My Own Poetry

This page written 02/07/1998, updated 02/12/2003

I am going to have a couple of poems published in a poetry magazine! www.coffeehousepoetry.co.uk is a subscription paper magazine and also has a really good website. They are calling for submissions and they also run a competition. The poems to be printed are Blue in the January edition and Chippy in the March edition.

Alys

 Written for Valentine's day 2000

You bang my drum; you blow my trumpet.
You make my tongue ache and my lips tingle.
But more than that.

You dance to my rhythm; I dance to your rhyme.
You listen to my words; you look at my heart.
But more than that.

I used to know my body before you touched me.
You know my mind.
And what's more, you're interested.

I'll never forget the day we met.
And the day we met again and again.
And each time it's like the first.
Let's grow old and wrinkly together.


This is a cute little piece i wrote as an exercise in an English class:

Blue

 Written at age 18

Cold colour: beautiful; my colour: cold.
Wet death; neutral; my death: wet.
Sky and sea; this is me: faded jeans, old.
Here's my eyes; watch my lies; faded dreams: wet.


 This next one is a poem i wrote about a piece of artwork i constructed during my 'A' Level. To see a photo of Chippy, view my 'A' Level Art Page.

Chippy

 Written at age 18

Solid, sordid origins; planted backbone, thighs and shins.
i'm Geppetto Frankenstien; splitting wooden planks of mine.
Knocking bolt, sandwich nailing; relationships of joints my failing.
Unplaiting heavy rope to twine around the body of my mind.

Self built, self sweating portrait; is my life - waste, too late.
This was turned from she to he; steeped in ambiguity.
Leaning backwards dangerously; falling over constantly
Finally she found support but still she sat in tense contort.

Powerful image, separate pieces; on high she sits, too large for life.
Touch, smell, observe her: Find me. She is my wife.
i built her to please me. You don't need to humour me.
She's my Chippy; i'm the block. There is much more and much that's not.


This next one has an interesting story. Whereas at the time i definitely knew what i was writing about, and meant it to have a significance other than climbing a tree, i hadn't realised it would be so obvious!

i was in love with a woman at the time of writing this, but wasn't anywhere near having a fulfilling relationship which is what i wanted.

The Song of The Willow

 Written at age 18

i was lonely, i was dreaming down the street one night
when i heard a strange sound and i froze in fright.
i thought it was music playing, sweetly, heavenly
a willow tree was singing, softly, softly.

And this is what the willow tree said:

"Please, love me, love me.
i want to be myself, i want to be me.
if you can hear me, hold me. Hold me.
Oh, understand what i want to be.
Love me, love me. Please love me."

Her words, they made me want to cry;
Her voice, it made me want to die.
i looked to the moon for assurance, and she said,
"Go on, go on. It must be right.
If you feel it it's got to be right."

"i hear you weeping willow.
Mrs. Willow don't sigh, don't cry so.
i will be your love.
You can be my fountain
and i will be your mountain.
i will love you, love you, love you: you."

i saw my willow smile, she opened out wide
so that i could hide in the folds of her love.
i put my arms around her waist and held on tightly,
felt the pagan thrill of nature spinning through my body.
"Oh, Mrs. Willow, my willow."
And she was saying "Yes, yes, yes!"

i reached up and stroked her pussy willow gently,
kissing her katkins, i know this was meant to be.
She let me climb her, i climbed
climbed, and cushioned her peak.

People think i'm bad.
Some people think i'm mad
because i'm in love with wood.
They don't understand, they're so shallow.
They haven't heard the voice of the willow.
They laugh at me with a frightened stare,
They make fun of me but i don't care.
i have heard the willow singing.

If you heard you would understand.
If you took the moon's advice, she would lead you to a different land.


Strange to say that most of my best poems were written at the tender age of 18, but i came to see writing poetry as being pretentious and was embarassed about it in my early twenties. Now i'd like to write poems again and find i can't. C'est la vie.

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