My folio is due on Monday... and I only really seriously started working on my verse narrative last night. Well, I chose the poems to work around ages ago, but then I just thought about it and worried about it for ages and didn't actually write anything. Now I've got some stuff on paper... but it's nowhere near finished.
The format of the verse narrative is inspired by Love That Dog.
Any feedback on what I've got so far would be greatly appreciated...
really I'm not very happy with it at all
but oh well...
Oh, and it could do with a title!
And please bear in mind that it is very much Work In Progress.
It's really just notes...
it needs lots of work...
it...
oh damn it.
here it is.
*
What is poetry?
It’s when the words
march across the pages
their footsteps all in time
like so many soldiers
at the end of the lines
they have the same sound
bouncing to and fro
like an echo.
I don’t know
why that’s so
important.
*
Today we read a poem
about a man
who was acquainted with the night
only
I don’t think he was really
very well acquainted
he just walked through the night
as though it was just a handful of noises
and places and things
the night must have been different
back then.
*
A poem about the night
The night is like a thick blanket
that falls down
and smothers
anyone
who is awake.
Under the blanket of the night
there are strange sounds
footsteps
and muffled voices
and whatever the time is
it’s always
wrong.
*
Eagles don’t have hands
but maybe it was hard to find a rhyme
for claws
gnaws
thaws
flaws
roars
soars
I’d like
to be an eagle,
and cling
to the top
of the world.
I’d like to be
with the sea
and the mountains
and the sun.
I wouldn’t be
lonely.
*
Huddled in the doorway, her fingers are numb
as she snatches warmth from the distant sun
watching the road from where they come.
(my rhymes are dumb)
*
Late at night
she dreams of falling
and wakes with sharp cries
like a bird
in fright.
*
I don’t like the poem
about the rose.
I felt as thought the worm
was creeping
under
my skin.
*
Why doesn’t a bird
fall
like a
thunderbolt
and pluck
the dark secret worm
from the crimson
bed?
Cruel bird
howling in the night.
*
Today we read
a villanelle
(such a lovely name
the word is almost
a poem)
I like the way the lines
circle around each other
in a slow dance
but I feel so sorry
for the old man
there on the sad
height
his son too busy
thinking of words that rhyme
with night.
What if the father is
so tired
he can scarcely lift
his feet
and his shoulders
sag towards the ground?
What if his tongue
is too heavy
to nudge
words
from his
lips?
What if he longs
to wrap the night around his shoulders
and rest?
(If he was my grandfather
I would kiss away his fierce tears
and leave the door
ajar)
*
So far we’ve read
lots of poems
about flowers
and birds
night time
and death.
We’ve read poems
by William and Dylan
Alfred and John
and Percy
poems about roses
and nightingales
and death.
What I want to know
is
what did their wives
and their mothers and sisters
and daughters
write poems
about?
*
I guess
with all the cooking
and the cleaning
sewing
mending
and the children
(so many children)
there really wasn’t much time
for anything
else.
*
I felt so sad
for the dead man
I wanted to reach out and touch
his cold fingers
I wanted to shout - You are real
I can hear you!
but when I opened my mouth
all that came out
was breath.
*
Sometimes I feel
far away
and cold
and I wonder
if I am drowning
or if I am already
dead?
*
Stevie Smith is a woman!
Or she was
when she was alive.
She was a woman!
And she wrote
poems!
I like her words.
Maybe I could be a poet
too
and write poems
like Stevie Smith.
*
Everyone was so
far
away
they couldn’t hear
when I tried
to shout
I banged
on the glass
and opened my
mouth
but my breath
froze
and
no
one
heard
my fists
pounding.
She was crying
to me
stretching out
her small hands
but I couldn’t reach her
I just slipped against the glass
and left her
drowning.
*
I traced
red lines
criss
crossing over
my skin
angry
lines
crossing me
out
crossing
out
and the blood
was loud
enough
I was not brave
enough
to listen
to her
moaning.
*
Why do I
have to break
the lines
in tidy
places
when
ev ery thin
g
else
has f
alle
n
a
part
?
*
Louise showed me a poem
by an alive woman.
I didn’t know what it was about
at first.
She says it’s lovely
when it comes
the colours
the way the earth
sighs.
It’s lovely, the poem
but I hate it
and anyway the smell
and the aching
come a full day before
the colours.
*
It’s awful
when it comes I feel sick
and dirty and I can’t clean away
the smell.
*
It’s like being
ripped open
all over
again
like a scream
that makes no sound
only bright
colours
like a
punishment
like Death
clenching his fists
and squeezing
the life out of me
from inside.
*
What’s wrong
with the bits about bleeding?
The alive woman
in Louise’s book
wrote poems
about bleeding.
Sometimes
there’s a lot of blood
it’s hard
not to write about it
when it’s there
always
the dark colours
and the smell.
*
Oh!
the poem
we read today
made me feel
all wobbly
like someone was grabbing
my shoulders
and shaking me.
I know someone
who lies all huddled
and cold
with bent arms
and such a sad
tired face
with eyes
that won’t look
at anyone.
*
If I was brave
I wouldn’t lie
huddled
in the deep shadows
waiting
for the foot
steps
creeping
into the room
I wouldn’t be glad
when the footsteps went away
to the other side of the room
to Chrissy
I wouldn’t put my fingers
into my ears
to stop the mumbles
and sighs
and moans
and sharp cries.
When the footsteps
creep away
I tiptoe
across the room
and shake her
by the shoulder
but she turns away
her sad face
with eyes that won’t
look
at anyone
and pretends
to sleep.
Late at night
her sad face looks
too old.
*
Louise read my poem
about Chrissy
and her sad face
with eyes
that won’t look.
Louise said I was
very brave
to write that poem
her eyes
were so kind
when she said I was
brave
all the words
were thrashing around
inside me
and the tears
were fighting to come out
and Louise
stayed
and waited
until they all came
bursting out
and suddenly
I was so
very
tired.
*
Louise said
I can stay the night
and Chrissy too
and in the morning
she knows a woman
who will know what to do.
She read us a poem
about a girl who was a bird
a girl in New Zealand
like me.
It was a lovely poem
like a song
that kept on singing
even after the words
were gone.
*
In my nest of blankets
I could hear Chrissy breathing
I waited
and listened
there were footsteps
creep, creeping
into the room
I heard a cry
like a bird
and then the footsteps
came running
and Louise was there beside me
saying shhhhh, shhhhh
and telling me the poem
about the bird.
*
The poem
wrapped around me
like wings
to carry me
far
away.