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Archive for January, 2008

The Warden’s Daughter

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The poem has a mirrored refrain (Poefusion) and contains the words smooth, bottle and approach (3WW).

Her skin was smooth as ice,
Sadie, the warden’s daughter,
the only thing she offered me
a bottle of holy water.

All day she sat in her wheelchair,
with her poodle on her knee,
a bottle of holy water
was all she offered me.

Her muscles wasted day by day,
an insidious sort of slaughter,
the only thing she offered me
a bottle of holy water.

At last I could approach her,
buried under a lilac tree,
a bottle of holy water
was all she ever offered me.

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Recycling

The Writers Island prompt this week is ‘desire’ which hasn’t resulted in any fresh inspiration on my part. I was also thrown a bit by the posting being opened with the prompt on Friday.

The only new year resolution I made was to try to do more for the environment in 2008. A visit to gautami’s blog, where she’s written a contemporary sonnet, reminded me that I have this one which I haven’t published on my blog before. The situation below, was brought about by desire.

There’s also a sonnet here

and another one here.

Demon Mailer

You pressed my start button on Valentine’s Day;
both software and hardware you loaded.
I tried to escape after you passed away
but my ‘shut down’ just hasn’t responded.

Your smiling face ‘hangs’ in every place,
your voice double clicks into every sound;

your remains reassemble in cyberspace;
a Trojan horse virus that can’t be found.

Instant messages signify this age
to all from small children to dusty dons.
E-mails and chat rooms caused you to rave:
The language
[u] use is for morons.

You’re trying to trash my memory cache;
My poor little life is about to crash.

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Tomorrow

3ww1.jpg
she said that
she would do it
tomorrow – postponing
the decision
one more day

she knew that
she would not do it
tomorrow – prolonging
the situation
yet another week

at the year’s end
she gathered up
the scattered leaves
of unfulfilled aspiration –
a substantial pile

she blew on the leaves

– they levitated
to join the four winds

her breath spent
she contemplated
her wasted life

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When I opened my curtains this morning, contrary to the weather forecast, the sun was shining. This led me to write a haiku with a heart warming vision. There’s a night time haiku on my disturbing the dust blog or a darker vision here.

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after long absence
sun warms bare arms; fires
eyes to winter souls.
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Left Out

The Irish barman
jokes with me in the morning
whilst we play darts.

My father lets me
help him place washed glasses
back on their shelves.

My mother lets me
place my hand so I can feel
baby in her tummy

My granny scolds me
for drinking milk from the fridge:
cold, unlike at school.

That night, my father
serves pints to the regulars
downstairs in the bar.

Upstairs my granny
delivers baby brother:
the midwife’s too late.

I’m left alone
weeping into the curtain
forgotten by all.

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Rainbow

In a recent poll in The Times, Philip Larkin was voted the ‘best’ British writer since 1945. This surprised me because I had thought that writers like Larkin and Eliot were out of favour due to perceived fascist and misogynistic elements in their writing. Maybe the GBP has different ideas to the academic establishment. However, Larkin, who was a great favourite of mine when I was a lovelorn young chemistry student , was an old misery. For this week’s Writers Island prompt ‘Treasure’ I wanted to write a reply to the sentiment expressed by Larkin in his poem ‘Aubade’: ‘Life is first boredom, then fear/Whether or not we use it, it goes’. As usual, this is a work in progress as my progress is always slow.

At my beginning,
bands of rainbow.

First to trickle through
the hour glass of my life
the golden sand of childhood days.

Next comes the orange of adolescence
with its sudden eruptions,
forming little peaks and troughs.

A sudden rush of rampant red,
splatters on the sides of the glass,
followed by

the bilious green of forsaken love,
which settles above the scarlet.

Then comes a sprinkling of crystals; frozen
from the blue lagoon of my tears.

Only now in the indigo and violet years
when the flow is unstoppable
have I found the crock of gold – there
from my beginning.

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Distant long dead stars

glow like candles on the moon

observed on earth.

I don’t seem to be able to leave the moon alone. This idea has been with me for some time.

 

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