"midlands" poems
.
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, ***** homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.
.
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 5:42 PM UTC
I can't see into the future
But, I know someone who can
She's a gypsy from the midlands
And, well, she looks just like a man
She says her name is Heather
But, to me she'll be a Hector
She said she had an accident
But, by god...it nearly wrecked her
One eye stares, it doesn't move
And this one is the best
The other follows you around
It never leaves your chest
She reads tarot, tea leaves and the bones
She's a reader of your life
She said she's still not married
I can't imagine her a wife
She'd know just what you're thinking
She'd know a lie before it's told
And if she's ugly nowadays
Imagine her when she gets old
The people go to see her
when the caravans arrive
She will read for twenty dollars
Her tent opens at five
If you want to know your future
Just take notice, listen close
Because her lips are slightly puffy
And she whistles through her nose
She's bent over looking downward
On her left side there's a ****
On her cheek there is a goiter
Behind her ear there is a lump
She weighs in at 300
Doesn't stand past 5 foot tall
But if you want to know the future
Then she's the one to call
She's an old afflicted gypsy
Has a daughter known as Marge
Says she's wanted up in Bristol
She's a small medium at large
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, ***** homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Delivered to us by an optimistic gentleman in a black Stetson cap
who spent his days waving village traffic down with an open hand,
it's been four years since you were sat on the bookshelf in Kath's house.
You stood proud, surveying the fine china made across the border
wrapped up in donated newspaper articles and pristine hand-me-downs,
while my inky fingers welcomed regulars who only ever looked around.
Each weekend we were greeted by bright smiles set in permanent shadow.
Sometimes I declined banknotes on the street for carrying dismantled tables.
I'm still searching for namesakes when perched on local stones above sea level.
Friends like Elvis were divisive figures due to their signature tobacco smells.
Under a green bus shelter, I laughed at his frown about a Midlands town.
Thinking about the rows of vacant church seats still leaves me cold
even now. As I watch needles drop onto rocks and a solitary shell,
your frame shrivels daily and bends you crooked like a question mark.
Oh, Eric - will I ever meet your father again to discuss your burial?
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 11:16 AM UTC
Someday...
I want to live in a house with a blue door. [My house has a brown wooden door]
By the sea, in the southern coast, with a
wooden fire to help keep warm. [I live in the West Midlands and couldn't care less bout the fire]
Have a baby girl and a baby boy with
curly blond hair, honey brown eyes,
and fair sun struck skin. [I have black hair, black eyes and brown skin]
Today...
I hope you text me back! [I always text first]
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 10:44 PM UTC
This poem was witten by my godfather Hilair Beloc 1870-1953
When I am living in the midlands
That are sodden and unkind
I light my lamp in the evening
My work is left behind
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind
The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea
And its there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me
The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells
Their skies are fast and grey
From their castle walls a man may see
The mountains far away
The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong
A rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along
The have the secret of the rocks
And the oldest kind of song
But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise
They get their laughter from the loud surf
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our sister the spring
When over the sea she flies
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet
She blesses us with surprise
I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there
And along the skyline of the Downs
So noble and so bare
A lost thing I could never find
Nor a broken thing mend
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end
Who will be there to comfort me
Or who will be my friend
I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald
They watch the stars from the silent folds
They stiffly plough the fields
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed
If ever I become a rich man
Or if ever I grow to be old
I will build a house with a deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told
I will hold my house in the high woods
Within a walk of the sea
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
.
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, ***** homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 1:54 PM UTC
Poem Number Three from Edna's alter ego, Count ORLOK
O how the lust for virgins' blood rages through my veins,
My thirst for the wondrous elixir of human gore is all-engulfing!
I rise at dusk from my noisome grave, drooling with anticipation
And I soar upwards into the night sky like a bat out of Hell
(which is what I am, so it's no ******* exaggeration is it?).
