poetry diary

Poetry is just the evidence of your life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. (Leonard Cohen)

Month: April, 2011

The space between

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.

The Fairy Queen

As wind I touch your apple blossom hair,
and falling petals meet the rising scent of dew.
Your wings of spider’s thread quiver and relax,
and lilac hands outstretched caress the watching air.

As rain I fall soft and light onto your skin,
we feel the grass warm and damp between our toes;
bluebells exude the richness of the earth,
and buds open their hearts and cry ‘begin’.

As sun I draw the sparkle from your eyes,
blue, all-seeing, and silent like the sky;
quick songbirds cross your path with rising chords,
and lambs look up to watch your gentle dance.

You wait beneath the aching chestnut tree;
his dappled shade stroking your snowdrop arms.
The river runs and cools your blushing brow,
and fairy maids arrive to offer fruit.

It’s spring across the whole of your domain;
creatures awake and humans call their names.
You pull my soul and those of all my friends;
you say our time is now – it’s come again.

———————

This is a little twee and romantic, but I guess it’s something to do with the weather, or the fairies. Submitted to Thursday Poets’ Rally.

Embrace

Unexpectedly, the room stopped moving.
She sat complete and waiting in her chair.
‘May I kiss you?’ were not the words he said;
it would have been too bold he felt, still scared,
so he chose ‘may I have a hug?’ instead.

The welcome of her smile emptied his heart.
He felt unique, alone yet not apart.
“Yes,” she said, again, and her eyes lit up.
He rose, in joy, and crossed the warming floor.

—————-

This poem is a second contribution to Poets United Thursday think tank – your first time… I intended a longer poem, but then this seemed just the right place to stop.

Bathing strictly prohibited

‘Bathing strictly prohibited,’ it said
on signs along the shore.
He felt his skin lighten beneath his shirt
and one toe touched bare rock.

The landscape shimmered, floated in the waves,
coots ascended lapping hills;
the sun watched, with patience, from behind clouds
and the earnest sparrows sang.

A solitary fishing boat stood out,
holding the world at bay.
He loosed his belt and let it drop – it fell;
his thighs embraced the air.

The brutal wind, which had been waiting, woke;
ospreys rose and scanned for prey.
May blooms shivered and scattered in the breeze
and wide-eyed lambs looked on.

Around the bend, a gang of cyclists came
brakes screeching, making hay.
He unbuttoned his shirt, drew one deep breath,
and plunged into the bay.

I’ve been walking and cycling around Rutland Water, and imagining a first act of rebellion maybe (for Poets United).

Poetry descending

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.

Rutland Water

Bluebells and cherry blossom:
English woods in spring.
Beauty tamed, with sparrows.

The Art of Making Fire

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.