Saturday 27 July 2013

In-between Everything

In-between everything we’re together.
The pages, the sheets, the eye of the lens. Together.
Against all the odds we’re the odd
Couple
In-between your vows
We are
Banging our heads together we might as well
Be apart from you
Is me.
In-between my ribcage is a space where my heart
Forgot to beat.
You keep the core
Mon coeur
Without a middle we couldn’t hold together
So all the pips got spat out
And they didn’t grow
Because they got ground up
In-between us;
When we were very close.

Wednesday 10 July 2013

Bits and Bobs

I carry a notebook with me most-times, so I can write things down, should they come to me or should I overhear something good. I sometimes find things written in them that make me smile or that make me laugh at myself (such MELODRAMA!) or that I haven’t quite finished or that haven’t really been started. Here are a few bits and bobs...

Short short story:
This story is so aimless it can’t be bothered to be told; it’s too busy faffing about sharpening pencils.

Overheard on a bus:
Girl 1: “You got a boyfriend?”
Girl 2: “Nah.”
Girl 1: “Are ya a lesbian?”
Girl 2: “Nah.”
Girl 1: “My sister’s got two boyfriends. Do you want one of them?”
Girl 2: “Nah.”

Unwashed and full of love...
Your anger whipped your scarf around your neck and you out of the door. I couldn't bear it; for you to leave like that. “If you go now, I don’t want to see you ever again,” I called out after you, soap opera-like, as you started down the stairs. Only what I really wanted to say was, “Please don’t go. Please stay.” Your footsteps stopped abruptly on the wooden steps. I held my breath.  You came back. You simply said, “Well I want to see again.” You sat down next to me. We talked it all around in circles again and all I could think was that I should have said “yes,” back then in the spring, in the newly opened candlelit bar. I should have let you be with me then, unwashed and full of love.

All the postcards never sent
He wrote the postcard without thinking very much. It said, "Mary, Now I am away from you, I know I want to be with you when I am home. I am on one knee and I am asking you to be my wife. Tell me your answer when I come home. Love always, Derek.” He posted it into the yellow post box and went into the cafe. He had a stiff drink and it was then that he started to think about love.  Was his love good enough for her? Would he be the best husband? He was no good at catching spiders, he knew that. No...he was no good with spiders. It simply would not do.

He went back to the post box and waited. When the postman came, he gesticulated wildly until the postcard was safely back in his pocket and he went back to the cheap hotel alone.  He kept the card in his bag and carried it across France, Italy, Greece and all the way home, where he watched Mary marry Bernard. He helped Bernard choose the ring. He was the best man, but Bernard was better; he was good with spiders. Mary had four children. Derek framed the postcard and kept it on his mantelpiece; his trophy of loss, of all the letters never sent. When Mary died she smiled and thought only of Derek. When Mary died he posted the postcard.

Where did you get that coat?
“My mum gave me this coat. She saw it on a scarecrow and thought it was too good for a scarecrow. Italian wool, see? So she took it and had it cleaned and gave it to me.”
“So your Mum stole that coat from a scarecrow?”
“Yes.”

I can hear the sky moving above me. Roads drifting under cars. Land falling down through the rain. The page is moving, not the pen. Earth rotates under motionless train tracks.

Overheard on a bus:
Boy: “Do you know how thunder is made?”
Mum: Silence.
Boy: “I do! I’ll tell you. We got told it in school today. It’s when the clouds get so high up that they crash into space: BANG!!”
Mum: Silence.

First Warmth
Sitting side by side on the bench
By the sea.
Not speaking, only pressed their faces together, cheek to cheek, eyes closed
Moving now and again, just to be closer.
And it was the first warmth of the summer,
But they were migrating to colder climes,
Into a forced winter
Without love.
They were so warm.
Why didn't they stay?

Tuesday 9 July 2013

In plastic garden chairs

Yesterday we were so close; in the garden fixing the tyre, in the kitchen making tea, in the afternoon, against the wall, pressed against each other, and under the covers you took me in your arms until I took the lord’s name in vain (amen). We pulled ourselves apart, sitting half-dressed on the bed, a state of dishevelled shock, we pulled ourselves together, our socks up, smoothed down our hair, left the house, one through the back gate, one through the front door, we stood in the road, staring at each other, a safe distance in-between, separate ways, I got the photos, you bought the beer and stole the lime. Reunited in the garden, slices of forbidden stolen fruit, bottle necks, sitting too close, staring, unflinching, intensity unmatched, in lust, in love, in plastic garden chairs.

But when you left, the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the light faded. I think that perhaps we blew all the fuses, up in the sky. And today it stayed gloomy and rained almost all the day long.

Yesterday we were so close, yet today, today you felt so very far away. Everything has come between us again. It’s all stacking up against us, and no matter how hard we try, we cannot get close enough. Insatiable, impossible; a love affair about to hit the wall at pace.

Monday 1 July 2013

Little Whirlwinds

Little whirlwinds
And autumn leaves,
Caught up in a chance meeting along the road.
We spin each other about;
A sweet dizzying dance,
Locked into each another's movement and colour and
Taken along
For the wonderful ride.
And all else spinning outside becomes a blur.
Until we tire one another.
And all spun-about and lost,
We have to let each other go.

And so the little whirlwind, grown weary, turns away,  
And the little autumn leaf drops, scuttling along the pavement
Faded and curling at the edges.

But slowly, while the seasons turn, 
The leaves grow again
And in our stillness,
We might find another who catches us unawares;
Another little whirlwind who plucks us from the tree, 
Lifting us up, higher still,
Dancing us through the brilliant sky.
And our colours begin to show again;
Bright and clear and beautiful.
If only for a little while.
My little whirlwind,
We are turning again.
Forever turning.

Bread Bin

I remember being small and looking up to my Mum with her wisdom and all,
And yet I could not fathom just why, O why she needed to stand in the street and talk to her friends about such boring things as work and sofas and crockery. I knew not the things of which they spoke, only I knew that they were the most boring things that they could have ever chosen to speak of; no robots or aliens or talking mice.
But I was a polite child, so I would stand blinking loudly or hopping thunderously from toe to toe, perhaps a daring tug on the sleeve (and that was only in desperate times). I promised myself that I would never talk of such dull things.

On New Year’s day, aged 32 years and 3 months,
I found myself in my kitchen with my friend of 17 years,
So charmed, so amazed and pleased
By my new addition; the Bread Bin.

I caught myself, and admitting my adult sin,
Wondered when such things became so exciting?

If I was 6 years old, the bread bin would be interesting too
But in a different way;
There would be a little dragon living therein,
Or an army of tiny aliens,
Dancing giraffes
Or is it a wayward space ship, made of shiny tin?

Only I’m not 6, I’m 32.

And it is a lovely bread bin.