laura-blaise - Hello Poetry

It was always hard to know Who hid in the hedges Who flickered like flames out of sight The end of the garden The crackle of the night It was hard to see Through the branches and the sounds And push away the leaves to where the secret fires burned To think what might simmer In the cauldron of darkdreaming And I could never go To the end of the garden Not on my own, with my net and my penknife Only with you, and your eyes snapping bright.

0

Feb 13, 2011

Feb 13, 2011 at 5:05 AM UTC

End of the Garden

It was always hard to know Who hid in the hedges Who flickered like flames out of sight The end of the garden The crackle of the night It was hard to see Through the branches and the sounds And push away the leaves to where the secret fires burned To think what might simmer In the cauldron of darkdreaming And I could never go To the end of the garden Not on my own, with my net and my penknife Only with you, and your eyes snapping bright.

14

(The river is watercolour, and I wish you could see how the colours blend in summer Through the light rain I can’t bear to hear the whispers of the city... I just look into the water It’s transluscent like your skin, blue as your veins. It moves at lightening speed in this rain. I want you to come and see... but they can barely leave your curtains open for fear you’ll catch something from the light, the air. Your delicate complexion would only be tarnished. I want to see you here in this painting but you seem so far from everything now, how am I meant to find you when now everything, everything I do feels like falling. ) The river is so gentle this time of year when the rain falls like feathers and fills it right up to the banks. It’s a water colour painting, all pale green and blue and as I sit on the bank it reminds me of you; your transparent skin, your pale green eyes and blue veins visible... You are paint with too much water in it, now. Diluted, wasting...There’s a swan pecking at crumbs on the bench where you should be sitting, next to me. Did you know a swan can break your arm? Not that there’s much of you left to break now. You can barely leave your bed, without summoning fatigue to gnaw on your bones. It’s hard to sit knowing that however hard I grip the bench it won’t bring anything back and knowing that I can never hug you as tightly as I’m clutching the wood because you are made of glass now. The trees are throwing their leaves off in sudden gusts and they flail in the air so the world looks like fire. Their flamebraches flickering menacingly. It has an energy that you will never feel again, neither in your bones nor beating against your skin. You are protected now. Like signets beneath their mother’s wing. You feel no wind nor rain, nor sunshine, no ecstacy in your veins. Everything is white... Artificially dyed flowers stand ridgid at the foot of your bed. I know they bring you no comfort. A storm is coming. The swans retreat to their shelters, the people trail off into the distance, their faces hidden by dripping umbrellas. The trees tear off all of their leaves in fiery rage until they dance furiously in the naked wind. They are angry because you are not here to dance with them. God **** you, they hate you for it. For lying there, tormented and tired as the wind screams that ‘LIFE GOES ON AND ON without you.’ I stay on the bench, immobile. I am soaked right through to my lungs, feel rain drops running down the ladders of my ribs. I look like I have just crawled from the river, as leaves stick to my skin. I grip the wood tightly still. Once it was sunny. It was bright, cloudless and you stood here next to the bench. You laughed at how the swans always looked so angry, like ballet dancers concentrating too hard. The trees had all their fresh young leaves, wrapped in their velvet coats. The swans don’t look angry today, just sad, brow beaten. Their beaks point down as they huddle from the cold. I hate you for not being here. I let go of the bench. The storm rages. I dive head first into the dashing water. It is deeper than usual but still shallow. I keep my head beneath the stirring water for as long as I can. I feel the cold rush against my skin, filter through my clothes and encase me in it’s breath. The air inside me screams to be released, threatening to burst through my back like wings. I broke the already shattering surface and hauled my numb body onto the bank. I felt then, as I lay on the soaking ground, that I knew you were never coming here or anywhere else you loved ever again. I thought I could feel your ghost in my hands, in my throat. Slipping awa. The next day, the day you sat up and the doctors said you were a miracle, the day the nurse took away all the ugly flowers, the trees by the river had never stood so still, so wonderfully still.

0

Feb 13, 2011

Feb 13, 2011 at 5:03 AM UTC

Watercolour.

