Marks

In summer, a tan will embolden
marks of a faded despair.

Time tricked me once, and
marks of one time is on me, now
– forever they will likely stay,

hinting stories to strangers without permission,
troubling the traces of my lover’s fingertips.

Like a tragic tattoo of confession
I bear the crossed lines
of my troubled youths depression.

If you’ve followed my blog for a while, you might remember I attended a poetry course with Rommi Smith last year. I published this poem (link here) from one of the sessions.

Today I wanted to share with you this personal poem that came out of a short exercise inspired by ‘marks’. It came inspired by a beautiful poem by James Caruth called Marking the Lambs. I wanted to play with the idea of certain periods of time leaving marks on us, and physical ones that outlast the feelings of the time they came from.

Read aloud if you can, as always. Many blessings.

New Necessities and Old Tradition

A month to watch a wreath decay.
Ribbons pulls friends home
to mothers, in towns away, ‘cross
hills and tracks with luggage
to escape being alone on Christmas.

Arthritic, brittle leaves dry out, and
leprous branches fall.
Crimson berries, cries of red
from cherub-cheeks stuffed
with glowing rosehips
finally lose their gloss –

before shrivelling, fading
and passing into hallmark shades of Winter grey.

Quiet, deserted houses in cities
light up again come new year,
when the ribbon unravels, new shoes
tread into cold buildings
to find unused candles, abandoned blankets
and corpses of wreaths by the bins.