I don’t tell a soul.
I just breathe a sigh as I
Look into their eyes
A private moment,
Awkward, erotic, secret.
This is ours to keep.
As the moment ends,
They leave, confused and hungry.
They don’t tell a soul
Question from Michael Clark from Facebook
I remember being small,
Not emotionally or mentally,
Just in terms of being a child.
When I was sick, my dad
Would make his signature soup.
It was nothing overly special,
Chicken, rice and vegetables,
But it tasted like being better.
When I hurt myself, my mum
Would pick me up and clean my cuts
With the weird white cream
in the non-descript bottle,
Kiss it better and send me on my way.
It was just moisturiser,
And maybe it’s that over exposure
That’s made who I am today,
Soft and gentle,
Not much of a fighter.
But my dad didn’t like that,
I didn’t overly like that
Because boys were tough,
Rough and tumble, branch and bramble,
Carefree cuts and badge shaped bruises.
From boy scouts to black belts,
I tried to earn whatever rank it would take
To feel like I was on my way to
Being the best I can be.
But I wasn’t doing it for me.
Because I still remember
When I was six years old
My dad was rushed into hospital.
A work accident,
He went from tree surgeon
To needing a surgeon
And I was too young to understand
What hemiplegia meant.
Mum’s magic cream cculdn’t make
The pain go away
And he couldn’t get the special soup
Because he couldn’t get to the kitchen
Because the doctor wouldn’t let him.
Seeing this man who’d been
My idol and rock
Suddenly become bandaged rubble,
Putting on a brave face for me
When he knew he might never walk again.
So he would just lie there,
Being strong for all of us.
Like the rock in the river
Just before the waterfall.
Something to cling and climb onto.
Never showing signs of erosion,
Never crumbling to sand to become part of the riverbed.
Fighting time and tide to finally
Find his feet and run and jump the best he can
Because he was the rock on which he built his family.
I never really wanted to fight,
And this pansy-poetical, theatrical life
Wasn’t really what he had in mind.
He might not understand what it is I do,
He might not understand how he’s shaped me,
I’ve got blackbelts and trophies for taekwondo
But he was the one who tought me
What it really means to fight.
We grew up and grew apart,
I learned I am not the people my parents are,
And I might never be what they expected
Because I’m a lot of dirty words to them
But I’m okay with that.
There’s a lot of me that
They might not agree on because
They’re rocks, strong and sturdy,
But they don’t move,
They don’t change.
But to go through that,
They might not like theatre
But it was a performance I’ll never forget.
They’re still the strongest people I know.
Question from Jasmyne M. from Facebook
A colour that looks like the smell of coffee,
Moving from dull to bright with increased exposure,
Still but swirling, dark but milky,
A bittersweet shade for the morning.
A colour that looks like the taste of water,
Clear and unimposing, clean and dull,
Something cold but refreshing,
Nothing with a hint of something.
A colour that looks like the sound of night,
Brooding stillness and streetlight buzz,
Faintly hinting of distant brightness,
Indistinct and iridescent as your eylids close.
A colour that looks like the touch of a lover,
Sometimes warm, sometimes cold,
Violent and vibrant, or sometimes mellow,
Inconsistent, like a rainbow of skin.
Question from Michael Clark from Facebook
#PoeticAnswers 28 – So, What Do You Do?
I work for the Government.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
I work in Government finance and
Administrate Government grants
To help local councils develop their
Green and low-carbon infrastructure
To help promote the uptake of
Active travel and electric vehicles.
I play video games.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
Essentially, I just sit around
On my arse all day,
Pushing buttons and fiddling with joysticks,
Reminding myself of my previous,
And slightly more devious,
Sex life.
I play musical instruments.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
Piano, accordion, ukulele and banjo
Amongst a few others which,
In conjunction with my vape and my
What can only be described as “questionable” facial hair,
And the wafro which encompasses and cushions my skull,
Effectively makes me the world’s ultimate hipster.
I write poetry.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
It does nothing for the hipster stereotype
That I established in the previous stanza,
Nor does it make me sound like any less
Of an absolute wanker,
The only way I could possibly be worse
Is if I could actually afford a Macbook.
I see a therapist.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
It’s mostly just talking about
What I’ve been doing and
Why I’ve not been to see them in two months,
Which leads to further conversations about
My relationships, or apparent lack of them,
Resulting in deep-sea dives into my personality.
I suffer from bipolar disorder.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
It’s like a low-budget rollercoaster,
Only ever hitting highs and lows
Or somewhere in between,
Making me see things that can’t actually be seen.
Making unscheduled stops in places I don’t know,
Driving me off the rails like a runaway train.
I self-harm.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
I lock myself away emotionally and physically,
Hiding inside the shattered remains of my
Already fractured mind.
Smoking, bruising, purging, cutting,
Using my body as a punching bag
To knock some sense into myself.
I spend a lot of time thinking about suicide.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
Wondering why it would be better
To let my helter-skelter life
Plummet off the edge of the waterfall
At the end of my shallow-water life.
It’s the result of nihilism instilled by
Self-doubt, mental health, and life choices.
And having to work for the Government.
