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Post by James on Aug 16, 2013 3:29:18 GMT -5
WATCHING Is any among you sick?
Let him call for the elders of the church,
and let them pray over him,
anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord;
and the prayer of faith will save the sick man,
and the Lord will raise him up;
and if he has committed sins,
he will be forgiven. James 5:14-15 |
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Post by James on Aug 16, 2013 3:31:55 GMT -5
Stephen
Change
A marionette without his strings,
he sits within the lecture hall
as lifeless as a crusading drone.
The man behind the curtain
does not pull at his spindly arms,
like with other overeager students.
No queries escape from his lips,
answers never ventured,
for fear that the suited man
with more degrees than TVs
will frown and shake his head,
and say they've been some terrible mistake.
He shouldn't be in the room,
learning about the femoral artery
or proud Edward's triumphant at Crécy.
Paper work, an administrative fault
he should leave so very quietly,
so as to not cause a commotion.
Had to google the finger
that the wedding ring would sit.
While friends learnt to drop kick
like little Wilkinson clones,
he memorised the sections
for detergent and conditioner.
Always left last from class
so that goalposts of school bags
were already hurriedly assembled.
If the ball was to hit his,
it would split apart to reveal a BLT
without the bacon, lettuce or tomato.
Yet when gravity clings to the sand
and others come to his new dorm,
clapping his shoulder with each new grade,
he smiles and laughs,
grabbing his ageing woollen jacket
and follows the crowd into the new night. |
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Post by James on Aug 16, 2013 3:34:14 GMT -5
Mary
Waiting
The house is like a waddling child
with shoes several sizes too big.
Kitchen drawers refuse to close
and the springs within her armchair
no longer protest at her weight.
The guest room's bed is tightly made,
sheets tucked in at perfect square angles,
mould left hidden behind the dresser.
The pen by the phone has gone dry
but it's all okay, no one will know.
Military manoeuvres are under way
against the dust entrenched
within the seemingly growing lounge.
The western front has long been lost,
books left wounded and groaning
under the weight of the enemy:
skin, animal, hair, paper and soil.
She stands guard over the east, though,
no one will harm the photographs
of dancing, smiling, young women
and broad-chested, guffawing men.
The dust knows the secret she does not
this is a war of attrition,
her granddaughters do not care
for bequeathed photographs.
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Post by Kaez on Aug 16, 2013 10:56:35 GMT -5
I never quite know how to critique poetry; I only know whether I like it or I don't. Whether it worked or didn't.
I liked this. It worked.
The first is beautiful and simple and isn't trying too hard and does exactly what I want it to do and I'm glad it didn't have a twist ending or anything.
The second and third are really beautiful character portraits.
These all came out really, really nicely. Keep writing poetry for a while.
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Post by James on Aug 16, 2013 16:23:16 GMT -5
The first one is actually from the Bible...
... but thanks! I will keep writing poetry for a while.
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Post by Kaez on Aug 16, 2013 16:24:39 GMT -5
The first one is actually from the Bible... That. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. I now see the "James 5:14-15" hidden in the corner. |
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Post by James on Aug 16, 2013 16:26:03 GMT -5
The first one is actually from the Bible... That. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. I now see the "James 5:14-15" hidden in the corner. Yeah. Essentially, I wanted to bookend the collection with poetry with something religious to do with Death (the Last Rites) at the start, and something to do with Birth (probably baptism) at the end. If I can find something else from James to do with birth, that would be swell. |
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Post by James on Aug 17, 2013 4:01:50 GMT -5
Jade
Crippled
Society deals in broad brush strokes,
oh, no shoes, feel bad for the poor,
sunglasses in winter, avoid,
teachers, unions, just walk on,
intimate with turbulence,
a double decker virgin,
blissful happiness, they think.
Watching twisting concrete scribbles,
houses, parks, rivers stretching,
ready for her return,
she stands as other passengers
draw their revolvers
needing their free wi-fi
to twitter and tweet
about their new best friend.
Reach up, grab her bag
avoid the line and requests
for more scrawling signatures.
Racquet against her hip,
she minds the gap
between man and god,
feet back on firm land.
Like some young teacher,
pupils follow her through the room.
Why wouldn't they stare?
She's fame, it's all fair game.
Backhand, forehand,
Mozart of the Court.
But life isn't a Van Gogh,
it's a small, thin, Turner.
She smiles on the clay,
but on the stairs,
her stomach churns.
If she falls,
bones snapping like dreams,
there's nothing to wait for.
No breathless freedom
as the needle click
past three digits,
her mind thinking
about mangled,
career ending,
limbs,
intimate with deuce,
virginity of life
still in tact
she has everything
until the day
when she doesn't. |
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Inkdrinker
Scribe
Sepulcher: a stage enlived by ghosts.
