Category Love

Transient

freyathewriter 27 Comments 
How can you prove something didn't happen
when the only witness is you?

When you’re the one curled up on the hexagoned floor
watching the blood seep through

the cotton weave of your favourite skirt
the one that caressed the slight mound

of your stomach, the one you’d hidden
for all those years, flattening it with

girdle pants to be just like the girls
with concave femininity, the ones

who glanced sideways at your tree trunk thighs
sneering as they passed you by

tree trunk thighs with muscles of water
as you scrabble around on the bathroom floor

scooping up blood rivulets in shaking fingers
drawing faces in the most intimate places

imagining eyes of an unavailable daughter
laughter of a boy running towards you

and your arms ache, your stomach burns
your heart expands and the lesson you learn

as your defective womb leaks all over the floor
is: this isn’t for you, it’s too late and too soon

for the world to welcome another like you

Over at dVerse Open Link Night, we are invited by our congenial host Grace to share a poem in response to the prompt she has set, or something else entirely. This week, I have decided to go for something else.

If you would like to take part and also have the opportunity to read other poets’ work, please click on the link, read the post and dive on in!

(Image by Jean Marc Pampuch at Pexels).

On My Arrival

freyathewriter 23 Comments 
I have thought on this shoreline
a thousand miles distant
wondering if my memory is false
a fever dream arising
from too few vitamins, or sunstroke 
or being beaten senseless 
by forty foot waves
or deafened into stupidity 
by howling storms

the jewels, oh, the jewels
of sunlight reflecting
off mere glass windows
more priceless than pearls
for they are the portals to where you are
rainbow iridescence dancing 
and reflecting a moonlight
I fancy we share, sometimes

something so mundane
as washing on a line
warms my yearning heart
shirt-tails waving in the breeze
skirts, dresses, a silk chemise
such a teasing prospect
for this man, yearning
yet fearing all will be grey
on my arrival

A child’s romper suit, really?
is it swinging in the zephyr
as my ship draws ever near?
I can almost touch the downy cheek
of the little mite who wears it
safe, warm at night
while I ride the waves
pitching and yawing
with my fellow men
salt spray stinging
bringing tears, such tears
to searching eyes

They call me Captain
but that is just my role
my soul, my heart
is anchored here
at this shoreline
where I am free

wife, I see you
wave, wave with all your might!
daughter, I am finally here
I cannot wait to hold you
for the first time
I am home
at last

Egon Schiele, Houses with Laundry (Suburb II) (1914)

Tonight at the dVerse Poets Pub, Melissa is our congenial host and she is inviting us to respond poetically to one of four of Egon Schiele’s paintings, with no restriction on poetic form. I love Schiele’s work and this particular painting captivated me with all the jewel-like washing hanging on the many lines, and the repetition of colours in the windows of the houses beyond the shore.

I immediately thought of the vantage point of the viewer, and wondered who they might be, other than Schiele the artist himself. As you can tell from my poem, I went on quite a journey with my imagined seafaring narrator!

If you would like to take part in ekphrastic imaginings, please do come and join us here at dVerse. Head on over to the post linked above, read about some of Schiele’s short history, his paintings and his legacy, write your poem and follow the instructions Melissa has kindly included.

We look forward to welcoming you!

Martini (dirty)

freyathewriter 22 Comments 
Once in a lifetime I hover
at the threshold, made ice
with fear, thawed by hope 
yet brittle with acceptance 
for this is no rehearsal; no
amount of practising the 
u
 n
  f
   u
    r
     l
      i
       n
        g
of your life
can prepare me for your journey 

and this will not be
the last time, for you are the first
the most important, paving the way
and perhaps, because of that
I fancy this gives you solace
together with the drama
that your departure creates;
a fanfare marking your final parade

you are not keen on acceptances
nor being the quiet man
preferring to make waves, no, bloody storms! 
your greatest fear is 
being left behind, so you leave first
slamming the door shut
to make your point

hope is a barbed crown of roses 
scratching your scalp red-raw, blood
and perylene petals not merging, but fighting
like the tigers in your soul; I never know which one will win
fearing one, hoping for the other
understanding
finally, that I have no say

as for the ice?
you prefer it
- - floating - -
in your martini (dirty)
two olives, pierced

and even still you raise your glass chin chin
and I ciao ciao
you, always present, never past tense
au revoir, Dad
this is not goodbye.


Over at dVerse Poets Pub, it’s time to dive into a bit of Poetics with our friendly host, Kim. This week she has asked us to be inspired by the glorious poem ‘The Window’ by Mary Jean Chan, which you can read here. Her poem won second prize in the 2017 National Poetry Competition.

Kim has asked us re-read and explore Chan’s poem,  particularly the use of line breaks and caesura to build rhythm and evoke emotion, and the three-word movement: “anger is like the sun, which is like love” and then write a poem that begins with ‘Once in a lifetime’, just like Mary Jean Chan’s.

Writing this was certainly enjoyable but quite a challenge to begin with, and then I got into a rhythm, losing myself in the process. Even though it’s thirteen years since my dad died, he’s still inspiring me. His death certainly wasn’t goodbye!

If you’d like to join us, head over to dVerse, follow the guidelines and most of all, have fun!

(Image by https://www.pexels.com/@amine-kubranur-cakiroglu-689611212/ on Pexels).