Life

White light burns, creating. Imminently destroying

6 word poem on creation.inspired by this web page http://io9.com/lets-write-some-six-word-science-fiction-1678956454

Molded

I see women
once bulbus
with rolls of
unmolded clay
whittled down
by the pressure of thumb
or knife
revealing wire frames
used for movement
and stability.

Their padded walls
of fat
and flesh
shrinking around them,
clinging to these steel frames
that weaken with each tightened inch.

Hip bones
pierce through skin
like shark fins
angling themselves outwards,
Like sails
cutting through air.
they weaken,
crumbling under the wind.

The sails begin to tear.
canvas pulled too tightly over bone
it splits
that wretched sound of
stitches becoming undone.
as they weaken at the seams.

This poem was very much inspired by the works of Sylvia Plath. I took the opportunity to focus on a simple issue such as losing weight and look at it in detail. I imagined the human form as a claymation figure, a wire stick figure used to create stability and movement, padded with clay to form a character. I imagined the clay slowly being worn away and over time the original stick figure becomes visible. 

Stars

What if-
like pin pricks through cloth,

stars act

as windows on walls,
passing visions

of heaven, 

through black

to earth.

A brief poetic thought about the roles of stars in the solar system. Inspired partly by Sylvia Plath's observational style of poetry and partially by the Les Mis song Stars as performed in the 2012 film rendition. 

The moon cried out
Through the rain today
Glowing softly through her tears
She confessed her sins
And deepest fears

Origami Swans

Eyes wander over grazed, stained arms
skin thin as canvas
stretching over bone
framing a piece of art so frail
its pigment begins to fade,
paint cracks feather over
every detail
as blurring narratives
fade into
sunlit backdrops

Cut fingers
and pin pricked minds
trace over
origami thought
wrapping lace bandages
over nics
and accidental incisions
sewing stories onto
paper
in bespattered paint

The room swarmed with paper swans
as the floor turned to red

You & I

I
would tell you
everything
if I had
secrets
to share

I'd
unload my
troubles
onto
the shelf of
your shoulders
release worries
onto
aching palms

You'd
feel
the weight
of my worries
as heavy
as they are
fall gently
into your keeping

I
trust
you'd hold
them close
as I
would
yours

Another bottle dry

Shot- like a pin prick through my spine
Bleeding like a barrel full of wine
I pour myself out
Pick up a glass
and drink the whole world out
Tomorrow i'll be nothing but a headache
A hungover reminder of a life that once was

The Leaves Died For You

The leaves died for you.
the September air
that christened your lungs,
that bought you life
and laughter,
did so harshly take their breath
to fill your lungs with air.
Tears fell in the first few months
like rain,sleet and snow,
and the dark winds
that carried their sorrow
did so to protect your home.
The spring that followed
full of lamb,
of daffodils and rain,
bought your first taste of sunshine
and washed the night away.
The summer sun did shine like you,
so young yet just as wise
as the sea that washed over the sands
with tales of the tides

Ecstasy

The addict-
inhaled her into his lungs-
replaced nicotine with flesh and blood-
rolled his body around her like a joint.
His body a mixture of two parts paranoia-
and one part anxiety.

Sweats,
shakes,
rejection,
exhaling her from his lungs-
before taking another drag.

Trembling hands-
as she parts from his lips-
her perfume clings to him like cigarettes-
                         Like ecstasy she will push him to the edge

This poem was inspired by the relationship between recovering addicts and their partners, I thought about the idea of quitting an addiction for the person you love, essentially replacing the addiction with the person and becoming addicted to them. in this poem the addict replacing drugs and alcohol with his girlfriend. i questioned what would happen when the relationship breaks down, would the person be able to cope with another dose of withdrawal? 

Melt with the wind

We met at first in the Autumn
she had a cold.
her nose pinched as red as a raspberry
her distant Welsh accent
peering from behind
her nasal toned voice
and thick woolen scarf
teal,
her favourite colour,
fortunately,
as it complimented her eyes
in a way that made hem glow-
she glowed,
in a world so desaturated by tragedy,
she radiated colour
and with this gift she bought hope.

