Paper

Paper

I give you paper first.
It's creased with laughter and a little frayed at the edges.
A stain of jealousy on one corner
our fights a carefully mended tear. 
It's greasy with travel
and it smells like late nights, and date nights; 
and the nights spent turning a new page together.
We give paper because even though it's fragile,
like us, it can last a year.

Travelling

I'm away from London at the moment, at my mum's house in the mountains in Turkey. My days are so different from what they are in London.

I play with dogs and chickens and cats and cook and make build fires. I'm still working. Because I can work from home, I really can work from anywhere with Wifi so I decided to work from this gorgeous and idilic place.

The fact that I'm in a different country has reminded me of something I wrote. So here is my poem.

Wanderlust

I’ll dance at night through the market
And pluck up jade from the stalls.
I’m summer burnt and sand blasted,
My skin peeling off my neon back
In sheets.

I’ll trip tip toe on the coastal rocks
And dip my fingers into white crab houses.
Their blinking eyes pop through the windows
And the old ones twitch their curtains.

I’ll be full of native lingo
And I’ll teach you how to sing. 
I’ll be barefoot and black soled
Hearing lady-talk and
Knotting orange feathers to my ear.

Wet bodies thump their scales against my toes
While I dangle a foot in the sea.
I’ll tickle the bellies of sharks
And they’ll smile at me with their goofy
overbite grins.

Apologetic Poem

It's Apologetic because I'm sorry I didn't post it last week. Double posts this week! I've been really ill recently with a horrible cold that has stalled my blogging libido. I am still fighting the cold but one of the best cures for the common cold is fruit and water.

So here is my poem my ode to the organic blood orange from Abel and Cole that got me through my cold last week.

Ode To a Blood Orange

O Orange, your sweetness is a lure.

Your cool roundness fills my palm as I pluck you from the bowl, gasping anticipation.

Do I detect a blush?

I would cut you in a lust for vitamin c-

Bleed all over me.

Taboo

This is the only poem of mine which has ever been published. It's probably the one I like the best. I was going to put a disclaimer on it, mainly to my family. But it's powerful, and I like the rhythm of it so I'm just putting it out there. I hope you like it.

Taboo

Under the glow of abandoned cigarettes,

The curved shadows of our bodies congeal on the wall.

I swallow your moans whole,

Smell the peppery slick of sweat on your neck.

I crave the slap

That sucks at our chests; and the taste of safety on you.

New Poem

I've been feeling inspired recently. Largely with the help of reading more poetry, fantastic inspiring poetry. I have found that my writing usually relates to a real life experience. I love that because it means that every poem reminds me of a time or person in my life that is important. But I have a better appreciation for the 'imagined' side of poetry.

Still I'm not there yet, so here is my first poem in a while. 'Falling' it's the quiet feeling of falling asleep and falling in love.

Falling

Behind black-out blinds
The motorway growls in the night.
The blue and red flicker of an emergency 
draw an outline of you.

I hand you my book
with the page bent down
and you take a final leaning step
into bed.

I say goodnight 
with a kiss on your half-found mouth. 

BLOGEXTRA-Nutcracker

Nutcracker

We spent the first time

in a marshmallow slow dance,

our numbers biro’d on a crumpled square

and he kissed my hands.

Our bodies were covered in a 

pale thin skin like powdered sugar, so sweet. 

So strong under our silk and taffeta

I could smell you as we danced.

Gold circled my finger. 

He still kissed my suddenly heavy hand.

BLOG EXTRA - Nighthawks

While at university, one exercise we had to do was to look at a painting and then write a poem based on it. One poem we were shown was Nighthawks. 

Pavement Observation 

Ham sandwiches stacked up neatly on the cake stand.

It’s clear at night and through the rumble,

the flick of a dishcloth echoes through glass.

Staring down I count the spike stripes,

jumping, concrete heavy, between the cracks.

There is a glob of pink bubble gum

stuck under a soul by the bar stool - 

It’s caught in the yellow light from bare bulbs.

Bubble gum on its way home. 

BLOG EXTRA A Poem

I haven't written a Poem I was pleased with for a couple years now. I was inspired by the book I recently finished; The Land Where Lemons Grow.

Forbidden Fruit

He cut a quarter from the orange, sliced towards his palm and pierced the rind to pull it out.  

The split 'V' of flesh bled a slue of juice that ran between his blackened fingers.

He offered me the skinned segment on the tip of his knife.