"curtseyed" poems
I left serious procrastinating by Liverpool Street station,
And skipped into Spitalfields
Looking for ludicrous.
In this place,
In the city but not of the city,
Lissome youths in black skinny jeans
Loiter by stalls selling things that no-one needs.
Rockabilly chick,
In my splurty outy dress,
Petticoats flouncing,
I twirled and giggled
Through the Goblin Market
Into the Water Poet,
And curtseyed gracefully,
Accepting a liquid offering,
Prepared to hold court.
Later, we may find sustenance,
Or resume the dance
On sticky floors.
It's time to let go of plans, responsibility and care,
To run, to laugh, to pirouette, to dare.
Leave me here
Or join me,
But beware
The labyrinth is tricksy
And the way back
Is by no means guaranteed.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
You with your post-primitive hair
and your eyelids
stop teasing
we're all in on the secret
though mum
ten times i've told you
in operatic tones
ten times i've curtseyed
before you a rose in my teeth
my heart is all stomach ache
with regret
opportunities for truth squandered
polite smiles and pleasantries
today let's speak free
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 12:31 PM UTC
We curtseyed away and disinfected the air with our apologies
My Dad seethed;
opportunities lost of relieving the torment
It took hours
But we patched him back together
The only way we knew how..
With caution, and warmth shielding him.. bringing him home
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 3:35 AM UTC
The same outcome time and time again
What happened next was yet to be the trademark of these nights
It was all going swimmingly
No tears, the fears all washed away
No fresh broken veins rising to the surface of my mother's face
No stutters in the risk of turning happy times to grave
All was fabulous, darling
Then the taxi driver came
Prompt, on time, pulled up to the line
Got out the car, held our door, greeted us
We hopped in and he softened the sounds of his zithers and drums and CRASSSHHHH
like that..
Father Jack was back
The Tasmanian whirlwind of Dad
His vomiting of ignorant bile
The tarnished look of shame
The spit escaping his furious tongue
Our blushed red cheeks and the look of fear in the rear view mirror
The want to float, erase, rewind the time to drumsticks and toothpicks digging out smart price nuts from our teeth
To fly to a time when Dad was 5 and be there
Not just fob him off to nearest kids home
'John, she's pregnant again, fetch your clothes'
... and nurture him, tell him he was loved and teach him right from wrong
Those rear view eyes, counting down the time
We cleaned up the aftermath, disinfected the air with our apologies and curtseyed away whilst he licked his wounds
Next gig pencilled in, St Patrick's Day.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 1:36 PM UTC
When I was 18 I met a dancer
When she walked the spotlight followed her steps
She would twist and turn for the roar of the crowd
Her toes pointed her arms raised
She moves front and back side to side on the stage
She leaped and curtseyed and smiled and laughed
She packed her bags backstage and left
Saying goodbye she smiled once more
This time without a wild roar
I saw her crying on a city street
While I was walking home from the show
Her toes were Crimson
Her knees black and blue
In the silence of the night I helped her off the ground
She told me never sell yourself to the roar of the crowd
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC