L'ecriture et la difference

We do not know how to ‘talk’ anymore,

after taking that class on Derrida.

Each word spoken (in parentheses), is qualified. The meaning

dragged out.

Before, our lives were lived, subjunctive.

Could they be re/lived in the present?

conditional.

Your mouth moves, signing those words

that fall                                 on deaf ears.

You. My int         er           loc         ut           or.             

Your O.      Oh?      Oh                                       no.

“It’s not the words that you said, it’s the space
in between                                                      them.”

I picture your phrase on my page

re-written. Re: verbal. Only a

fragment. (Consider revising.)

Poetry Bites- Bus Journey Challenge

I was thinking that I hadn't written anything in a while, apart from poems for a course I'm doing at the moment at the Poetry School in Kennington 

I had two three hour bus journeys going to see a friend and I thought I would spend the time writing. As I was going to be sat in a seat, not at a desk I decided to just write poems on the notes section of my iphone. I've found recently that if I am given a subject to write about, even loosely, it is helpful for me. So I set myself a challenge.

I sent out a note on Facebook and Twitter asking people for topics, telling them I would respond within half an hour once I received their chosen subject. The range of topics varied, but generally centred on comedic subjects. Being in a relatively contemplative mood, I chose to interpret them more seriously!

I've included the majority of the poems below, some of which I think are more successful than others. I haven't corrected any of them yet, but I will, though I thought I'd put them up as the immediacy of them was kind of the point. Some of them are repetitive (I was writing them specifically to send to certain people), but I think that reflects my per-occupations at the time (this always happens with my poetry).

Elements (For Rhodri - topic 'Eloping')

Twin volcanoes
My Vesuvius to his Krakatoa.
Our magma, combined
Creating reactions, chemically.
A sulphur of explosions.

Our families, sedimentary
Us, forever igneous
They attempt to break us
With pick axes, mine us,
And spread us as thin as they.

At the blacksmith's shop
They understand. And meld us
Together, our earthen love made metal
With fire. The Scottish air cools us
While the tears fall like rain.

Me. Meme. (For Matt - topic 'On Becoming a Meme')

Myself. Audio. Booed.
Spread, like a virus
Mailboxes. Clogged.
Witticisms. Well chosen words.
Hard-wired. No defence.

I am the tip of the tongue.
Subsumed in saliva,
The talk of the town.
Faceless, no lips, no teeth.
No way to bite back.

Am I real? A pixilated soul, or
A figment of
Our collective imagination.

Mustard Yellow Tights (For Gamze- topic ‘Mustard Yellow Tights’)

When I was a girl my tights were mustard yellow.
The colour of Dijon. Not French, and heavens, not American.
With ribbing, consoling my legs in their numbing warmth. 

When I grew older, I mourned their loss, not able
To wear my favourite colour, as it was not
The done thing, but sensible black, or sheer with seams.

Then she came, and I could dress her, in double 
Dijon. With a matching dress or hat and, 
Take my pleasures in her innocence.

She did not like the fabric, said it was itchy on
Her legs, would scratch, draw blood that seeped
Into the wool I would starch and boil.

Now I am no longer a girl. Barely still a woman,
And I wear mustard tights, no matter that she hates.
The end will be here soon, and I want to feel it warm and safe.

Flamin hot pickled onion (For Melissa, topic ‘Monster Munch’)

When I was a girl the packs were plastic
With a window, stained with smears
Of grease and crumbs, Smashed.

Before sucking them to nothing,
I would put them on my fingers
And dream of my future husband.

I'd remove them, leaving traces
Upon my hands. An indelible
Smell of false flavours.

Each little bite, tartness, tingle
Created by the monsters in their factory.
Fantasy is better than reality.

Endless Street (For Lauren- topic ‘A Crap Town’)

The coach stalled at the roundabout,
Outside the concrete town
Turned left into the parkway,
And pulled up at Endless Street.

The blue bus curtains twitched
Wide-set eyes looked on the streets
The inhabitants crowd on
As we wait on Endless Street.

No waiter in the cafe.
No landlord in the pub.
No mistress for the post,
As we wait on Endless Street.

The driver says 'too full' 
But none from the town will leave
So we watch the bus depart
As we wait on Endless Street.

Shell Shock (For Clare – topic ‘Peanuts’)

We forget about the shells.
That which encased the nut we savour.
The husk, whose tender strength 
Made, grew our sweet pleasure.

We are impatient to de-seed,
Strip down, strip bare, to
Remove the mahogany skin
And to feast upon the flesh beneath.

The shell is not to be discarded.
Not to compost or to degrade.
But whose shock, anaphylactic,
Must dilate through antidote.