NIghtwood

We are only the marks we leave on others
The brash attempts to leave ourselves unscarred
We are the voices inside the withered heads
Of those who grew out of their own
We are the names that were meant to be forgotten
Cast aside on weathered tombs of Latin capillaries

Left for the sudden slow burn of midnight tobacco-smokers
And childish delight of dawn’s first glimmer
Shadowing the rays of unfaithful vagabonds
Who know their home lies with the silver tongue
They tried to part with

We are the lovers that did not get to meet each other’s flesh
The hollow chant of sweet nothings never whispered
We are the beaded rays that only burden the painter’s muse
And carefully enchant the skin of peeled fruit never ripened
We are the founders of deciduous beings that have not learnt
The ways of plastic religion and pastel-coloured dreams

Left for the peace-makers to tie into knots from coiled wool
And rope that can only wrap around your tired feet
Earnestly whispering to you the savoury everything’s
You burnt candles for

Uninvited sensibilities
That make me squirm
Give me fruit sweetened
By sugar and I will
Come to you in understanding
To cherish everything
Save the bitter core
Even the skin rots beautifully

Sweat

there is an un-holiness
about the way he watches
me in the morning
still in last night's clothes
with my head stuck
to lipstick-stained pillows
bedsheets that smell like sweat

Within my hand I held a rose

And each petal I kissed

With a fondness

As if it were the last

Flower upon this earth

And the only salvation

To touch my lips

And then I kissed you

And the rose fell out of my hand

Each petal burned slowly

As they fell to the ground

With ashes that promised me

Kissed that will never wilt

Who Owns Our Bodies?

Because when I think of me
And that perfect beach body
I’m not thinking of myself
I’m thinking of a celebrity

Because when I buy make-up
The receipt tells me everything
But my name
And then I’m to blame
When I start looking the same
As every other face on the street

Because every time I shave my legs
I’m taking my stance against nature
And I’m holding that razor
Like a cross around my neck
Even though I know
It will crucify me

Because when I walk down the high street
In a pair of shoes
Designed to make me taller
Not so I can get better sight of the views
But to ‘extenuate’ my figure
For the benefit of my gentleman caller

Because I see little girls
Being told that pink is what they should wear
And that’s the epitome of womanhood laid bare;
We are just a colour, a body of pink flesh
Laid bare with no hair except what’s on our heads’

Because it takes two people
To create life
And yet all the responsibility
Is mine from the moment I sigh
With the pain of not knowing why
I’ll be punished no matter what I choose
Have an abortion – congratulations you lose
Oh but you’re a single mother
You’re the bane of society
You’re the reason why we’re in these blues

Because when I say no
What I really mean is
“Go ahead and do it anyway”
It doesn’t matter, what’s mine is yours
I mean, what’s the point in autonomy
When my body is no longer me
But something that society
Can spit on and then make love to

Because too often I have watched a room full of men
Discussing the problem of sin
When women become everything
But pretty and thin
And what it says on the tin


Because I am a woman
And I have bought into all the
Values I have been told to
Despite knowing I shouldn’t
And waiting to fold
Back into a compact case
You can carry around
At your own personal taste

The Apple of Your Eye

I remember that day
The way old friends
Remember together
The laughs they have shared

The laughter now pittering
Into a dull, lifeless thud
That echoes the sound
Of my voice

Hoarse and distorted
Because my lungs fail
To release the stale air
They have been holding captive
All this time

That day the sun
Breathed little whispers
Upon your naked face
And kissed each freckle with warmth

I remember how hot it was
In contrast to your icy stare
The one where I reflected
Inside the hollow shells
Beneath your brow
        
And I saw that
The apple of your eye
Had rotted to its core                    

Growing Up

Do you think we ever knew
What would happen to us
When we were young and stable
And tears only flowed
With a bruise or a scraped knee
When the only drink in your hand
Didn’t hurt your head the next morning

Do you ever wonder
If colours will start to fade

Until they become just shades
Or if music can never again be
Accompanied by games played at parties
Where goodybags would be handed out at the end
And pictures would be taken
By adults with proud faces

Can I still paint a picture
With just my fingers and a star-shaped sponge
Or do I need a palette of dull colours
To cover up the beauty in our lives
When hearts were just paper cut-outs
And not fragile pieces of glass
When we thought being grown up
Was the only thing that mattered

A Love Poem

I want to kiss your skin
The way you kiss my lips
I want to eat into your core
And not throw away the pips
I want to feel your breath
Like a gentle breeze
I want to whisper in your ear
I know you like the way I tease
I want to know your thoughts
So you won’t be so alone
I want you to know that I love you
Until you’re just rotten flesh and bone

Unfcomfortably Numb

I clench my hand into a fist
Dig the nails in deep
I need to know that I’m still alive
There is nothing I can do to keep
Myself from going numb

I feel so tired
Tired of trying to reassure myself…
That I’m not going insane
I can’t find my breath
I can’t feel heat or pain
They told me everything would be fine
But what’s the point in living
When nothing feels like mine

