poetry diary

I – Without hope

There is a space between us.
I am a man, you a woman.
Your soul is built for diff’rent goals.
There is a space between us.

There is a space between us.
I am earth, you are air and breeze.
You glide above my planted feet.
There is a space between us.

There is a space between us.
My dreams to your reality;
you pin them, like dead butterflies.
There is a space between us.

There is a space between us.
My feelings to your common sense;
old cages trap new emotions.
There is a space between us.

There is a space between us.
I write poetry, you write prose.
Translating it ain’t easy.
There is a space between us.

Space without hope.

II – If only

There is a space between us.
I am a man, you a woman.
Open hearts might meet: if only,
there were no space between us.

There is a space between us.
I am earth, you are air and breeze.
We touch on hilltops: if only,
there were no space between us.

There is a space between us.
My dreams to your reality;
close your wide eyes now: if only
there were no space between us.

There is a space between us.
Relax, such tensions cannot hold;
contradictions fall, rise with me –
unmake the space between us.

—————-

This poem is in response to wewritepoems prompt 51, pairings, and stimulated by a line from DH Lawrence, Women in Love, which I was reading in the bath yesterday (“There is a space between us”). His one line is more expressive, in its context – Gudrun and Gerald in a boat, falling in love – than my entire poem, I feel.

Words
falling
into phrases;
draining rivers of emotion
that form poetry in oceans –
evaporate
back to
words.

This is a response to wewritepoems prompt 49, Almost a poem, which asks us to write about the process of making a poem. It’s also inspired by Elizabeth Crawfords’s poem 1 thru 12 The true story, which in turn follows a structure from Kim Nelson. Instead of adding one syllable per line I’ve doubled the number each line, so 1 – 2 – 4 – 8 and then back again. The overall idea of this poem is the water cycle, of rain falling, forming pools, rivers flowing into oceans and then evaporating back to clouds and the whole process starting again.

My daughter wouldn’t believe Mrs Robinson of Rotherham was to blame
for the fires across Europe and the East,
but the antennae on her chimney were a clue
and the screens in the kitchen all showed blue.

In the mornings she was seen – in the high street, at the zoo,
feeding pigeons and taking tea – two cups
normally – she liked routine, and afterwards went
across the park to catch the bus, no fuss.

And then, at home she worked the web – a whisper here and twitter there
to stir her friends and hatch some plots; to sow
the seeds of discord and mischief. It was quite fun
for several years, she found, eating her buns.

Until one day her tweet trended and struck a chord, igniting more
than she expected. Hmmm. Maybe at last
she had discovered something new and true.
But people died sometimes, and others flew.

Mrs Robinson of Rotherham still surfs the web these days,
but is more knowing now. She still plays tease
but having found the art of making fire
quite tough, she sticks to poems, and has retired.

A tongue in cheek (?) response to wewritepoems prompt 48, the art of making fire, based on a real life discussion with my daughter about her history assignment -“What was the cause of the Cold War?”. Her essay took a different tack.