Her name at this point
is still unknown
but the urge to call her my own
is stronger than any
formation of syllables
could ever be.

For our first date
she took me somewhere
I had never been before,
the world seemed different
to me on this day,
its sky a richer shade of amber,
its air sweeter
than it had ever tasted before.
My mind more focused
on the temperature of her hands
than the world at our feet.

It is upon reflection
that I now realise,
it was not the season
that had changed
but something within me
the sepia tinted leaves
and apple scented sky
was of her creation
her hands moulded around
the earth,
contorting it to her design.

She stepped back
and watched it bloom
through my eyes
watched the seasons
come and die
and her lips began to curve
as she watched the leaves
shrivel with age
and melt with the wind
she laughed at the sound
of their crumpled corpses
as she danced upon their graves.

Within her heart,
she holds
that childish enthusiasm
for the minor details,
I often watch
as she gazes upon
a glitter of dust,
or rainbow of colour
dancing through the air.

My heart quivers
at the thought of growing old,
her skin melting like snow,
bones crumbling like sugar
her tears will fall like rose petals-
like autumn leaves
we will melt with the wind

Never before have I attempted to write a poem at such length from the point of view of a male protagonist. The idea for this piece sprang from the film Ruby Sparks: a beautiful fulm about a writer who's character comes to life and they embark on a life changing relationship. I explored the moment shared between to characters upon their first meeting and built upon the relationship from their. It was refreshing to create a characters so refreshingly simple for once and these two unnamed characters are ones that I will be working with in the near future.

Days Mourning Gown

That far left side, the abandoned road, empty it lies, as passers-by pull in from time to time.  The land beside it filled with new born, a gift, as death leaves the land to mourn the harsh months of past, and blesses the soil with fragile youth not yet tainted by the months to come. A casket heart on a silver chain encloses a photograph, the travelers leave their mark on it, with tire marks and dirt. A memory to keep with the heart; worn into the road. The night begins to dress itself in days mourning gown as it contemplates the day gone by and ponders what will come of the next year.

A short story in which I was asked to include a randomly chosen object, setting, season and time of day without specifically naming them. I was given the setting: hard-shoulder of the motorway, time of day: evening, object: locket and season: spring. I hope I was able to actively conveyed these themes through this short prose without leaving my own writing style behind.

Just a crumpled piece of card

I wasn’t expecting to be used

I wasn’t expecting to be abused

To be a family portrait pinned to a cork board

Just a small yellow pin pressed against my spine

Each pixle a memory, punctured by pins

My body the remains of a crumpled piece of card

No I wasn’t expecting to be used

To be a balloon filled with helium falling from the sky

The promise of freedom, tied down by a string

Death just a needle prick away

I wasn’t expecting to be abused

To be a Barbie doll wrapped in sweet wrapper dresses

Lips painted bubble gum pink

Straw hair bleached to perfection

Being pulled by whichever child wants to take me off the shelf

I wasn’t expecting to be abused

That virgin apple, you just had to take a bite

So fresh It melts on your lips

And slides down your throat

I was asking for it they said

But I wasn’t expecting it to be you

That boy with the butterscotch lips who didn’t hear the word no

I wasn’t expecting it to be you

Spoken word poem inspired by the work of Jeanne Verlee, I am hoping to set up a youtube channel soon so that I can post audio clips of the spoken word series read aloud, as on paper they do not convey the emotion I targeted. The brief was to write a poem focusing around an issue, I chose rape. There is a poem by Neil Hilborn and Renee Schminkey entitled One Colour, which deals with the issue of rape, they describe how society preaches that there is one kind of rape, one type of girl walking down that one part of town who gets targeted, not the truth that it is far more complex than that, I really advise you take a look at the links I have posted, they are amazing poets and such inspirational poems.

My poem, in my opinion is a bit too repetitive but I wanted to try and work on something longer than my usual posts, which are often only two or three stanzas long.