And where does this all stop
Will I suddenly feel okay once more
I can’t find a trigger
But I know it’s been done before
I can’t keep thinking like this
It’s teasing me inside
Am I living or have I died

The Apple Tree

The seed we planted
Has grown no crop
Instead before me
Begins to grow – an apple tree
You said we’ll take the fruit once ripened
And use it for our own
But I’ve been waiting years
And still no fruit has grown

 

The seasons change fast
From sun to rain
But still the tree stands alone
No fleshy leaves, just bark and bone
You told me to wait patiently
That we’ll harvest soon
But I do not see a single fruit
And it has already reached its 12th June

 

Perhaps it is the soil
No nutrients to provide
Or maybe the sun has not yet shone
On the fruit that should be growing there with pride
For you were once excited to see
Roots growing strong and deep
But now you have fallen victim to apathy
And our beloved apple tree—
Lies in parts amongst the compost heap

Just A Little Bit About Poetry

I’m going to write about poetry in this post, just for a little change. It’s all from my opinion and view-point though. I’m not trying to convert people to my way of thinking or saying that my way of thinking is right. When it comes to something as diverse as poetry, there really is no wrong or right! We have the power to like or dislike certain poems, to understand them individually (as most poems mean different things to different people). But I think that perhaps we should all have a certain amount of respect for the poet, any poet, whether we like or dislike their work. Actually... let me rephrase that... I think we should all respect everyone for what they do creatively. Because we will never fully understand what it meant to the creator. We can analyse, discuss and debate works of art, literature, film etc. but we will never be in the position of the ‘creator’ and we should respect their work as something personal to them even if it’s not personal to us.

So why do I write poetry? Well, in year 8 I had an English teacher who was very supportive of my poetry and motivated me to write more. She asked for one of my poems to be published in the school bulletin (for little 12 year old me that was quite an accomplishment)! So if it had not been for her, I probably would never have really delved into the world of poetry – at least, not as young as I did.

To me, when I write a poem I feel a personal responsibility to make it mean something to me but perhaps something else to someone else. I don’t want people to see everything in the same way, the same light. It’s good to get out of that factory packaging we’re so used to! So I try to write in a way that has the potential to appeal to several viewpoints.

I wonder my dear reader, if you are familiar with The Picture of Dorian Gray by the wonderfully talented Oscar Wilde? I am almost certainly sure that you are! And if not… please, I urge you my humble friend that you go out and instantly buy/borrow a copy to read and ponder with! It’s a marvellous story. You see, when I write a poem, if it’s confessional, personal, about someone or something that I feel has been through or going through a tough time, I have this sort of superficial belief that by writing it down into a poem it has a Dorian Gray effect. And by that I mean; the poem has some sort of ability to absorb the pain from me, the person or thing I am writing about and a little stays on the page, stuck in the writing. Like the problem is shared and everything’s a little lighter.

But ho hum, it could just be me sinking slowly and not-so-blissfully into insanity… who knows? I do hope y’all like this little one-off post. I haven’t written properly in a while and itching like mad to get back into it! I hope you’re all wonderful and well, be happy and kind and expect a lot from life please, because there is a lot it has to offer!

Megan Xx

 

"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance." - Carl Sandburg

 

The Smell of Dust

To me, time smells like dust
Dust settled upon old books
Or falling from vinyl sleeves
Dust gathered beneath the carpet
Caught by high shelves
And corners of pretty things
You can’t remember buying

Dust that follows you in the light
And awaits movement

To carry on its journey
Through decades and possessions
Dead particles gathering new life
Helping to remind the living
That they too, shall one day be time
The kind that that smells like dust

The Actor

All we are doing
Is putting on an act
Our bodies stage props
Ancient and cracked
Our hearts the electricity pulsing...

Through sound monitors and stage lights
Mechanical doors and Camera flashes
The scripted lines of our life re-unites

And as we get up each morning
We reach into our very own actors’ wardrobe
To wear today’s latest trend
Worn all across the globe
So there is no individual cast
Of actors fighting for their part
Instead we divide them up
In class, intelligence, talent and art

Next comes our debut performance…
Do we want to be pretty or plain?
Strong, weak... a protagonist, a fool
A hero won or victim slain?
The choice is ours – they’ll never know
That we wrote the script
And sowed the very threads
We came prepared, equipped…

To be anything you want
To be the idol of your dreams
The flawed hero, handsome villain
Our faces forever on your screens
To pause and play and fast-forward
To your heart’s content
And when you are bored of us
There will be another to fill that boredom like cement

But all this acting, all this pretending,
Faking, bending-truth and fact
Isn’t at all that healthy
Perhaps it was all made to distract?
Maybe we should all open our eyes
And see that we are not standing upon a stage
We are standing on grass, beneath clear skies
We are not wearing any kind of cloak or disguise
We are here not to act but to improvise.