I go to search out new victims in a new place as my old haunts
Are rather depleted following my ravages on their inhabitants,
But the foul miasma emanating from Wolverhampton's suburbs
Is enough to make me throw up last night's supper on my tuxedo,
And it totally kills my ******* appetite stone ******* dead.
With a shrieked *"The West Midlands Conurbation ***** big time!"*
I fly off in disgust, a steam of diarrheoa trailing after me,
Like brown stardust.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
.
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, ***** homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
I awake before dawn and call out to the Moon,
But the Moon is missing, she has other duties to attend to.
I sleep fitfully, aware that something is missing.
I awaken at dusk and call to the Sun,
But the Sun is missing, he has other lands to shine upon.
I wake with uncertainty, aware that something is missing.
I wake up in the midlands of night, in the close darkness
And I realize then that there is no longer anybody to call out to;
Whether I sleep or wake again is no longer important.
I send word to the Sun not to awaken me.
I send word to the Moon not to expect me-
I must go where light and darkness can freely mix,
And where things grow, touchless beneath a hidden sky;
Nothing is not there that should be,
Nothing is there that should not be:
And I am my own Moon, mirrored Suns shining from every secret eye.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, ***** homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
for E.B.
I knew you were sad
the only way I could think to help
was to bring you to the countryside
as far away as we could get
from your home in the midlands
far from mine in the south west
we slammed the car doors when we got out
it was the loudest sound for miles
you looked up at the sky
furrowed your brow at the stars
like someone had stolen them from you
we don't have stars like this in the city
you didn't cry like I thought you would
I am sorry that someone has taken your stars
so here I am giving you mine
I wanted to tell you that if you're sad
to look at the moon
but I don't think you see the moon
in the same way I do
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC
Dudley, a black country town
the birthplace of the industrial revolution
where foundries thumped
and coal and limestone pumped
A ghost town ****** dry
by Merry Hill
a commercial giant
treading on local enterprise
killing it's trader's hope
until they couldn't cope
John Dudley from his grave turned
as his castle was raised to the ground
by parliamentarians in a coup
a ruin, now turned into a zoo!
A suffering town screaming for survival
not taking a nap for a place on the map
The home of Aynuk and Ayli
mythical characters who *****
in famed colloquial dialect kitsch
The museum packed with bold
black country tales
from glass blowing bubble
to blacksmith's trouble
The ayle, the doorstep sarni's
cow pies and canal barges
Salt of the earth men
who often pen
poems from their working class den
A concrete town
grey, dank into practicality sank
but if you get the chance to meet
any of the inhabitants
you'll be in for a treat
as the warmth in their hearts
will melt any thoughts of revolution
and cleanse your soul
of all pollution.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
The public debate
a political **********
reminds me
why I hate.
But that's Eton and Harrow not
Toxteth or Jarrow.
I leave the politics to them,
the Southern gentlemen
Up in the shires where men walk on tight wires
and dance to a different song is
where I belong,
from the Midlands to the Tyne where
they drink beer and leave the wine is
another place in time
a place for me.
And while Atlanta burns the gentlemen shall all take turns to **** upon the fire.
but when the hands of 'Ben' unlock and count the votes there'll be a shock when some old lady gets the keys to number ten,
we all remember them old days, the three day week, the hide and seek, the suss', the stop and search, the powers that interrupt, corrupt and end in a debate,
a state of the nation more infiltration, less liberation, more ************
the public schools have fooled us all,
we're ******* but we don't know it yet
we'll get the letter in the post,
the most that we can hope for.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
Deep in the middle
of the Irish midlands,
my essence is all over.
You’d put one foot inside
and say I haven’t changed—
hoarding sentimental knick-knacks,
all valueless, all lovely,
all me.
You’d put one foot inside,
and say I haven’t changed—
house like a heart: So cozy, so warm,
all irrelevant, all lonely,
all me.
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025 at 5:30 PM UTC
Devour me like your guiltless pleasure
Do I fill up your energy like nothing else?