(The river is watercolour, and I wish you could see how the colours blend in summer Through the light rain I can’t bear to hear the whispers of the city... I just look into the water It’s transluscent like your skin, blue as your veins. It moves at lightening speed in this rain. I want you to come and see... but they can barely leave your curtains open for fear you’ll catch something from the light, the air. Your delicate complexion would only be tarnished. I want to see you here in this painting but you seem so far from everything now, how am I meant to find you when now everything, everything I do feels like falling. ) The river is so gentle this time of year when the rain falls like feathers and fills it right up to the banks. It’s a water colour painting, all pale green and blue and as I sit on the bank it reminds me of you; your transparent skin, your pale green eyes and blue veins visible... You are paint with too much water in it, now. Diluted, wasting...There’s a swan pecking at crumbs on the bench where you should be sitting, next to me. Did you know a swan can break your arm? Not that there’s much of you left to break now. You can barely leave your bed, without summoning fatigue to gnaw on your bones. It’s hard to sit knowing that however hard I grip the bench it won’t bring anything back and knowing that I can never hug you as tightly as I’m clutching the wood because you are made of glass now. The trees are throwing their leaves off in sudden gusts and they flail in the air so the world looks like fire. Their flamebraches flickering menacingly. It has an energy that you will never feel again, neither in your bones nor beating against your skin. You are protected now. Like signets beneath their mother’s wing. You feel no wind nor rain, nor sunshine, no ecstacy in your veins. Everything is white... Artificially dyed flowers stand ridgid at the foot of your bed. I know they bring you no comfort. A storm is coming. The swans retreat to their shelters, the people trail off into the distance, their faces hidden by dripping umbrellas. The trees tear off all of their leaves in fiery rage until they dance furiously in the naked wind. They are angry because you are not here to dance with them. God **** you, they hate you for it. For lying there, tormented and tired as the wind screams that ‘LIFE GOES ON AND ON without you.’ I stay on the bench, immobile. I am soaked right through to my lungs, feel rain drops running down the ladders of my ribs. I look like I have just crawled from the river, as leaves stick to my skin. I grip the wood tightly still. Once it was sunny. It was bright, cloudless and you stood here next to the bench. You laughed at how the swans always looked so angry, like ballet dancers concentrating too hard. The trees had all their fresh young leaves, wrapped in their velvet coats. The swans don’t look angry today, just sad, brow beaten. Their beaks point down as they huddle from the cold. I hate you for not being here. I let go of the bench. The storm rages. I dive head first into the dashing water. It is deeper than usual but still shallow. I keep my head beneath the stirring water for as long as I can. I feel the cold rush against my skin, filter through my clothes and encase me in it’s breath. The air inside me screams to be released, threatening to burst through my back like wings. I broke the already shattering surface and hauled my numb body onto the bank. I felt then, as I lay on the soaking ground, that I knew you were never coming here or anywhere else you loved ever again. I thought I could feel your ghost in my hands, in my throat. Slipping awa. The next day, the day you sat up and the doctors said you were a miracle, the day the nurse took away all the ugly flowers, the trees by the river had never stood so still, so wonderfully still.

19

There are hooks in you I am only fickle finned I cannot swim fast enough To **** my mouth onto yours Because- There are games in you A hunting sport A terror red ravaging game You relish it as the juices drip down your chin There are hooks in you And I am only fickle finned Pulling me into you Teeth and claws sharper, gashing deeper -Secret pleasure in the raw raw flesh There are rumours shrouding you Bullet words hurtling through my skull Plumetting through leaves, through everything I know There are hooks in you And I am only feather winged I cannot float fast enough To embed your bullet in my chest Because- This is a game to you A hunting sport A biting, sinking, blood filled game There are hooks in you And all this hunting, swelling, biting All this heaving, sweating, fighting All this terror, flying, swimming All this hooking, shooting, chasing Does me no good, For I am fickle finned I am feather winged And this is a game To you.

0

Feb 9, 2011

Feb 9, 2011 at 4:17 AM UTC

Hooks.

There are hooks in you I am only fickle finned I cannot swim fast enough To **** my mouth onto yours Because- There are games in you A hunting sport A terror red ravaging game You relish it as the juices drip down your chin There are hooks in you And I am only fickle finned Pulling me into you Teeth and claws sharper, gashing deeper -Secret pleasure in the raw raw flesh There are rumours shrouding you Bullet words hurtling through my skull Plumetting through leaves, through everything I know There are hooks in you And I am only feather winged I cannot float fast enough To embed your bullet in my chest Because- This is a game to you A hunting sport A biting, sinking, blood filled game There are hooks in you And all this hunting, swelling, biting All this heaving, sweating, fighting All this terror, flying, swimming All this hooking, shooting, chasing Does me no good, For I am fickle finned I am feather winged And this is a game To you.

