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Levi Andrew May 2014
I'm changing today.
You are in shock and dismay?
Well, that's great.
Because, I'll do whatever it takes.
I'm saying sorry.
And hoping you'll forgive.
Because, we all make mistakes.
And I'm not grey anymore.
I'm sorry, Jess.
I'm sorry, Laura.
And
I'm sorry, Kaitlin
I'm sorry, Elizabeth
You know what?
I'm sorry to anyone who has been hurt by me.
But this is what change means.
Nigel Morgan Jul 2013
It was their first time, their first time ever. Of course neither would admit to it, and neither knew, about the other that is, that they had never done this before. Life had sheltered them, and they had sheltered from life.

Their biographies put them in their sixties. Never mind the Guardian magazine proclaiming sixty to be the new fifty. Albert and Sally were resolutely sixty – ish. To be fair, neither looked their age, but then they had led such sheltered lives, hadn’t they. He had a mother, she had a father, and that pretty much wrapped it up. They had spent respective lives being their parents’ companions, then carers, and now, suddenly this. This intimacy, and it being their first time.

When their contemporaries were befriending and marrying and procreating, and home-making and care-giving and child-minding, and developing their first career, being forced to start a second, overseeing teenagers and suddenly being parents again, but grandparents this time – with evenings and some weekends allowed – Albert and Sally had spent their time writing. They wrote poetry in their respective spaces, at respective tables, in almost solitude, Sally against the onslaught of TV noise as her father became deaf. Albert had the refuge of his childhood bedroom and the table he’d studied at – O levels, A levels, a degree and a further degree, and a little later on that PhD. Poetry had been his friend, his constant companion, rarely fickle, always there when needed. If Albert met a nice-looking woman in the library and lost his heart to her, he would write verse to quench not so much desire of a physical nature, but a desire to meet and to know and to love, and to live the dream of being a published poet.

Oh Sally, such a treasure; a kind heart, a sweet nature, a lovely disposition. Confused at just seventeen when suddenly she seemed to mature, properly, when school friends had been through all that at thirteen. She was passed over, and then suddenly, her body became something she could hardly deal with, and shyness enveloped her because her mother would say such things . . . but, but she had her bookshelf, her grandfather’s, and his books (Keats and Wordsworth saved from the skip) and then her books. Ted Hughes, Dylan Thomas (oh to have been Kaitlin, so wild and free and uninhibited and whose mother didn’t care), Stevie Smith, U.E. Fanthorpe, and then, having taken her OU degree, the lure of the small presses and the feminist canon, the subversive and the down-right weird.

Albert and Sally knew the comfort of settling ageing parents for the night and opening (and firmly closing) the respective doors of their own rooms, in Albert’s case his bedroom, with Sally, a box room in which her mother had once kept her sewing machine. Sally resolutely did not sew, nor did she knit. She wrote, constantly, in notebook after notebook, in old diaries, on discarded paper from the office of the charity she worked for. Always in conversation with herself as she moulded the poem, draft after draft after draft. And then? She went once to writers’ workshop at the local library, but never again. Who were these strange people who wrote only about themselves? Confessional poets. And she? Did she never write about herself? Well, occasionally, out of frustration sometimes, to remind herself she was a woman, who had not married, had not borne children, had only her father’s friends (who tried to force their unmarried sons on her). She did write a long sequence of poems (in bouts-rimés) about the man she imagined she would meet one day and how life might be, and of course would never be. No, Sally, mostly wrote about things, the mystery and beauty and wonder of things you could touch, see or hear, not imagine or feel for. She wrote about poppies in a field, penguins in a painting (Birmingham Art Gallery), the seashore (one glorious week in North Norfolk twenty years ago – and she could still close her eyes and be there on Holkham beach).  Publication? Her first collection went the rounds and was returned, or not, as is the wont of publishers. There was one comment: keep writing. She had kept writing.

Tide Marks

The sea had given its all to the land
and retreated to a far distant curve.
I stand where the waves once broke.

Only the marks remain of its coming,
its going. The underlying sand at my feet
is a desert of dunes seen from the air.

Beyond the wet strand lies, a vast mirror
to a sky laundered full of haze, full of blue,
rinsed distances and shining clouds.


