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.

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The Sky’s Eye and Ours

skypoem_border

 

The sky’s face watches, exhausted; blinks.
Blessed evening parades a lullaby –
woollen lavender weights travel
magically suspended,
hot-blushing sunset casts a mural
against cold walls, whilst the city turns purple
and the air to breathe is plum.

How many have painted a sun?
with twisted wrist and loaded brush,
an idea of bright, hot, white.
Artists eyes strain above architecture, feet stuck in
northern courtyards of red brick and cobblestones,
learning that all suns are not the same,
don’t look the same,
but look like us.

 

Happy Sunday

Today I’ve got a poem and a painting for you! This painting was great fun to work on. The photo credit goes to Highlens. I chose the photograph to work from for its texture and light.

Pathway.jpg

I wasn’t going to post a poem as well today, but I’ve been feeling unconfident in my writing so here you are. Would love to know thoughts about it, I think it takes a couple of reads.

Why My Eyes Work

All of my spirit and all of my thoughts
and my physical self clamber
into one space, one point,
the furthest point of the curve of my eyes,
pressed up against the glass
like children to peek at fireworks.

Gathered at the brink of the realm of myself,
before any further and
the space becomes ‘there’, or ‘you’,
and not ‘me’, anymore.

The nebula ‘round the window of my soul
stands between my whites
and the blackness, absorbing the view,
to stop my looking glasses mixing.
Becoming grey to look out of,
and grey to look into.

I’d like to have reflectivity,
a gleaming, shining health
so your vital eyes, and their starlight can gaze
and see; from the orbs of your soul,
that are framed, with stars or like telescopes;
mine. See my eyes, my soul.

With my two worlds
living behind two mirrors,
like the back of a spoon,
I’d like you to see you, too.

All of this work and magic,
mystery and certainty, working in tandem
for you to see you, when you look at me.

I’d like to keep health simply for one thing:
for both of us, to see ourselves and each other.
To watch from our worlds’ thresholds
the world past ‘us’, that we will build
for as long as we can.