Roots

Croeso i Croesor

Green shoulders welcome us
Ancient and rested;
A whole valley in its heart,
Steeped with a steady breath,
The beating of wings,
The slow step of a foot on grass.

I see it in sunshine,
bluebell fields with the
sharp smell of wood sorrel,
and Cnicht in its majesty-
lit up like a statue. 

Quarry carved hills-
scars left protected
(a snag on barbed wire
only scratches the surface)
And in these hills lay rivers,
by these rivers,
moss, and secret dens.

Someone blew magic in the wind,
years ago.
Tying us all up with a reedy thread,
placing a pebble in our palms
and sticking mud between our toes,
gently weaving us all
into the tapestry,
the big picture.

We are tiny specks on an eggshell.
But we will grow from our roots,
like the blossoms and leaves,
and the wind will whisper,
Welcome home.

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That Time

Remember that bar
where we went that first time-
in a backward street 
facing the sunset.

Red door and windows, painted to look old-
a fresh lick though-
undeniably so.
Remember the table at which we sat.
The candle burnt
and we thought we were so above it all-
the flame, the street, the part of town
we’d just discovered
in our post-picnic haze.
(It’s the sun! you said)

Above it all- 
discoverers of a new world-
weary with new findings,
desperate for shock,
but eyes never wide enough
to notice the beauty.

We sat for hours 
looking bored.
You mentioned something sweet and final
as if we could never go back,
as if that point was the pinnacle.
Nothing could impress you, could it?
I acted unruffled 
but my heart was beating like a mouse’s 
under my thick layers.
Each time you mentioned the possibility of---
I frowned.
The beer travelled through us in an amber river,
down spirals of tunnels,
in darkness.

When it was time to leave and we were alone again,
in the backwards street,
I glanced.
To my side you were there.
But I could not see your arm.
You had your hand tucked in your pocket
playing with loose change.

________________________________________________________

Last Day

The water rippled
in the shade
As we used the creases of the riverbank
to spread, unfold.

Bones, we lay,
swapping timely schedules
for a wasted day.
Glad of it,
glad of the earth and moths,
and the smoke,
washing into clean air.

Drinking,
letting ourselves drift
one face to the next.
One voice enough-
twelve voices tickling-
the goosebumps on our arms.

The sun set shyly 
as we put our layers back on. 

_________________________________________________________________

In the words of Sylvia Plath...

I long to permeate the matter of this world...
belong to the grass and the stems, the roots
to push up with the daisies
and sing through their leaves
break off in the breeze, petal by petal
undone and hair flowing
feet in the ash, the burning ambers
and my head in the smoke
burning pine fumes up to the moon.
Down in the soil where it echoes heartbeats
and moles twist their noses at each beetroot sense
each twitch of the nostril
beating with its breath and fleeting with a cough.
To live in roots means darkness and warmth.
To live in roots means womb again
means birth on a different day 
and life on a different earth
from it and around it.
Earthy smells and grass stains
and forgotten conkers from summers ago
left there by boys who prance like lambs
from the top of the tree
to the faces in the lawn.
The silence of still- the stillness of silence-
permeates and breathes with long sighs-
tonight’s the night, I say with disguise.
Cat eyes glare from bushes
and question this night invasion-
sees no use in lament or regret-
we’re here now she says,
sandpaper tongue 
scratching to the surface of the words
and turns a blind eye on darkness itself.
As she prowls the roots 
she sniffs and finds me 
curled up like a foetus statue
rigid and stubborn in my ignorance
shut eyed and worn
not yet open to falling leaves
and the breeze they bring.
Whichever winter,
whichever spring,
each time table and life cycle
are contained in one breath,
and forced out,
let go in its return.

Springtime Scribbles

(free writing)

What colour would the moon be if you saw it on a Saturday?
Would its feeble light shine a skimmed milk hue with powder blue, dangling sneezes of moonshine, each handful of moon rocks and moon stones an aftermath of rags and bones
No astronaut could find or discover all the forgotten satellites that roam around the craters and through the gaps that the space buggies made through the cheese fields and the absent gardens
Your mother said you should have found somewhere cheaper to go on your Valentine’s Weekend you stared her right in the face
huge doe-eyed resentment and without blinking you spat on the floor
let it dribble nonchalantly down your chin and oh how your mother screams how it does pierce through the tiles
she says she says what to do with a maniac like you and she leaves and you lick your chin dry
All your friends ask you what was it like
truth be told you can’t remember you slept during most of your trip so you gathered bits of information and fused and moulded them together with a blowtorch, even, and constructed a collage of memories which you remember forever
And now its a Sunday you sit solitarily and sanitized all prim on a patchwork your bum fidgeting and wriggling where is the cat? has she gone to feed?
So you light a gas lamp and turn the TV on to sound only and you pour yourself a drink and you siiiiiigh
were you rich? you can’t remember
The room looks as if it was reserved for you all your favourite snow fur colours and pictures of you and that ghastly woman (a kidnapper you suspect) who seethes and represents all those tensions you embody in yourself and how did you survive in a bland baby bottle
You forget so you sigh and find solace in silence