When Albert entered his bedroom he drew the curtains, even on a summer’s evening when still light. He turned on his CD player choosing Mozart, or Bach, sometimes Debussy. Those three masters of the piano were his favoured companions in the act of writing. He would and did listen to other music, but he had to listen with attention, not have music ‘on’ as a background. That Mozart Rondo in A minor K511, usually the first piece he would listen to, was a recording of Andras Schiff from a concert at the Edinburgh Festival. You could hear the atmosphere of a capacity audience, such a quietness that the music seemed to feed and enter and then surround and become wondrous.

He’d had a history teacher in his VI form years who allowed him the run of his LP collection. It had been revelation after revelation, and that had been when the poetry began. They had listened to Tristan & Isolde into the early hours. It was late June, A levels over, a small celebration with Wagner, a bottle of champagne and a bowl of cherries. As the final disc ended they had sat in silence for – he could not remember how long, only from his deeply comfortable chair he had watched the sky turn and turn lighter over the tall pine trees outside. And then, his dear teacher, his one true friend, a young man only a few years out of Cambridge, rose and went to his record collection and chose The Third Symphony by Vaughan-Williams, his Pastoral Symphony, his farewell to those fallen in the Great War  – so many friends and music-makers. As the second movement began Albert wept, and left abruptly, without the thanks his teacher deserved. He went home, to the fury of his father who imagined Albert had been propositioned and assaulted by his kind teacher – and would personally see to it that he would never teach again. Albert was so shocked at this declaration he barely ever spoke to his father again. By eight o’clock that June morning he was a poet.

For Ralph

A sea voyage in the arms of Iseult
and now the bowl of cherries
is empty and the Perrier Jouet
just a stain on the glass.

Dawn is a mottled sky
resting above the dark pines.
Late June and roses glimmer
in a deep sea of green.

In the still near darkness,
and with the volume low,
we listen to an afterword:
a Pastoral Symphony for the fallen.

From its opening I know I belong
to this music and it belongs to me.
Wholly. It whelms me over
and my face is wet with tears.


There is so much to a name, Sally thought, Albert, a name from the Victorian era. In the 1950s whoever named their first born Albert? Now Sally, that was very fifties, comfortably post-war. It was a bright and breezy, summer holiday kind of name. Saying it made you smile (try it). But Light-foot (with a hyphen) she could do without, and had hoped to be without it one day. She was not light-footed despite being slim and well proportioned. Her feet were too big and she did not move gracefully. Clothes had always been such a nuisance; an indicator of uncertainty, of indecision. Clothes said who you were, and she was? a tallish woman who hid her still firm shape and good legs in loose tops and not quite right linen trousers (from M & S). Hair? Still a colour, not yet grey, she was a shale blond with grey eyes. She had felt Albert’s ‘look’ when they met in The Barton, when they had been gathered together like show dogs by the wonderful, bubbly (I know exactly what to wear – and say) Annabel. They had arrived at Totnes by the same train and had not given each other a second glance on the platform. Too apprehensive, scared really, of what was to come. But now, like show dogs, they looked each other over.

‘This is an experiment for us,’ said the festival director, ‘New voices, but from a generation so seldom represented here as ‘emerging’, don’t you think?’

You mean, thought Albert, it’s all a bit quaint this being published and winning prizes for the first time – in your sixties. Sally was somewhere else altogether, wondering if she really could bring off the vocal character of a Palestinian woman she was to give voice to in her poem about Ramallah.

Incredibly, Albert or Sally had never read their poems to an audience, and here they were, about to enter Dartington’s Great Hall, with its banners and vast fireplace, to read their work to ‘a capacity audience’ (according to Annabel – all the tickets went weeks ago). What were Carcanet thinking about asking them to be ‘visible’ at this seriously serious event? Annabel parroted on and on about who’d stood on this stage before them in previous years, and there was such interest in their work, both winning prizes The Forward and The Eliot. Yet these fledgling authors had remained stoically silent as approaches from literary journalists took them almost daily by surprise. Wanting to know their backstory. Why so long a wait for recognition? Neither had sought it. Neither had wanted it. Or rather they’d stopped hoping for it until . . . well that was a story all of its own, and not to be told here.

