Bright May Shine Her Days

She raises wolves inside her soul,
Where, bitter, they reside;
Shackled souls betwixt the trees,
Her mind in which they hide.

The moon reflects the angry truth
That instinct bids her howl,
Released within the forest’s heart
Where darkness casts its cowl.

Tomorrow she’ll emerge anew
When sunshine casts his haze.
The night’s retreat to dreaming’s self,
That bright may shine her days.

Keeping Up Appearances

Here smiles the collapsible me,
Who waits, expectant, in oven glove chains,
Smelling like a bleached and Swiffered cell;
This oubliette, a place to forget
The self; my home
Where, not alone,
I lose myself so well.

Here stands a woman reborn,
Who opens the door with no make up on,
Because I had better shit to do today.
This messy flat, complete with cat,
Myself, my home
Where, when alone,
I know myself so well.

 

 

 

Gaga for Dada

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Until last week, I’d never encountered Dadaist poetry. It’s seriously good fun! At a creative writing course, I was handed an envelope containing a chopped up copy of Sylvia Plath’s Blackberrying. The task: choose and reassemble the words that speak to you to create something new. 

The Perfumery

Alert to the brush of the bell in the door,
Young Andrew is with you in seconds.
You ask him to help you to buy a perfume,
And, “come with me, darling,” he beckons.

He leads you away to the heart of the shop,
Where scent bottles fan out around you.
He talks you through citrus then floral then musk
And his stories delight and astound you.

You’re carefully studied with well-practised eyes;
Your custom absorbs his attention.
As you, tentative, pick up a bottle nearby,
He says, “Madam, might I just mention …

That this perfume speaks of the opera box,
The murderous innamorata;
Imagine the shot and the swish of her gown,
As she tucks the gun back her garter.

What about this scent? The one with the bow?
It’s light and it’s fun and it’s fruity,
So suited to ladies with your joie de vivre,
Your playfulness, candour and beauty.

Or maybe it’s this one that you would prefer?
It’s vanilla with top notes of cherry.
It’s very Star Baker, so sweet and intense,
And who doesn’t love Mary Berry …!

“It’s a little bit ‘frilly’ for me,” you declare
And nods as he ‘yarps’ understanding.
He muses a moment whilst thumbing his tweeds,
Chin raised, looking thoughtful, commanding.

Try this,” Andrew says, with a flick of his quiff –
It flutters on top like a feather –
He leads you to more of a masculine scent
With notes of tobacco and leather.

Your eyes start to water as you spot the price,
You cry, “Goodness me! That’s expensive!”
And Andrew, who smells like he bathes in the stuff,
Starts to fidget, becoming defensive.

But madam,” he sneers, in his smart London drawl,
(So smooth you can scarcely believe it …)
This perfume’s beloved of the Hollywood stars!”
You say, “thank you mate, but I’ll leave it.”

As you leave with a wince it’s the look down his nose –
So disdainful! You can’t help but say it:
“If you try to sell perfume at the cost of a car,
I’ll tell you where you can go spray it.”

At the Jukebox

My empty hands return the touch,
Of a long lost love, departed.
The knowing looks, the flirting smile
Before the dancing started.
Mesmeric swish of ghostly skirts,
Her head upon my shoulder,
The gentle kiss upon my cheek
That made me so much bolder.
The hairspray smell on my lapel,
The memory of her laughter,
Returning with the juke box jive,
And with me ever after.

 

I’m reliably informed that today is National Jukebox Day! To me, jukeboxes conjour feelings of nostalgia and longing; each one seems to have a tale to tell and memories tied up in its music. 

To Grace the Name

An anchor name that must be earned
Without the tools of gifted genes,
The cruellest offering to a child
Who does not Grace the name.
She lives a life inadequate;
Struggling for Grace,
Searching for a girl
Who was lost from the start
And, unknowing, finds Grace within.

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Written for the girl who was given a nickname because she was ‘not beautiful enough’ to be called Grace. Written for the inspiring woman she became; a woman who radiates grace from every pore.