Question from Lisa T. from Facebook
Be taken back by a teacher,
An adept modern-day magician,
Performing and informing of
The importances of yesteryear.
Immerse yourself in the books of yesterday,
Let each word carefully stack and build,
Let your imagination craft and succumb
To this portal to the old world.
Take the time to listen,
Let the old rhythm take control
Dance to the sway of Sinatra or Holliday
Appreciate the class and the moment.
Start up the engine
Of an eighties icon.
Drive back to the future
With an old man complaining about your children.
You could sacrifice your life for companionship,
Journey with a stranger
And learn the insanity of the truth
While doctoring the timestream.
Think harder than you’ve ever thunk before,
Take the time to remember your life.
Enjoy the comedy, learn from the misery,
But do not let yourself get trapped in the past.
Or give in to inevitability.
You can choose to run forward to the future
Or just choose to stand still,
And let time slowly pass you by.
Question from Michael C. from Facebook.
I love you a number that’s incalculable.
It may sound unfathomable,
Bordering on inconceivable,
But a number is not believable.
Because love is immeasurable,
But if this answer isn’t pleasurable,
Placing a value is not applicable
Trying would only be despicable.
Sweetie, you are adorable
Even when you’re inconsolable
But I can’t say something numerical
Because that would be heretical.
Darling, please be flexible.
It really isn’t personal.
Please don’t hold me responsible
For this answer diabolical.
I’m sorry it isn’t palatable,
This doesn’t make us incompatible.
But I don’t have an example
Of a value that is ample.
I’m not acting feeble,
You’re being unbelievable,
This situation’s laughable,
Here’s an answer that is passable:
I love you a number that’s incalculable
It may sound unfathomable,
Bordering on inconceivable,
But one hundred sounds believable.
Question from Kirsty E. from Facebook.
I understand it’s confusing,
But due to recent changes
To their life and lifestyle
The Doctor will now be using
This bathroom instead of that one.
Oh my God, Dave, that’s so racist.
You can’t say that anymore.
Smurfs are people and hey can be here,
There’s no place for this level of xenophobia.
It’s the twenty-first century now.
He has tried his damn best,
He has been sticking to a strict regime
Of diet and exercise.
Addiction is a serious issue,
Cookie, you are not a monster
Stop judging people by the colour
Of their skin, fur, or exoskeleton.
Stop judging people by their
Problems, gender, or species.
Blue people are people too.
Question from Kate K.
Text, call,
Pick up the phone,
Be there however you can.
Make sure they’re safe
Ask a question,
Take a breath.
Move the pills,
Move the drink,
Move the knives.
Keep 999 on speed dial
Distract,
React,
Be appropriate,
Cool them down,
Keep them warm.
Let them be human,
Let them breathe,
Let them cry,
Remember this isn’t about you.
Hold them close, give them space,
Give them what they need that makes them feel safe.
Remind them someone is always there.
If you can’t be present, be a presence.
Let them know they’re never alone.
Question from Megan C.
Because they have an image of you
Based on statue from ancient times.
When women were a delicate flower,
They needed protected or saved.
When they were rescued, they were enslaved
And treated like a trophy or property.
Because people want you to:
Be skinny, be curvy,
Be representative of male ideology
Succumb to atypical sexist idolatry
“Because that’s how you’re supposed to be”
But girl, you are not set in stone.
You are flesh and blood,
You were born naked,
So make your skin your tapestry,
And let your body be your home.
Build it and break it and
Paint it and decorate it however you want,
Because it’s yours and no one else’s.
Let no one else tell you
How to run your body.
Love is free so be free
Take the time to love yourself
And anyone else you damn well please
In any way you damn well please.
Be what you want to be,
Drop out of school or take the degree,
Be free, be the next Joan of Arc or Marie Curie,
Because without brilliant women, where would we be?
Without computers, without Kevlar, without basic telecommunication,
We’d still be Victorian, so be victorious
In arts, finance, technology or science.
Be the next Amanda Palmer or Lise Meitner,
The next Ellen MacArthur or Otep Shamaya,
Musician or physicist,
Athlete or writer,
And do not let anything get in your way
But if anything tries, just know you are stronger.
You do not have to
Make his sandwiches, his home or his baby.
You don’t not have to
Be a nurse, be quiet or be a secretary.
You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be.
Because nonconformity does not affect femininity.
This is not feminist propaganda,
This is an affirmation of humanity.
No one can tell you how to be a girl,
But if they try, just remember:
They’re the one with the problem,
Not you.
Question from Jaymie B. from Facebook
Letters.
Carefully chosen and crafted
Like the bricks and cornices
Of a mighty religious building.
Arranged with precision and diligence,
Forming shape and definition.
Meaning.
Granting concept and context to you.
Something to aspire to,
Something that gives you definition,
A guiding purpose
Like a familiar light that leads you back home.
Power.
A name can be called upon
In times of love or trouble,
Bringing light or fear.
Or pleasure.
As they scream out your name
In lieu of their God.
Beginnings,
Because a name is a product of being born,
A nuanced newness, symbolic of birth and rebirth
The first step into building yourself
Or embracing the you you never knew.
A new chance at reality and physicality,
Your personal Genesis.
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 