wordsthroughtheglass

my brain on a page

Archive for the tag “Old Stuff”

Harvey

Pink apple soles
curl back,

chubby limbs
flop down

as the umbilical cord
unravels

around your
tiny creased neck.

Your liquid lungs
do not scream,

your eyelids
remain shut.

The fusion of
white coats

could not save you.
I rest your fragile body

on my swollen breast,
until the doctor

takes you away.

So as I promised, I’ve uploaded a poem. This piece was inspired by the last post, a poem about a miscarriage. With ‘Harvey’ I wanted to convey a still birth with simple haunting images. I wanted to express the same feeling of loss that Clare Shaw initially touched on, but at the same time maintain my own poetic voice . This, unlike most my work, is not confessional. I just wanted to share what I felt after reading ‘The No Baby Poem’. She is a beautiful writer. Explore.

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Victoria Road

Aubade

We Still Young

We still young. We
sip rum. We

play bridge. We
still live. We

lark loud. We
pace proud. We

wage war. We
know more. We

still young. We
get some.

[My response to We Real Cool, this time from the POV of the older generation]

Stasi – for your Safety

If you are secretive, we shall be suspicious.

If you have friends, we follow them.
If you make enemies, we encourage them.

If you want freedom, we fight back.
If you push us, we punish you.

If you taunt us, we torture you.
If you make love, we listen.

If you run away we hunt you down.

OCD

Only Charlotte’s Doing

With the white press of the rosary
she whimpers meaning into words,

offering the temporary comfort of prayer.
She arches her neck towards her reflection

then covers yesterday’s skin
with a thick liquid layer.

Pinch and pluck lashes
until her lids are pink –

like soft soles of a newborn.
Next she coarsely applies mascara

to the remaining stumps
congealing the damage together.

With the white press of the rosary
she whimpers meaning into words.

Listening for Direction

The spines of our children gently curve
towards the words of strangers,
and as dreams drop from their ears
like silver pears,
their childhood is sliced away.

Happy Birthday Dad

Happy Birthday Dad

Well most the collection is about you. So I thought I’d give you a quick mention for your birthday. Here’s you at 19 with me.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cow

I wandered lonely as a cow

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