I used to be a mover.
I ran, and danced, and climbed trees.
If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.  
I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass.
I did not question, I just did.



I used to say things.
I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity.
I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.  
People were constantly telling me to be quiet.  I made them listen.
My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real.



I used to laugh more.
Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee.
It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.  
It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room.
I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed.



I used to get lost in things.
In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books.
I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there,
and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one.
I felt so disheartened when I found my way again.



I used to create.
I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time.
It just poured from my fingertips.  It was only completed when the smile came.  
A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me.  I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster.
I believed the only things you own, are the things you make.



Now I am uncertain.
Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent.
Now I only move with a destination in mind.  
I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.                                                       ­             
I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.  
The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words.

Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time.

Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around.  Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed.
And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you.


But now.
Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought.
The Mover awakens within me.  I smile and crave company.
I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn.

I will not sleep tonight.

Beauty is not flowers, given by a lover.

Nor is it meadows and birdsong.

And definitely not the pantomime of Weddings, with their

Hyperbolic declarations and parodies of tailoring on

Bodies too well-fed to house them.



Instead, it is the soft curl of cigarette smoke, blue

And graceful against the grime of a steamed window.

Or in a poky kitchen, the remains of our meal crusting on

Our plates, too absorbed were we in conversation

To even remember the taste.



It is the chuntered breath, just after,

When we are both trying to ignore how bad

We smell, and getting slightly annoyed that our heartbeats are out of sync

And thinking how nice a drink or a shower would be.



It is seagulls beside a river, in a military line, with

White trails of ****, Jackson Pollocking down the wall

On which they stood, and how they all took flight one by one

Like dominoes as I approached.



It is certainly not sunsets.  After all, they occur every day

And can be captured in a photogaph.  It’s the accompanying silence

That makes sunsets special, and that is better found in libraries anyway.

It is somehow more impressive to silence human tongues than watch

The suns tired routine once again.



On a bus full of rowdy, starched schoolboys with filmy faces,

Posturing about experience, Beauty is the one boy reading.

Beauty is not safety.  It is daring and bold.  Or perhaps it is quiet and

Trying to be ignored,  I don’t know.  Perhaps we shouldn’t care a jot.

Beauty is that thing that should be ugly,

But is not.

Do not stay idle nor linger for fear

There is great peril for those who wait here

And do not be merry, nor chortle with glee

For The Watcher at the window points his finger at thee



His face it is gaunt, flesh numb to the bone

He acts with great malice to those who stay alone

Do not stop!  Dear Traveller, saddle up your horse

And be silent as you leave or be filled with remorse



Make haste and be solemn, don’t look back upon depart,

For there is blood on his hands and grief in his heart.

We used to sit on radiators and laugh.

Heads thrown back, not caring that

Everyone could see my black fillings

And crooked teeth.

Loose-limbed, lazy, brazen, bare.



Cackling now, we are louder

Though there is less to laugh at.

This roar leaves my heart on a precipice.

I curl my toes in my shoes.  This is

Not funny.



Today, when I am amused, I cover my mouth

Stare at the floor.

Laughing only with my shoulders.