SCULPTURE – A POEM

Uncategorized, Writing

I stand in the hangar of the gallery,

white walls and lofty heights,

echoes, forms of boundless light,

beacons of the pained.

 

Ornate frames of oil, of paste,

a boreal veil caught in place

near autumn ochre trapped by paint,

an exhibition, captive cells.

 

Those mirrors gleam, gloss

a yolk, reflect no more

than air, then smoke;

 

I see myself a

sculpture carved by loss.

LAUGHING AT ROSES – A POEM

Writing

February, in bitter cold

we found ourselves

staring upon shelves

upon shelves;

glaring rows of roses,

roads of crimson cut with white.

 

Your hand tore away

from the cuff of mine,

you laughed, howled at

the inadequacy of thorns,

fingered the blade and

mocked its rust;

you saw no beauty in the blunt,

no mirror for your trust.

 

Pulling past pallets, stacked

and packed in plastic wrap,

suffocating them all,

we hid in the glass house,

bathed in the warmth;

cacti, ugly leather staring

from the eyes of needles, fine.

 

Stood in grainy earth, dry

desert, clumsy cucumber length,

you couldn’t resist

the itch to test the spines;

a drop of blood, blushing

on your finger, now in mine,

I want one

I could hear you think

I know it can survive.

SCISSION – A POEM

Writing

i’ve seen the way true grit splits,

carves sky and hacks Earth

on a butcher’s block

stained by sunrise, sundown.

 

up there, down here is absurd,

and the horizon mocks us all,

it serves nothing but a glow

i can re-create, lightbulb and shadow.

 

woodland surf, worlds away, whispers

to the rocks, they’ve seen the way i stand

to look down,

both of us ant-sized, nothing.

NOTES AFTER A NIGHTMARE – A POEM

Writing

coastline of pebbles, not sand,

scratched by wave after wave after

nightfall, 

before me, anyway

 

ankle deep in shallow sea,

ivory moon coloured blue 

the closer it swings,

a puppet and a pendulum

 

bird song of breaking froth,

echoed forth from jutting rock,

but no wings beat

with a sky so heavy.

A WOODEN SURRENDER – A POEM

Writing

I wondered what had toppled

that torso of sturdy oak,

crippled, hollow, beneath

a frosted cape of white,

recalled how high those

branches stretched, to sky, 

to cloud, far from from

the humble earth beneath;

I was younger than the settling snow,

and thought things went forever. 

Traipsing on, I conjured scenes

that showed it, mighty, felled

by a tempest’s wailing screams

of lightning, spark and smoke,

yet I knew the death was

thick and slow, a fog

that robs the night;

I wallowed in my memories,

the crooked bough that

snaked and weaved,

it seemed impossible to fold.

I thought of it rotting, steady,

pulling roots failing to hold,

in the saddest of my visions

as my skin crawled with the cold.

 

MY OTHER WRITING – HERE

CATCH ME – A POEM

Uncategorized, Writing

Catch me on a good day 

And I’ll smile ivory

With polished bone,

Shake your hand or

Embrace until I find

Safety in a collarbone,

Reality in tired eyes;

I’d be happy, that’s for sure.

 

Otherwise, I won’t catch you,

I’ll be busy shouting static

Or imagining this tragic

Day would morph into some good;

I’ll worry over flea sized, pea shaped

Small fries, anxious that my disguise

Of normality will slip, that I’ll have 

To look a little mad, mental, or sick;

In that moment where I’m most alone,

I’ll drown myself in treacle tone,

Crave the crater of your collarbone and

The challis of your hips.

 

 

 

LAUGHING AT ROSES – A POEM

Uncategorized, Writing

February, in bitter cold

we found ourselves

staring upon shelves

upon shelves;

glaring rows of roses,

roads of crimson cut with white.

 

Your hand tore away

from the cuff of mine,

you laughed, howled at

the inadequacy of thorns,

fingered the blade and

mocked its rust;

you saw no beauty in the blunt,

no mirror for your trust.

 

Pulling past pallets, stacked

and packed in plastic wrap,

suffocating them all,

we hid in the glass house,

bathed in the warmth;

cacti, ugly leather staring

from the eyes of needles, fine.

 

Stood in grainy earth, dry

desert, clumsy cucumber length,

you couldn’t resist

the itch to test the spines;

a drop of blood, blushing

on your finger, now in mine,

I want one

I could hear you think

I know it can survive.

DIVORCE – A POEM

Writing

The bed grows cold, a slab

Of stone so crudely cut,

Torn out from the gritstone

Rough, pulled apart from whole.

 

I withdraw, collapse, tuck

Shivering knee to chin,

Curl foetal, harness limb to limb,

They fracture, split my hold.

 

My arm stretches

through thick night, clasps

nothing but the albite light

Thrown down from foreign skies.

 

I weep for familiarity, fight

the rip of mourning tides, seek

to rise upon my feet,

And tread this great divide.

 

MY OTHER WRITING

 

POETRY COLLECTION – 20/10/17

Blog

I like writing blogs because it means I feel like I’ve written something useful, even though I’m 90% sure that isn’t true. Anyway, today I have started work on a rather exciting project that I’ve wanted to get done for a while; I’m writing my first collection of poetry.

The collection is intended to be a journey through loss, and I have called it, for now at least, “Laying down the bones”. Poetry can be an extremely therapeutic and cathartic release, and a lot of these poems will deal with various elements in my life that I find particularly hard to reflect upon/discuss, yet I am determined to stray away from the purely personal. I am aware that sounds slightly contradictory, so let me clarify; I want them to have a universal relevance, not just for me, so they’re taking a whole lot longer to write than usual. 

As I am intending on hopefully getting these published, in some respect at least, I won’t be putting them on here, but I am determined to keep you guys updated and I will be writing some poems specifically for the blog.

If you guys are working on anything interesting at the moment, tell me about it in the comments section below!

Happy Writing!

Fred x

LINK TO MY WRITING

THE DAY MY DOG DIED – A POEM

Writing

We map the ground,

Frozen hard as twisted bone,

Woven antler on father’s knife

That crests our fireplace

At home, waiting, violent-still;

We cast ash to dirt,

Watch it settle in paw prints,

Turned to stone, brushed by breeze

That used to roam

These hills, the grainy moors.

 

We sit around the fire,

Licking heat with orange tongue,

Crackled coals barking from

The depths of shattered lungs,

We coil into the armchair,

Vacant leather, fur still clung,

And wonder where the grass

Now is, that you bound among.

 

MY OTHER WRITING – HERE