Tag Archives: poetry

Sundays playing tourist…

The day felt like peppermint tea and poetry written by a recluse poet as the sky purpled with hints of grey at the edges of frayed clouds.

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The days of playing pretend were supposedly over twelve years ago but playing tourist in a city you’ve been living in for the past three years can be an invigorating adventure, rediscovering the old haunts and some new places you’d been postponing to visit for ever so long.

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In some majestic buildings justice is served and we can only hope that the deliverers are as upright-morally- as those tall structures.

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p.s Photographs of tree from down below, with the sun glinting through the branches, are some of favourites. Here’s one.

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p.p.s It’s fun to explore and just wander. Do it on a Sunday.

My Love for Silverstein’s Poetry

“Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.”

-Albus Dumbledore

I’ve always thought Shel Silverstein’s poetry is like little drops of magic, short and silly and always guaranteed to put a smile on your face. We can grow up and pretend all we want that we’re mature adults who only have a taste for Dickinson or Plath but you know there’ll always be a special place for those poems you read as a child. I know I do.

I can relate to each of my favourite’s even now.

Because…

I can be as active as I want but the truth is I’m a lot like lazy Jane. For me, home delivery is a god send.

And when things seem tough and there’s a job to do that you find so daunting and terrible that you wish someone else could just get on with it instead of you, you’ve got a nice little reminder that somebody has to do it. And there’s a reason that somebody is you.

Then there are times when we think we’ve done so well, ha ha, how funny those stories are when we realise what we’ve done. (How sad it is if we never realise, don’t you think?)

And sometimes, Silverstein hints at the hard parts of life, like the masks we wear and walk around.

Or how tough it is being yourself in a crowd of muggles… without a single word (Dumbledore underestimated the power of illustrations, I suppose.)

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For all these reasons and more, I will always adore Shel Silverstein’s poetry. After all, who said wisdom can’t rhyme?

The Coldest Hug

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It stole into the house, through a window that swayed

Much like a temper, and in the room it stayed.

Cold fingers crept up her spine, as it fell in beside her

Underneath the sheets, and her soul grew quieter.

Then came the coldest hug, chilling down to the bone

And in that bed she lay, feeling forever alone…

Except for it.

It was always there.

Bow Ties and Suspenders

There are two lads

both unequal in stature

The story of how collisions occur

How blue eyes met green

Silence met conversation

Pain met misery

and how love met life

So far apart in line

Opposites of the divide

 

With stolen glances and

moments here and there

They had tragedy

written all over them

in the ink staining their skin

For one and all to see

 

They never did think

The road was riddled

with hardship.

That their passion

be engulfed in it.

Nor that love is just the tip

 

So the boy put on his bow tie

that morning

like every other

and tightened it as a noose

a knot of twisted rope

whilst listening to the laughter

 

He was found later to be

hanging from the tether

His complexion dimmed and rotten

But it mattered not

to the rest

For he had long been forgotten

 

The body carried to a ceremony of three

Then grew to a gathering of four

His sister, father and mother joined

By the boy with blue eyes

Whom the green had loved

more than any other

 

Dressed in black

by funeral hearse

In the gloom of rain

That boy stood desolate

Eyes glazed by tears

Unable to bear the pain

 

So he soon followed suit

Looped his suspenders

to the ceiling fan

And fastened it round his neck

So drugged to the other boy

For whatever fleeting span

 

Alas if their feelings

were confined to silent murmurs

upon the land they lived

Then so be it

The holes in their hearts

by one another were fully filled

 

Above ground, life in secret

but within mud and sand

Deep below pastures

of green grass

The lovers were forever

Laid to rest hand in hand

 

Their love was deemed wrong

But to them

Felt twice as right

By perusing cynical orbs

That they, in the end

could not fight.

 

Hence, there once were two lads

both unequal in stature

The story of fate’s design

How blue eyes met green

Silence met conversation

Pain met misery

And how love met love

 

So far apart in line

Opposites of the divide

But in death

proven as one

and in that direction

they head

 

Strength lies in living

But bravery is born from dying

Transcending all that it renders

The gift of freedom

ultimately granted by

Bow ties and suspenders

Kingdom

The ground was littered with dead as rain washed the blood of traitors and rebels alike,by the broken crag.

And as the sun glinted beyond the mountain  peaks, it set the crimson tide afire.

Slowly, she dragged herself through the mud, an arrow in her back.

She won…but what?

What did it do to have the long spears and crossbows when the men who she manned had little inkling of loyalty?

What good were the swords and garrisons, when all that was left was a kingdom shattered?

Built upon broken limbs and splintered like glass.

Yes, she won.

She won the broken bits of what was once glory.

Odds

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My mind and my brain are forever at odds
Like finicky children sitting in the corner
Of a hideous room painted canary yellow.
While circadian rhythm dictates sleep
My thoughts are on the figures of a TV screen
Activating suprachiasmatic nuclei
the way a shot of vodka does my nerves.

Twenty five hours reduced to twenty four
but I could have used those extra sixty
minutes thinking about absolutely
nothing.
And it would make a whole
lot of difference when the first hour
comes rolling around at the sound
of a muffled alarm
Rousing sleepy eyes…
But bright eyes.
Chances are the monotony
Will be infinitesiminally bearable.

I’ll take those odds any day.

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Poetry Challenge Day 14- Pirouette

Prompt: Pick a song lyric to serve as an epigraph to your poem. Then, write the poem to accompany it.


It’s a different kind of danger

Curling toes and stomach knots

Giving into that blood rush

Hungry for a little dance

Though I’m not a dancer

Work my feet across the stage

A spotlight burning my retinas

But no matter, tonight I decided

I’ll  be a ballerina

Glide, fly, pirouette

Break walls, conquer shadows

I’ll waltz in the dark

With a faceless partner

As if no one were around

Light fire to the ground

Burning ghosts with my grace.


p.s Listen to Delilah by Florence + The Machine.

Poetry Challenge Day 13- Lilacs in My Lungs

Prompt: Write a poem inspired by a piece of art work.

There’s chrysanthemums

budding between my ribs,

pushing my heart,

as it gives in.

The cage becoming

a soil of sorts,

making it harder to breathe

as I keep running.

Creeping along my veins,

they spread like a vine.

Lilacs in my lungs

and roses up my spine.

Darling you’re suffocating me

with the roots you’ve grown

in my bones.

Watered them, tended

You’ve taken great care

But I need to prune

these wild flowers.

Please grow them elsewhere.

I’m not your garden.

I don’t want to be.

But you’re a gardener.

And now you’re free.


p.s I Illustrated this poem.

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Thin walls

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The dark is melting, poured

into this thin-walled room.

I may not want to talk to

real people…but I do want

to talk about something real.

The thin walls are good

listeners, after all.

They know how Plath’s

words “Daddy, daddy,

you bastard, I’m through,”

sound like a hammered nail

in the coffin of a spectral patriarch.

And that’s all that needs to be

said. Because maybe they’ll

pass on the message to that

man who is most certainly dead.