Curiosity had beckoned both of them to read each other’s work. Sally remembered Taking Heart arriving in its Amazon envelope. She brought it to her writing desk and carefully opened it.  On the back cover it said Albert Loosestrife is a lecturer in History at the University of Northumberland. Inside, there was a life, and Sally had learnt to read between the lines. Albert had seen Sally’s slim volume Surface and Depth in Blackwell’s. It seemed so slight, the poems so short, but when he got on the Metro to Whitesands Bay and opened the bag he read and became mesmerised.  Instead of going home he had walked down to the front, to his favourite bench with the lighthouse on his left and read it through, twice.

Standing in the dark hallway ready to be summoned to read Albert took out his running order from his jacket pocket, flawlessly typed on his Elite portable typewriter (a 21st birthday present from his mother). He saw the titles and wondered if his voice could give voice to these intensely personal poems: the horror of his mother’s illness and demise, his loneliness, his fear of being gay, the nastiness and bullying experienced in his minor university post, his observations of acquaintances and complete strangers, train rides to distant cities to ‘gather’ material, visit to galleries and museums, homages to authors, artists and composers he loved. His voice echoed in his head. Could he manage the microphone? Would the after-reading discussion be bearable? He looked at Sally thinking for a moment he could not be in better company. Her very name cheered him. Somehow names could do that. He imagined her walking on a beach with him, in conversation. Yes, he’d like that, and right now. He reckoned they might have much to share with each other, after they’d discussed poetry of course. He felt a warm glow and smiled his best smile as she in astonishing synchronicity smiled at him. The door opened and applause beckoned.
Let’s all just take a minute
To shut the hell up
And talk about our feelings
Come on you know you wanna
Let’s talk about them one by one
Let’s talk about them you know it'll be fun

Feel the warmth on your face,
Discover your breathing space.
Lose yourself and escape,
For you are unique in the first place.
Welcome happiness's embrace


Let’s talk about happiness
You might think it’s the best
But it’s just a pest
Because more or less
It just makes me feel stressed

Everything blurs together,
All in your displeasure.
Alone, you're angered in life's adventure.
Take a breath if the balmy zephyr.
One step at a time, tackle your aggressor


Let’s talk about feeling angry
When it’s here everything just seems to annoy me
I just want people to go away because there’s no one I want to see
This feeling doesn’t do things peacefully
This feeling it doesn’t need to be free
So let’s lock it up and throw away the key

Down we go,
Into sadness's plateau.
Tears are welcome to get you through the long tow.
Hide yourself from the status quo.
Someday I know you will tread in life's game show.


Let’s talk about feeling sad
You might not think it’s rad
But sometimes the feeling isn’t half bad
It sure beats feeling mad
But with sadness there isn’t much fun to be had
Italics are Kaitlin Molden's Lines
Normal are Karl Franssen's lines
Andy Cave May 2013
It seems like forever since I've felt the way I do
heart beats skipping with just the thought of you.
I feel like I'm in love but it's too soon to know
but every moment spent with you
just makes these feelings grow.
Is there anyone else annoyed by Thee Artiste, someone myself and others find an egotistical narcissist?
Comment or message me, WickedHope or Kaitlin Molden if you've been criticised or deemed mediocre by this 'master poet'.

