I wasn’t who you made me, I turned myself into that girl who threaded her fingers into the gaps between yours. Lingered longer than should have outside of cafes, and pocket shops, between cobbles and walkways where we strolled away afternoons until the bus table declared enough was enough. She who returned whenever she could because you made her feel wanted, told her she could be and would be if you weren’t already taken. Like I said, she wasn’t her because of you. I managed to make her all by myself. Unmaking her was the part I’m still learning how to do. This is a poem I’ve written out a few times in various forms and never been quite happy with but tonight’s poetics prompt seemed like the perfect time to have another go at it. Still not sure I’ve got it right but I can always try again another day. Feedback as always is greatly appreciated if you have the time to spare.
Caught I clung inside you. Pendent between each aching inhale. Cautious you might breath out and send me spinning upwards. A helicopter seed whirling away as if I’d never been there, the hollow I’d leave unnoticed by you. These were never wing, they were always sails. Filled up with questions I asked myself, to keep my feet from touching down on lands unfamiliar, filled with strangers like me always pulling at something unseen, pretending they knew love. If you want to know more about this form of poetry then check out Colleen’s handy post on how to write an Etheree. I’ve not come across them before, though the form reminds me a little of Fibs which are great fun to write. The two words for this week’s prompt were ‘Mystery’ and ‘Attraction’ so I went with ‘pulling’ and ‘questions’.
The size six snake three trees over, slithered past here last Saturday. The iguana on fern saw her by the pool. Think’s she looks better in the water. Told the croc by willow he should swim on. Big boys like him stand no chance. This is what happens when poets start commenting on other poet’s work. You end up down the rabbit hole with snakes, iguanas and crocodiles. (It didn’t end well for the rabbit.) To check out the writer who provided the inspiration for this quadrille, and then joined me in the madness, hop over to Jane Dougherty Writes. There you can find more of her work like the poem below: Whip snake resplendent in green and black beading, striped vicious as a wasp, terrifying as braided headdress, twisted and entwined with feathers and human teeth, squirms and twitches and sloughs, aghast that this shrugged off apparel, skin of skins, must be how he looks.
Do chameleons ever forget how to change? Do they lose themselves in the backdrops. Forget skins on tree branches, upon broad, flat leaves? Where water pools in stills, catching light like a trap. Do they see themselves or just the skin they wear shifting. So I’ve just had a bit of surprise while scrolling through the wordpress reader! My poem ‘Until The Light Gets In‘ has been accepted and published on The Drabble. They did email me to let me know but I hadn’t check my email this afternoon and happened on my submission mostly by accident. I do believe the dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille night is the perfect way to celebrate.
The plastic widget wakes me. Pressed into my flesh, nerves along my arm dead and heavy against the sheet. Asleep in the way the rest of me should be. Instead the rest of me is restless, and churning. Feet, clumsy, hit the laminate like dumbbells. Followed by ankles, calves, thighs, hips, waist, breasts, shoulders, neck, head, arms, wrists, hands, all sleep stricken and wonky. They uncrumple reluctantly, each one an exercise in memory, coordination. Rag doll woman with sand-bag limbs. In the bathroom I want to lie my head on the edge of the bath, lean it there until the room stops spinning, until my skull lightens to a point where my neck is not creaking. Instead I dig my fingers into the composite. Notice again how it bows out too far. The edges don’t fit flush. There are marks where the veneer is chipping. I fit my body in much the same way. Badly. Not at all. But that’s nothing new. It’s time to check the clock, count the hours left before I need …
I always greet red dawns with caution. Farmer’s daughter, I turn over countryside sayings like hard-boiled sweets in my mouth. The syrup long since sucked from the center, now all crunch and brittle, the shards pricking my gums in warning. No amount of scoffing, can keep my grandmother’s voice from speaking to the dawn. Soft, and familiar, chanting the same words, myth now made fact. Red mornings are both beautiful, and dangerous. We should watch for a change in the winds.
You striped your shins raw and red spilling from an open window onto the porch roof outside. Hands flat against the bitumen you brought yourself upwards, tall, bearing gravel bitten palms. My hands will ache at the thought, of your smile through the lifted glass, half shadowed by the sunset. Second, I was more careful in the going, kept my skin as it should be, clean, whole, unharmed. I did not spill. Then we watched as clouds scudded east to west on slow, hidden winds. Your slips always taught me lessons. Like how to pick old wounds clean.
I pretended not to hate you last night, knees pressed into your pelvis like stone fists, your cold, clever lips there against my wrist with promises you would make things alright once the morning at last brought home some light and you could show me why we must persist, how without you, I would barely exist, and why it was pointless for me to fight. But I kept count of those lies and those kisses. every feathered touch up, along my ire, and each time I should have taken your tongue when your arrogance stocked up this fire and told me I did not have strength to rise when you were the one crawling all along. Bjorn is hosting the first Poetry Form night of at the DVerse Poets Pub and he’s picked an old fling to throw up as the first challenge. While I played with sonnets years ago, I went off them in the same way I went off most fixed form poetry. However, anyone who’s been around this blog for the last …
Whoever standardized time did a piss-poor job. I could tell them for a fact that Wednesday move more slowly when there is less to do, and Mondays always arrive much quicker than they leave, yet Fridays take their sweet time no matter the cheering from the stands because let’s face it they’ve worked out who’s top dog before the firing pistol went off and they don’t need to rush to prove their walking home with gold. Whoever standardized time, did a piss poor job of the whole damn thing. Because a second becomes a moment when the right person holds it, and a minute becomes an hour, when your waiting for the answer or the result, or the next sentence in a conversation you really don’t want to see through. Worst of all is the touch, that barely lasts at all, that goes before you noticed it and leaves you wondering for months if you should have seen it coming.
There’s a window open,upstairs, perhaps, I think,behind the dooryou’re peering round. Written For The December Form Challenge – Day One An Xiasoshi