________________________________________________________









Oh Time


Oh time- where do you seep?
Where do you drip-moments sleep?
I know you are there but
It’s hard to see your face
When days slip by- so sneaky and quiet

Oh time- you are so flimsy
A butterfly wing caught in the breeze
I stand mid in the garden
As you flutter by my eyelashes
Just for a second
And then
You’re gone

Weeks are put in an hour glass
And I stand in the middle
Of the sand storm avalanche-
Why won’t you slow down?
I am at the pinnacle and yet so far from it already

Here, I sit, I write
The sun shines this chill morning
It could be a double of any day
And I wouldn’t even notice
It’s just how things are, I hear you whisper
Even then,
Ears seem too coarse for such silver-silk words

When I wake up early-
(because that’s what you do to me, time, I’m addicted)
I feel ready for the day
But as it unfolds it’s satin folds
And I slide down it, so slippery and light,
I become less hopeful-
I miss the morning and it’s novelty

Oh time!
I can’t keep up
Slow down or disappear
Slow down








________________________________________________________








Debauch-a-day

Silk quilts spill on to powder puff armchairs
Resting upon them, 
River flows of ash gilded in mould
And resting bodies too, red-ripe
Blood spat sheets
And soot black eyes
Overflows of wine and whiskey puddles
Vapour smell 
Incensed-ual intent
All the twisted inches and dead cells of yesterday
Hang from the ceiling
Chandeliers- yet no regret
Emanating vibrating and bloated with sleep
Paintings peer on
With vastness agape
Eros’s child no longer awake
She snores-
Over the credit cards and rizlas
To the fireplace and up and out
Until air is now deadened
With the stubborn hours
Morning snarls like a bulldog
Let off the chain
Comes charging through the slits
Through and through
The plum shade night

Assorted Poems

The Dreamcatcher Garden

In the dreamcatcher garden,
Roots grow from soil swimming with sleep
You must be quiet here- the plants need warmth and blessings of slumber
Do not shine a light, the sun is not needed
The plants moonbathe and feed off the stars
Flowers grow, sometimes with bloody petals and murky odours
These nightmares you must preen
Walk carefully in this garden, tread lightly in your step
Even the deadest of leaves may be dreamt of again
To water the bushes- imagine a stream
Stand above them and let out the puddles of your memory
They will soak them up gladly
Pick the dreamcatcher when it is ripe
And dangles off the tree
Shut the gate before you wake
Re-enter in your dreams

________________________________________________________
















Jealous Girl

A shot of sour gin:
Unfair, unjust
You watch as a curtain falls.

Suck as you swallow
Each drop- you ask-

Something hangs from the willows
Creaking arm cobweb

Jealous fuck
Tears open a mouth and screams something
You would not hear
With innocent ears.

Bathe in once-was
Look further than then
It is now and it’s done

Awash, await.








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I can't grasp

Abstract?
Touchable?
A light in the fire or a glimpse
Of concrete nature
Do I have to describe
Or can I just say...

It’s a mixture
A bubble broth
A tongue twisted sibilance
Of sexual sacrifice-
Sibling rivalry-
Did I get what I want?

I overgrow my thoughts in to bushes
Twisted
branches they gleam with berries
Red.

I put them there, mouth open, waiting
Gaping-
I saw not.

I saw not your hand in the mirror
Shunning my grasp

Prematurely, my eyes wet
Oh river
Untouchable
Let me forget.

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Train Journey 1


Feeling small amongst large buildings
Their lights glow neon
I grow in

Feeling small and
Back I go 
To small walled prisons
I crave tidy comfort
with cushions and phone calls

I have rivers who demand to crash through
I suck them in with the power of a breath
And all tightness demands submission.

Back I go
To the darker ways
And the round about sneers

I could collapse in my mother’s arms and smell her wool
But that would only backtrack
And help me hide

What I need is air
Alone or not I don’t care

Belittled, I know this feeling
A wet face as the train chugs fierce.

