chill of spring days

which looked warmer than they were

when the curtains first peeled back those mornings

and our breath misted on the window panes.

 

You would have plucked them singularly

with the same precision you gave to cakes

on birthday celebrations,

determined everyone should receive the same.

My hands always tremble,

when asked to thread the eye of a needle

but yours would have slipped each stem

between the brambles of my hair

to build a crown of tiny buds,

pockets of white inside the calamity

that I would soon shake free.

 

When they ask me why I left

the roof of my mouth becomes fly paper.

The words stick and clot

until my jaw aches from the press

of things I don’t know how to say.

I’m sorry is somewhere among them,

and so are the excuses

that turn over each night beside me,

convinced they can make me believe

that they were something more

than simply fear.

 

 

 

 

Green-Fingers

English: An orchid as a decorative houseplant.
English: An orchid as a decorative houseplant. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My mother and I,

killed the first orchid we were given.

We are not a houseplant

sort of family.

What we grow

is out in a field,

thrown from the back of a tractor

and carefully monitored

for pH,

pot-ash deficit,

mineral level adjustment-

All to ensure optimal production

when the combine

finally drives through the gate.

I have yet to see

my mother send off soil samples,

for the daffodils

my grandmother planted in the garden.

But then again,

normally the rabbits

will have them

before the month is out.


We killed the orchid by overwatering it, and sticking it in a window sill. We have got better with orchids since then, we have managed to keep one alive for just over a year!