Posts: 908
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Post by Inkdrinker on Aug 17, 2013 4:10:45 GMT -5
I don't really comment on people's writing ever, but, uh, this is pretty lovely. So I thought you should know that. I guess. Yeah.
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Post by James on Aug 17, 2013 4:16:37 GMT -5
I don't really comment on people's writing ever, but, uh, this is pretty lovely. So I thought you should know that. I guess. Yeah. Shucks. Thanks! |
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Post by James on Aug 22, 2013 4:53:59 GMT -5
Joseph
Roxanne
The kettle reaches its peak
as sunlight slips
through the curtain
like some adulterous lover
She rolls over, her bare legs
spread, seeking the warmth
that must be found
upon the pessimistic bed
Eyelids part like lips,
watching, devouring him
through the threshold,
as the towel falls away
Oh, Joseph,
you don't have to
wear that suit today,
you don't need to
sweep the simple homes
of money and life
Back arching,
she rises from the bed,
feet teasing the floor,
her hand brushing the door.
Like some yuppie Hyde,
he grows another inch
as the double Windsor
and blazer goes on.
The marble sink
is worth far more
than his childhood home,
yet he cannot stop
As she pictures
the carousel of despair
of broken fathers and sons,
he spares not a thought
The one-way streets
of the City he loves
work through their marriage,
she asks, he answers
Fingers delicately teasing
the Rolex from its box,
with her he harbours
no ships of curiosity
Asking of work,
she catches the wolf,
teeth-bared in the mirror,
staring back at her
The heart-disarming smile
is only for stocks,
never for her, long nails
digging into her palms
She turns,
knowing his eyes
won't follow the curves
of her flawless back
Oh, Roxanne,
she knows
he won't stop selling
throughout the night
Yet that suited,
well-groomed monster
hides better than most,
for she knows not
that her wealth
is all but gone
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Post by Kaez on Aug 22, 2013 13:46:38 GMT -5
Early nominee for writing thread of the year, here.
Just to, y'know. Keep the pressure on.
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Post by James on Sept 28, 2013 5:28:36 GMT -5
Cleo
Beauty
A single trip to the bar,
sees twenty misplaced crowns
and seven fallen angels.
She has so many suitors,
that Penelope would frown,
like some poor working class slob
when talk turns to exotic,
sun-baked African gap years.
Even after several drinks,
the Kings and Queens
will roll off her tongue,
not even a single pause
for that thorny rosy war.
And when the bell toils,
war wounds aching,
phones are left unloved,
as others wait, money ready
for her own calculations
The long safari home,
laughter breaks from her lips,
but it is never heard
for others roar louder
at her wild, wondrous wit.
She drops down
into her modest bed,
wishing to ensnare
a few moments of sleep
till she must arrive
with a welcoming ear,
offering comforting words,
and a cup of soothing tea
to some passion scorned friend.
Words weave their magic,
leaving her friend sated,
wrapped in a blanket
of finest Sicilian silk.
And as she walks home,
a smile upon her lips,
there is nothing more remarkable,
beneath the visiting moon. |
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Post by James on Dec 27, 2013 4:56:10 GMT -5
Frank
easy and sad
A tobacco fog floats through
the hazy yellow glow
of humming, ancient bulbs.
The oak double doors
are a portal through time,
where flat caps and homburgs,
and even a fedora or two
don't seem foreign or old.
There's no slicked, greased,
combed, highlighted hair here.
It's a simpler time,
reigned by a simpler place
of whiskers and greying baldness.
In rush hour, that happy time
between work and home,
the lovingly undecorated room
with wooden stools and tables,
would shelter a baker's dozen.
The grandfather clock,
accidentally bequeathed,
does not show six, seven
or even eight o'clock.
The moon has already done
the lion's share of its work,
and the Sun is carefully
plotting the path of its ascent.
Everything in the hazy smog,
comes in twos.
Two glasses constantly
in a state of undress.
Two livers fighting as valiantly
as if they were at Rorke's Drift.
Two cigarettes, two puffs of smokes,
two croaky, gravel-coated voices.
The barman has crossed
that wooden border
between attentive monarch
to a simple patron,
drinking his troubles away.
But mostly, he sits,
listening to another
lay their soul bare.
He nods, sighs, interjects
at all the right moments.
It's all second nature now,
like pouring the perfect
measurement
of fine old whisky.
By the time the clock
lays caught between two twelves,
those early birds,
rushing to catch those worms,
the brothers-in-arms are content.
They smile, clink glasses,
and the barman reaches for the last bottle,
one more for the road. |
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