First Year Creative Writing Work

Poems:


My bladder is a box of dreams
You see this hand, it’s seen strange things
My bladder dreamt of festering guilt
Without my hand it would have spilt
A gush of sea-salt
High tide waves
White horses swimming to early graves

My throat is the end of all good hope
Your hand went down there once to grope
And grapple-
A rope.
I used that once to hang myself
Now it hangs on trophy’s shelf

My breasts are little milky mounds
I gasp for air now I’m upside down.


________________________________________________________




It was smoking cigarettes in the blue back yard

It was those fleeting hours way past our bedtime- clung unto through sleep

It was pints in hand, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, talking in sips

It was sleep on the beach- dream-haze of heat

It was sitting on the sofa, bare skin on leather

It was board games and paper games and silent secret games

It was a luscious fruit that blossomed and bloomed

It was kiss kiss grab and senses battered

It is a memory fluttering in the corner of our eyes

It is an autumn tree losing all its leaves- but how pretty the leaves fly







________________________________________________________













Memory Exercise:

(Remember a scene from childhood, but reverse your gender)

I stare at the slugs, except they don’t really look like slugs any more, they are something mysterious that appeared overnight, they must be magic. These inch long creatures have somehow formed a big ‘S’ shape and my sleepy eyes gasp in amazement. An ‘S’ for Samuel- but how did they know! I’m old enough to know they’re slugs but right now they’re statue still, they could be lots of things. A message from the woodland elves, maybe. This excites me. I imagine them sneaking in through little cracks and turning round to each other and saying ‘Shhh!’ whilst tip toeing past my snoring head. They must have used some kind of rope, probably bracken, to climb that high. I wonder if the slugs mind. They must be bored staying that still, in such a wiggly shape all night. I marvel at the tidiness of it, I couldn’t even write that neatly.

The sluggy ‘S’ clings on to the fabric wall just above the entrance, which is, in this case, a flap which has been pegged closed. The canvas material seems like a good place for them to stick on to, their slime must be like glue. They look silky and black, which contrasts against the patchy white walls, made even more bright by the sun filtering through. If I look really closely I’m sure I could spot other insects like woodlice or spiders but I’d rather not.

I’ve just woken up in my dad’s tipi and this is the first thing I see. It smells of damp, heavy, musty damp, and slightly of woodsmoke. Probably from the fire we used to cook dinner last night. This smell, although not the nicest, is comforting to me, it means Daddy Chris, it means outside in the woods. It’s so bright in here, the morning’s come after a long night trying to get warm. I’m wrapped up in layers of sleeping bag and blanket but still my nose is numb. I’m always glad when morning comes, although I’m always tired, the sun wakes up much earlier than what I’m used to. I yawn and blink. It’s cosy in here because it’s small. I like that it has a tall roof which stretches for miles up above me, held up by the long metal pole in the middle. Because it’s a tipi, the room is round, it’s nice not to have corners for a change. On the ground, on top of a blue plastic sheet, lies a bric-a-brac of textures. There are woven rugs made of thick wool, battered pots and pans, rain coats and waterproof trousers, and my weekend bag which is a blue rucksack with Thomas the Tank on it. It looks chaotic but everything is still. Birdsong twinkles in my ears but so softly it’s barely there. Mostly I hear silence and a slight breeze that makes the surrounding trees whisper. I try to sit up, the sides of the tipi feel wet from the dew. 

‘Sammy, are you awake?’

My dad pops his head into the tipi and the sun slices its way in.

‘Yeah’, I say with a croak in my throat.

‘Shall I make you some porridge?’

‘Ughh, porridge?’ I wrinkle my nose and stick out my tongue. ‘Why do we always have to have porridge?’

‘Because it’s good for you, it will make you big and strong, and give you lots of energy. You know all the woodland elves eat porridge every morning, don’t you? They make bowls out of acorn cups.’

I ponder this a second, and my eyebrows twitch upwards. 

‘Do they really?’
‘Yes they do, so you better too! Come on, put on your jumper and come outside, it’s a beautiful morning.’, and with that, his head disappears.

I make my way out of my nest of warmth and find my biggest, itchiest woolly jumper. I crawl towards the entrance and peek out. Right in front is the circle of stones used for the fire, which is lit now, heating up a saucepan of bubbling porridge. It smells so familiar, boring and bland. I want sugary cereals like I can have back at home. It is a beautiful morning though, my dad was right. Everything is green, with patches of moss lit up gold by the sunlight. We’re pitched up on top of a slope, in a clearing protected by oak trees. To the left of us, down the hill, is a river which I figure out is the sound of silence I heard earlier.

I watch my dad as he stirs the porridge. He crouches, knees bent and spread out either side of him, like a frog waiting to jump. He’s wearing his old scruffy long johns and a thick blue fleece, which is zipped up right to the top. His feet are bare, they always are, and they look cold wiggling there in the wet grass. My dad is a friendly giant to me. He’s a grown up but he’s fun too. He looks over to me and gives me a long, thin smile which spreads all across his face and makes his eyes shrink. He does everything so slowly and calmly, he takes his time with everything. Pick up the saucepan, pour it into bowls (the small plastic one for me, the big metal one for him), give the spoons a wipe, and there’s breakfast. 

We sit there for a while chewing and mulling. I take the time to look at my dad as he stares off into the distance in that special way of his. He has an angular face, and a nose that points out confidently. His hair is bushy and wavy, a bit like mine, although mine is darker. I’ve got my mum’s hair, but I like to think there’s some of my dad’s there too. After porridge, which I finish reluctantly, I go and explore the garden, which luckily for me is the whole forest. My dad tells me not to go far, but that’s OK because I always head to the same spot. It’s down towards the river and it’s where the woodland elves live. I half skip half run down the hill until I reach a dead tree that lies on its side. The bark is all shredded and is so light that it breaks off in your hand. I climb over it and there it is, the magic rock, covered in furry moss and tiny flowers and broken leaves. This is elf city. I pick up some wood sorrel that grows around its edges and chew on it, it tastes sharp and delicious. The sound of the river is overpowering but I feel at home. I bend down to the rock and whisper,

‘It’s Sammy here, thanks for the slugs!’

Poems/ Streams of thought

The sweet cream

The succulent dream

Forcing free those taste buds in me

Beyond the clouds

The sea, the mounds,

I awake and see a crumpled face

A distant place I can’t erase

Let us be

Let us see

Let us swim and float and silently scream

So we are heard not by ears

But by touch, by a hand

That holds itself up

Palm upturned, fingers burned

In anticipation

So fierce, so true

What’s real is glue

We stand, we sing

We hum in the wind

Bringing and bringing

Bearing our children

Like baskets of fruit

Too it too woo

The owl eschews

Little dew bits of drool

Hungry like the wolf

Plentiful pack

How does the moon provide

The waves of the tide

That silver pride

To hide behind

For centuries women beg at its doorstep

Wanting release

And peace from the beast

Wandering free

The sand on their knees

Whisper to me

Your pain as you bleed

When will there be loss

Without too much a fuss

_________________________________________________

Promise me once

I flee from the town,

Disappear from the crowd,

You still say my name

With that tongue of gold

And a look in your eye

Centuries old

Repeated in you-

In us-

Now new

Promise me when

I see you again

The lemon is sweet

I dread regret,

Remorse, and their friends

This can not be the end

This will not be the end

Promise me

My love, my friend

That hours can pass

Unseen and unheard

Our whispering words

Just an echo

At last, so fast,

This kiss is our last

_______________________________________________

I fail to see

Nothing in me

A substance can rise

A strengthening tide

Take me from behind

I said, I pled,

I begged with my eyes

Force me to see

Force me to be

I lack the concrete touch

Of those who succeed

Wherever I press

My hand to the nest

(your hand to my breast)

Makes me feel less

Of a woman,

A soul,

One with a hole

Broken and slashed

Am I empty or full?

__________________________________________________________

Pressure is rising

As the clock faces itself

Questioning-

Do we travel forwards or are we in fact

Stagnant in the cold

Forcing ourselves old

While our cells go round-

Goldfish on land

Presented with facts

Are we humans or rats

Do we mention what hides

In our insides

In our intestines

We test, we find

A loveless ride

_______________________________________________________________

Sub-human

I drink lemon and honey

The sharp tones, the sweet moans

The steam and cup

Sitting so stuck

In the hearth of home

I rest my bones

So weary and old-

My mind can’t afford

Such disregard

And late night rises

Shutting lids

I have delayed fatigue

Wandering free, I watch from afar

Rage, jealousy

Ingrained in me

The others they stand,

Beauty in hand,

From the West land-

Baggy trousers and flowers

I crunched my teeth hard

Without care

For my friends, for optimism;

I had nothing to share

Twisting hardness so it radiates

Blue-

I stare and stare inwards

I’d rather be blind than see such ugliness again

The unwillingness to breathe

And ride the breeze

Seems to be

An impossibility-

See?

__________________________________________________________

The mirror:

You see but you can’t pinpoint

There is truth

But I lose sight

A mirage in the desert

The familiar grain

Etching and binding

A coherent face

The eyebrows

The collarbones

Which sit horizontally

Unattached

From skin’s disguise

The small mouth

Pursed and sulking

The tilted head

I play for my own audience

The mirror:

A necessity, a luxury

The death of mystery