35

I painted you in shades of blue and hung you up to dry But by morning you had faded and Your eyes didn’t shine.

0

Jan 18, 2011

Jan 18, 2011 at 1:27 PM UTC

Blue

I painted you in shades of blue and hung you up to dry But by morning you had faded and Your eyes didn’t shine.

3

When the night wrapped you up early What was left? Bones, shut eyes, Your clothes, your flesh And your words Still caught in your throat They missed the last train Sank the last boat Never made it to the island Of crushed wood The safety of the ink To be understood Your bones lie still now In your designated spot But your words reached the island And they will never stop For whatever world you’re in now It’s not the same As the ones on the paper As the words in your viens Oh you’ve been carried off by swans Into the dusk --But I’ve only just begun To cling to your words

0

Jan 18, 2011

Jan 18, 2011 at 1:18 PM UTC

Poem for Angela Carter (though it does her no justice)

When the night wrapped you up early What was left? Bones, shut eyes, Your clothes, your flesh And your words Still caught in your throat They missed the last train Sank the last boat Never made it to the island Of crushed wood The safety of the ink To be understood Your bones lie still now In your designated spot But your words reached the island And they will never stop For whatever world you’re in now It’s not the same As the ones on the paper As the words in your viens Oh you’ve been carried off by swans Into the dusk --But I’ve only just begun To cling to your words

24

When the sound of your parents talking about politics over powers your sense of right and wrong And the sounds of treebranches clashing outside your window drowns out the song on the radio Every strand of hair on your head makes noise against the next as you drag your fingers through in frustration And your skin is tired and you can hear the sound each time you blink, each time your eyelids kiss When your breath hits the glass of your mirror like a fist on skin, it leaves an opaque patch, like a bruise deeply spreading When your words hang in the air like icicles and you wish they’d turn to steam because they’re stabbing everyone they can reach And then when your feet stop clicking, padding and stamping, and your heart stops faltering, flying and clapping And your lips part to let out a stampede of words all tripping over each other That’s when And only then It’s time to switch the light off.

0

Jan 18, 2011

Jan 18, 2011 at 12:30 PM UTC

Sound

When the sound of your parents talking about politics over powers your sense of right and wrong And the sounds of treebranches clashing outside your window drowns out the song on the radio Every strand of hair on your head makes noise against the next as you drag your fingers through in frustration And your skin is tired and you can hear the sound each time you blink, each time your eyelids kiss When your breath hits the glass of your mirror like a fist on skin, it leaves an opaque patch, like a bruise deeply spreading When your words hang in the air like icicles and you wish they’d turn to steam because they’re stabbing everyone they can reach And then when your feet stop clicking, padding and stamping, and your heart stops faltering, flying and clapping And your lips part to let out a stampede of words all tripping over each other That’s when And only then It’s time to switch the light off.

11

Cracks creep Snakes on the wall Into the darkest patches Where the light fails From my bed, I can see The shadows of the lizards And the damp In the trees I can see the corners of the bed posts And the humming of wasps They have a nest near by Fierce I can taste the corners of the world From my bed I can feel the cracks Creeping I can hate the very deepest darkest split In the paint And vow to get it fixed Someday Or I could sleep But that’s no good when there’s Dirt on your shoes And there’re no flowers this time of the year I can see around corners From my bed But the snakes creep higher And the trees become damper And the sky sinks down down deep in the ground And it comes back up, around all the corners Clutching diamonds.

0

Jan 18, 2011

Jan 18, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC

Corners

Cracks creep Snakes on the wall Into the darkest patches Where the light fails From my bed, I can see The shadows of the lizards And the damp In the trees I can see the corners of the bed posts And the humming of wasps They have a nest near by Fierce I can taste the corners of the world From my bed I can feel the cracks Creeping I can hate the very deepest darkest split In the paint And vow to get it fixed Someday Or I could sleep But that’s no good when there’s Dirt on your shoes And there’re no flowers this time of the year I can see around corners From my bed But the snakes creep higher And the trees become damper And the sky sinks down down deep in the ground And it comes back up, around all the corners Clutching diamonds.

31