Ok so thats the nice version here's what I was originally going to post.
"Hey who on this site actually likes Thee Artiste?
Comment or message me if you've been criticised"
Lisa Ann Rakow Jul 2013
Friendship.
Something that should be valued highly.
Jessica.
Sometimes we take our oldest and closest friends for granted.
Sydney.
We forget just how much we love them.
Rachel.
When we meet new friends,
Holly.
We become scared.
Sierrah.
We...
Dylan.
I...
Kaitlin.
Do ridiculous things to impress them.
Emily.
Sometimes, my mind just slips away.
Hannah.
Why can't I always be my true self?
Hollie.
I suppose that's a hard thing to do...
Brooke.
I'm very fortunate for you.
Beth Ann.
I drag on you at times.
Megan.
But my life would be so different without you...
Olivia.
I don't know how,
Molly.
But it would be.
Tiana.
Thank you.
Abbey.
You keep me in line.
Kateri.
My life is like a puzzle.
Madeline.
(Well, I think ALL of our lives are like puzzles.)
Taylor.
I have many pieces and sections to me.
Shaely.
When one piece is lost,
Sam.
Then the puzzle is not finished.
Drew.
You actually do complete me.
Zac.
This poem is long.
Kevin.
But  bear with me, please.
Will.
I can't come up with the perfect words to describe our relationship.
Liz.
This poem may seem redundant,
Suzy.
And that's because it is.
Brittany.
I am a lost person in the wild.
Sister.
And you, my friends,
Mom.
Are the trees,
Dad.
The wind,
Grandma Bruns.
The grass,
Grandma Johnston.
And the things that guide me along the shattered glass road.
Grandpa Bruns.
The things that keep me safe.
Grandpa Johnston.
For that I must thank you.
*Friends.
Andy Cave Jun 2013
The feel of your lips pressed against mine
so amazing, so divine.
I never want this kiss to end
so hold me forever my sweet Kaitlin.
brooke Oct 2012
There's this Polaroid you have of me
in your room l'hiver dernier , you can't see my face
Sauf pour my eyebrows and the dark shadow of my lips
it's snowing in the background and
everything is white, I can feel the cold of your room
and the candles you burned, yankee
McIntosh Apple, where your dressers were scented like laundry detergent
Christmas lights strung across your ceiling, the nudes tucked inside A Clockwork Orange
Our time happened in the winter, beneath the street lamps glowing
Always within walking distance, you'd tread through the puddles
8pm to play chess in the dark living room of my house
Or when we played monopoly beneath your sheets, drenched
where Kaitlin and Miranda weren't people and only taboo
I still played video games inside your arms and you still acted gay
I enjoyed your bashful tendencies and the roughness of your skin
but now
but now
as much as i would love to revisit those times
i recall that i'm older, that i'm older
that we're different and the snow would
not be the same, but that picture of me
in your room last winter, where you can't see my face
I remember
(c) Brooke Otto
Kylie Wallen Dec 2013
Mom;
I'm so sorry
I know I've been
A disappointment lately
I didn't mean to drive you crazy

Dad;
I know your looking down on me
Scared that I'm doing the same thing you did
But I want to reassure you
I'm staying safe
Through
All of
It.

Roger;
Our relationship hasn't always been perfect
And you know it hurts me every time
You treat Kaitlin different
Right infront of me..
But we're Getting
A little bit better,
Slowly.
brooke Oct 2013
that white floral perfume
by michael kors reminds
me of the day we scaled
the abandoned house
down Picnic Point Road
and I took pictures of
Kaitlin framed against
the red flowering currants

We found the beauty in careless
graffiti and marveled at the way
the sun sparkled on the charcoal
shingles. That summer we buried
ourselves in orange honeysuckle
and irrationally proclaimed our
friendship (that never lasted)
but i remember sitting
on the roof with you.


I remember that, amidst
the evergreens.
(c) Brooke Otto
Zero Nine Apr 2017
My mouth tastes like fireworks
Grown with love
Enjoyed with care
Blitz blaze ignite a truth
Obviously there
Watch smoke go drifting
You, too, reach to the sky
Weightless
Wordless
No less a person than the news
Under the influence
Under all things
Matchsticks, boxes, food makes
Mountains in our kitchen
Rot smell, cancerous, foul
Presence in our home
Under the mountain
Insect in flesh
I'm nothing more,
Am I, than under the influence?
It's true. Which celebrities locally
Represent you? Senate, what? Political duress.
Kaitlin Olson, say something poignant
Or in dark we die, speak well, or we'll be Jersey soon
Save me with your confirmed link to God,
Please.
Illuminati confirmed
brooke May 2014
kids by mgmt on your
summer playlist, I remind
you of two (three?) summers ago, a
season with no year because
it's lost in the chaos of me trying
to hide your hickeys from kaitlin
all the so-called oldies, back when
we first had cars, had no jobs and
listlessly sweated the lyrics to all
the pretty girls by fun.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014
brooke Sep 2013
In may of 2011 after
I started talking to you
again, we watched American
Beauty with Kaitlin at your
house. You were in the
middle
and we encased you
like a trophy, but beneath
that brown throw blanket
you held my hand and
delicately traced the creases
on my palm.
(c) Brooke Otto

