Encre Lavande

 I wrote this flush with the happiness of a new relationship. Unfortunately, that fell through, but at least I have this awesome poem.

 It was partially inspired by this bottle of fountain ink I own made by the French ink manufacturer J. Herbin. It's one of a series of inks that is made with the hydrosols of flowers. Things lik rose and orange blossom water. The one I have is made with lavander water.

Available from Bureau Direct

 Encre Lavande

 Once I am sure that I am in love,

 I shall write you a love letter,

 It will be scented with lavender,

 And once you’ve read my words,

 About the depths of your eyes,

 And the brightness of your smile,

 You can lay it next to your pillow,

 Drift into a peaceful sleep,

 And dream of me.

Thirty

 This poem is inspired by the pattern I go through when I go to get a new prescripton for my medication.

 It was also an experiment in style. I'm better at strict form poetry, but I'm pretty happy with this one.

Thirty

Two little white pills
Ten and twenty everyday
 
Running out
Go to get some more
 
Up for eight
Call the surgery
 
See the doctor
"Are they helping?"
 
Smile and shrug
"It could be much worse."

Bathing at Asnieres

 Here's another poem for your delectation.

 This time it's an ekphrastic poem inspired by a pointillist painting by Georges Seurat.

Bathing at Asnières

Points in space and time,
Make up the lake, the grass 
And me. There are all kinds of little dots,
Different colours, different things.

Separate them out,
Make blobs of colour,
A collage of grass and skin and sky,
A beautiful mess of colour, but only that.

Blast them out, of stars and brushes,
And the dots become many things,
The sky, the lake and the grass,
And a swimmer taking a break, to watch the world.

Superstition, A Poem

 I'm le tired, so here's a poem.

Superstition

I broke a mirror yesterday,

I hope the seven year’s bad luck

Is retroactive.

23:28

 I don't have a lot of happy poems.

 I write poetry when the mood takes me, and since I have depression, that mood is usually pretty sad, angry, or despairing.

 A distressing number of them revolve around self harm.

 This is far from the worst of those ones.

 The worst seems like a charming little stanza, right up until the last line. I find it jarring, and I'm the one who wrote it.

 I feel like this one, in contrast, is an accurate picture of how I felt at that moment in time.

 Hence the title.

23:28

                   Knives in the drawer

  Pills on the table   

     And me

          Sitting at the kitchen island

          Feeling sad

  And oh so tired        

Thestrals Are No Consolation

 Today's poem was inspired by the death of a friend's pet.

 It was also written in the run up to the first anniversary of my stepfather's death.

 I didn't make a post about that, because I don't like to dwell on it, but this poem does express my feelings on the subject.

 I miss my Dad.

Thestrals Are No Consolation

Seeing something die changes you,

Whether it's just a snail,

A beloved family pet,

Or a parent you'll miss forever.

You're not quite the same person you were before.

When you hear that wet, cracking noise,

Or watch the vet inject the sedative,

Or hear the rattle of a man's last breath,

You become aware of death in an intimate way.

And you know that one day, if you're lucky,

Someone else will change that way because of you.

 

An Unfriendly Star

 I've been having trouble with my sleep pattern lately, and it brought back memories of my childhood.

 I've always been the kind of person who takes a long time to get to sleep, even when I was a little girl. I'd lie awake in bed in the room I shared with my sister(s) for a long time before I finally fell asleep, and that's a long time for an over active imagination to be left with nothing to do.

 Our room was elaborately redecorated to look like the beach one time. It had pale yellow walls and a dark night sky ceiling.

 I could swear it was creeping down the walls at night when the lights were off.

 I wonder... if it freaked the people who moved in after us out as much as it freaked me out.

 They probably redecorated. The cretins.

 Today's poem is about a similar story.

An Unfriendly Star

 When I was a little girl,

 We had a poster in our bedroom,

 To teach us about the solar system.

 And in the deep, dark night,

 When I could not sleep,

 All I could see was the Sun expanding,

 To devour the Earth.

 It was a relief to know,

 When I was older and wiser,

 That the poster was not to scale.

 It was not a relief to know,

 When I was older and wiser still,

 That in a mere billions of years,

 My childish fears would come true.

(The idea of the Earth being gone one day really bothers me.)

Have a Poem

 Be warned, though, it's quite old.

Life Through A Contact Lens

This morning I woke up,

And I thought, ‘I can see!’,

It was the perfect miracle,

Well, at least for me.

No more glasses here,

No more contacts either,

Which is a good thing really,

My eyes could use a breather.

Then I went to the bathroom,

Marvelling at my luck,

I grinned and looked in the mirror,

And then, what else? ‘fuck’.

At myself I swore and cursed,

I’d committed an eye care sin, 

'What did you do?' I hear you ask,

I’d left my contacts in.

Not a Camp NaNoWriMo Update

 I'm delaying that post until tomorrow because I haven't managed to write anything over the last week and I'm hoping I'll manage to write something by tomorrow.

 So for today it's tie to show off Doug's poetry again!

 (Fair warning though, this is a rough draft. Just a very good rough draft.)

A Letter to Enoch before he Walks with God.

Breathe deep.

Breathe deep. Let the dust fill you. Let it hurt.

You've known many kinds of dust.

The dust of the earth, the dust of books, the dust of bone.

A long life of dust.

Breathe now, Enoch. Draw dust past your withered lips,

Pull it down your throat into your chest.

Breathe deep.

It will not be the same, you know.

You reach out your hand now. You smooth it

over wood.

When the walk ends, you will reach out again,

And from your fingers will expand a cascade of stars,

Cosmic dust, burning supernova dust, carving nebula.

You will sit among the black holes, clumped like sand,

Amidst a desert of dark you will seed radiant oases.

Breathe now, Enoch. Soon each breath will draw in

the stuff of angels. An ocean of fire whistling down your throat.

Breathe deep.

You will not miss your wife's songs, when there are incandescent choirs.

You will not miss water when you can drink from photon fountains.

You will not miss your books when you can read the text beneath creation.

But when all the deserts of the world are like a mote tickling against your skin,

You will miss the way your lungs tighten.

Douglas Murphy. 

(And, as ever, check out his awesome blog!)

Guest Post: Ode to a Cuddled Foot

Hi, guys, this is Doug Murphy from Fission Mailure, filling in for Reecey with An Guest Post. In this case, a poem that I wrote for use at the celebrations of the Queen’s visit to Leicester in 2012.

It’s about socks. Sock.

Ode to a Cuddled Foot.

My shame:

I've been neglectful

and you faithful,

Wrapped around my foot,

Sensuously warm. A woollen oven

for my toes.

Believe me dearfleece,

Others were too small,

Rough, stretched or itchy

to satisfy my needs.

I yearned

for your elasticity.

We were young,

Fresh, gentle, soft,

Innocent,

Now we've aged

and play has worn holes

in your fabric.

My toes poke through,

Rubbed with calluses,

My heel scrapes leather

and comes away red

and filthy.

My sole is muddy.

I could leave you,

As others urge, for a younger

newer model.

But my dear,

My heart would ache

as my foot currently does.