If only…

Mummy, what do poets do?
Can they dance, like me and you?
Do they have to go to school,
Or are their brains already full?
The teacher says they’re really clever
Cos they never ever ever
Have to follow any rule
I think being a poet’s cool!

Advertisements

till death us do part

Sparkling tiles, a polished floor
Like her dreams, before they shattered
Now she trembles by the door
Her hopes crouch, bruised and battered

She gave her keys, he cut her locks
She gained a husband, lost a friend
Another marriage on the rocks
In the beginning was the end

Marriage has become a pestle
Grinding love into a dust
She longs to rest but she must wrestle
To survive because she must

And so she fights the fighter, won’t give in
For she is made of stronger stuff
She steers her own way, won’t be driven
She’s a diamond in the rough

Drowning

It’s never a good thing to lie…

 

 

Four o’clock in the morning
He lies awake and cries
Today he lost his one true love
In a river of his lies
Her arms reached up like branches
Clutching at the sun
He watched her from the river bank
Not knowing what he’d done
The sun fell down this morning
As he watched his lover drown
She’d gone and left him high and dry
The world turned upside down

Creative Process

I wrote this on the train from Dumbarton to Glasgow last month.

A poet abroad

Like sticky notes upon the sea
A ragged hill, a leafless tree
And on the desk that was the land
A poet’s path wound carelessly
Along this path her words lay scattered
Tiny seeds for birds that chattered
Then came the rain like babies’ feet
And on the seeds it pitter pattered

Days and nights passed, years of sowing
Words like treasures overflowing
But even magpies kept their distance
And nothing on the path was growing
Then came a rustling in the trees
The seeds were carried on the breeze
They sprouted in far distant lands
South Africa, Ukraine, Belize

Like sticky notes unstuck the landscape fluttered
Into life, old rivers splashed and spluttered
And so the poet’s work was done
A heart was free, a desk uncluttered
Like sticky notes upon the sea
A ragged hill, a leafless tree
And on the desk that is the land
A poet’s path winds endlessly

Links between art and poetry

IMG_5543This is not news. I’m just forever impressed by the synergy between art and poetry. Drawing and painting require keen observation, looking beyond what you think you see and perceiving the¬†shapes and colour of the everyday world. When I am in drawing mode, I am constantly surprised by what I discover when I really look at something closely, beyond the point when I think I know what I’m looking at. And it’s exactly the same experience when I write poetry. Images ¬†connect like magnets to create strange and unexpected verbal sculptures.

Here’s a drawing of an eye for your amusement! I know it’s not perfect but I’m working on it. Baby steps…!

Forgery

Luscious and lustrous like molten metal
Love in its very finest fettle
Brittle and unyielding when it grows cold
The emphasis on have, not hold
Together, lovers live or die
Love is forged where lovers lie