Head straight to the midlands now
If you have what it takes to take the wheel
Then break the boundaries that you made
Aren’t you a man of pride and dignity?
Prove your worth to the passers-by
Tell the kings and queens of old
We are not meant for swan songs
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
.
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, ***** homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.
.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 7:30 PM UTC
From a poet to another, here is my proposal.
Both a poem, yet offering, and I'm not joking!
Imagine your words written on screen,
well let me tell you my friends, it's not a dream.
I am offering you a 'Little Letter', to share your talent far and wide,
for today I'm starting a brand new project for all of mankind.
We write a poem for someone we knew, or something we hold dear.
Then montage flashes, an actor still, saying your words with passion.
For I ask you, hand in hand,
would you like to be a part of this?
__________________________________
If you have read this far, congratulations!
I just wanted to say, as someone who loves poetry and starting to get into the love of filmmaking. I want to combine our two interests. I am creating a visual, slam poetry montage short film series called 'Little Letters', this series is about poems dear to you, about someone you knew or know and of course topics or objects you treasure dearly.
If you want to take part, feel free to email me at: [email protected].
If not email, feel free to send me a facebook inbox: https://www.facebook.com/LouisaColler
I can't wait to start working with you amazingly talented people.
I am accepting poets to come and help write the series (you will be credited), as well as any potential actors (West Midlands location).
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
I miss the couch where we used to sit and talk for hours,
And now I am left with nothing so called ours.
I miss the tight hugs whenever you used to be proud of me,
Now your words feel like stings of honeybee.
You turned out to be the judgemental paranoid,
Which made me choose you to avoid.
I miss the way I used to see you through the corner of my eye,
You got lost, without saying a goodbye.
I miss the warmth of your hands,
And I hunted you even in the midlands.
One day my fist will stop hitting your door,
Because I am tired of waiting outside on the floor.
It's not smoking, for me expectation kills.
Inside the book there are dried daffodils.
The only emotion left in me is numbness,
For you I am done with my kindness.
One day your telephone will stop ringing,
My fingers will turn lazy for pinging.
I have never felt my chest so heavy,
With you I am only left to envy.
Everytime I comeback,
I feel the love to lack.
You dared to cut all the strings attached to me,
The corals are broken deep inside the sea.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 4:04 AM UTC
The rain lashed tar of Monday morning rush
A Midlands sky of cloudy faces set
In silent fury at this urban crush
Of octane dreams propelled and fuelled with debt
Dacia Duster, works traffic only
Concrete, concrete, concrete, exit ahead
Lane closes in four hundred yards. Lonely
A cone lies knocked over, crucified, dead
Oldbury Viaduct, M5, repairs
Queuing likely, expect delays. Fiat
JC07 GOD... we sat
Unmoving like that for hours, hours
Staring at the railings hung with flowers.
'Inspired' during an Easter time visit.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
Josephine, the train carriage in front of me wobbles and it is eerie, I wonder what it would be like to press my hand into its rubber sides, testing out for some sign of reproach. I love you something rotten. Like a stuffed bear toy with the nose chewed off, a book dropped in the bath, something where my toes won’t dare stop to uncurl and sighs, slow down into somewhere around the place of deep, warm comfort. Eric Clapton’s Layla played slowly, Elvis hasn’t stopped, can’t stop falling in love with the way your eyes close, Fleetwood are still waiting at the bus stop where we left, and the Lumineers croon in the voice of Cleopatra. You’re crying on a train listening, thinking ‘Oh dear. I can’t get enough of this’, it’s like burying my head in the sand. It’s a nice crinkle in the corner of his eyes, it’s like coming home to everywhere at once. Like seeing it all hug you into one, the place where you lost everything welcomes you home, you find your house keys, your blue scarf, the basket of odd socks. Josephine, you seem like the road sign for stop and road works and this way to the Midlands all at once. You’re the last human left.
Jun 11, 2020
Jun 11, 2020 at 1:45 PM UTC