Here come all the things I thought I'd forgotten.
LERCH Jun 2018
For all of you so eager to call it quits and throw in the towel on your addiction because everything isn’t “perfect”...here is some food for thought: Lifelong commitment is not what most people think it is. It's not waking up every morning to crack a case and slam a breakfast beer. It's not cuddling in bed until you spill your brew, peacefully, at night. It's not a clean home filled with laughter and *******, everyday. It's someone who steals all the Busch Light. It's slammed shots and a few skunked beers at times. It’s stubbornly disagreeing and giving each other the devils nectar until your hearts heal...and then...THE 12 STEPS! It’s coming home to the same brand, everyday, that you know LOVES and CARES about you in spite of (and because of) your crippling addiction. It's laughing about the one time you accidentally ****** yourself in a Denny’s waiting area. It’s about ***** laundry and unmade beds. It's about helping each other with the hard liquor in life! It's about swallowing the nasty *** chata instead of spitting it out. It's about meeting the cheapest and easiest ****** you can find in Lehigh and sitting down together late to drink afterwards because you BOTH had a crazy day. It's when you have a refrigerator breakdown and your cooler lays with you and holds your beer and tells you everything is going to be okay...and you BELIEVE that cooler. It's about still loving alcohol even though, sometimes, it makes you absolutely text exes that are now worthless skin sacks. Living with alcoholism is not perfect
...sometimes it's hard; but it's amazing and comforting and one of the BEST things you'll ever experience!

Kaitlin Jan Minteer
This is a satire poem. Alcohol can devastate lives. Please drink responsibly.
Juliana Oct 2019
Feliz Navidad we sing.
The Christmas show. A
Warning is said. "I'm
Leaving. New York."
Then Sydnie left.
Without our glue,
Joanna and I strayed
Away. I was five.

I found a new friend.
Lilly. We played. At the
Park, at school, art class.
She was gone, last day
Of school. "Who will see
Her this summer?" "I will."
Her magnet still hangs on
My fridge. I was six.

Girl Scouts. Bullying.
Hailey and Hannah were
There. We went to the
Zoo, on playdates. Friends
Came and left along the
Way, but they have always
Been there. I was seven.
She came up to me in gym.
A year older than me. I
Was running alone. Playing
A game I called homeless;
Basketball. Erica opened me up.
I talked to her and her friends
before school. Boys. Bagels.
One of them smoked. Last day
of school. She was moving.
I was eleven.

Summertime has ended. School is
Back, as is dance. I'm taking
A new class. Modern. Sophie just
Moved here. Over the year, we
Create Jimmothy Timmons and I
**** her snake, kind of.
I was twelve.

A boy sits next to me in Social
Studies. Ethan. He plays video
Games. I've always wanted to.
Another boy, Cormack looks
Over. He has a crush on me. The
Three of us talk at my locker
Every day. Cormack lies. They both
ask me to the dance. I was thirteen.
A girl runs up to me in gym.
Cindy. I talk to her. We play
Homeless, and talk about boys.
She has anxiety, like me.
I was thirteen.

I look over to my left one day
At lunch. It's Cindy, and...
Sophie? She goes to my school?
And it's Rebecca, and Maren, and
Sophia, and Grace, and Aillyana.
Over the year, I switch from
Facing Hailey and Hannah, to
them. I was thirteen.

Ethan and I text all the time.
We go to two dances. Cormack
Still tries to talk to me, still
Comes to my house, but I don't
Let him in. I was thirteen.

Ethan gives me a letter. It takes
A few days for me to read it. We
Never end up dating. I was thirteen.

I'm still friends with Hailey and
Hannah. With Cindy, Sophie, Rebecca,
Maren, Sophia, Grace, and Aillyana.
We all become friends with Joey,
And hang out all the time. I dance
With some of them. I have another
Family now, my Impulse girls. I
Will be rooming with Cindy next
Year. At school dances, we make
A salsa circle. We had around
Twenty people join us once.
I've made friends along the way.
Jośe, Aíne, Celia, Rose, Ananya,
Erin, Ginny, Abbey, Devon, Bella,
Three Emmas, Angelina, Claire,
Carley, Karina, Naomi, Riley, Oliva,
Abi, Sarah, Rachel, Allison, Tanu,
And many others. I've lost even more
Friends. Kennedy, Sonya, Brooke,
Cristopher, Aisa, Yusuf, Zoey, Emily,
Hallie, Chelsea, Gianna, Autumn, two
Jades, Donovan, Olive, Kaitlin, and
More. But I love the ones I've kept,
and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I am seventeen.
Inspired and In the Style of "Fifteen" by William Stafford

— The End —