Waking Up

I recently put up a YouTube video of a poem I wrote, hoping to perform it 'Slam-Poetry style' but my performace style is awful! I have a looooot to work on (including being able to recite my poem infront of a camera)!
   So here is the video in all its mediocre glory (and poem below):

Waking Up

What happens when we wake up and realise
That we've been living all these lies
That good and bad stand side by side
What happens when we understand
That we're being fed right into their hand
Us 'the people' - the 99%
Forced to believe sin and made to repent
But it’s too late for any kind of formation
To replace the current system that beats half-heartedly to any occasion
There's no more truth to fall back on
There's no light to be shone
The darkness consumes any flicker any flame
But we're already too blind to see through this game
The fascists are just a disguise
The communists take pleasure in being their alibies
Republicans are harvesting oil
And the Democrats believe in earth and the land’s soil
Everything we've been told has turned upside down
There's no monarchy, no jewel-encrusted crown
And there's wall of apathy
Put up to control the victims in society
The ones who worked and slept and ate and wept
The ones who want money, a 2-bedroom house and job security
The ones who died of old age
Forgotten long ago when they succumbed to that rage
Years left to be alone
Their dignity ripped from them the moment they were put in a home
Their own family telling us they can't see what we see
Their mind has gone, there's no point in making conversation
They’re in a better place, their heads no longer capable of realisation
And then they die and their life becomes a tomb
Forced into a coffin, there's no such thing as death coming too soon
When you're 83 and put of sight
You were never quite right...
And now were all too susceptible
To be anything but replicable, predictable
It's too late to write on banners and walls
To speak against money and spam phone calls
So we all go back to our beds
Feeling drained from our hearts to our heads
Thinking is the last thing we need
I mean we've already planted the seed
What more do you want?
Red paint and your own debutante?
You need to go back to reality
You don't see through the eyes we see
We've had ours closed all along
There is no right and wrong
Good or evil...
Just money and people

This Land

Recently I have been listening to a lot of PJ Harvey's latest album 'Let England Shake' which is all about conflicts in war, soldiers and a whole lot of other interesting and important things regarding our heritage, country, lifestyle and so on. Its definitely made me think more about what I had previously learnt and read about wars, especially modern ones and of my Granddad who never really liked to talk about his time fighting out in Burma during WW2. I live very close to the sea, in fact just a couple minutes’ walk away is a large golf-course that ends into tall cliffs along the Norfolk coast. I don't know why but I started imagining a battle taking place there and this poem is the result of that...

 

Snow falling through the winter cold,
sharing with it - the dreams of old
Ice and sleet that pave the way
To where my loved ones forever lay
Cold bodies beneath marbled stone
The Same tomb that will one-day be my home
This ancient crest of land
Sowed by the workers ancient hand
Has once again breathed life and death
With only the bleached-white bones left

Of those who fought through gas and rain
Over trenches in the pouring rain
Fields ablaze with rich explosions
Shrapnel falling deep into the oceans
It's gaping mouth - harsh and bitter
It's teeth woven like thick wicker
And as the winter snow melts clean
Who would know what this land has seen?
Let the memories die with those there
To keep fresh again this winter air

Dedicated to a Rather Wonderful Boy!

This poem is still pretty much in its primitive form; lots of editing shall be considered, but until then, this shall suffice!

I would never call myself an artist,
A musician, one who has talent beyond nature's demure
But with you, talent is uneccesary
And all that is important can crumble away
When presented with a simple kiss or touch
A word spoken honestly
And eyes that look so deeply, they are lost
In journey's of their own...

You are incomparable to any quote,
Lyric, painting or musical note
You are far greater than the height of
Human accomplishment yet or ever known
Shakespeare would be speechless
When presented with you; for no words
Could ever justify your being
Mozart would lay down his piano
And search beyond his music sheets
And still never find that melody in your soothing voice
Da vinci would mix all the colours
He'd ever used and go in search for more
Before dropping all of his brushes
And accepting paint can not show you
For who you really are
You are all the talent, all the creative wonders
The beauty, the truth
You are love and justice
And yet you shall always be more
For when I am with you, I might as well
Be the greatest of them all
Indeed, you would do well to call me
Shakespeare, Mozart, Da Vinci
Because you shall forever and always
Bring out the best in little old me.

15 Minutes of Fame

The churches have emptied
The crowds begin to disperse
And into the brothels--
They immerse
There's no doctors or nurses
Medical schools begin to close
Why pay for your degree;
When all you have to do is pose?
But what about the army...
They'll still be recruiting
But let us be warned
They'll all be prosecuiting
Life wont have a purpose
Unless it's in the stars
Concrete astrology
Along the californian boulevard
Forget the teachers
Police and shop-keepers--
When a lifestyle can be bought and sold
We wont need such preachers
And when the streets are empty
And all the doors are closed...
Out will come the rats
And our truths will be exposed

The Unmarked Grave

 

No name
To let us know
Which poor soul's body
Lies below
Is their sleep
Ever eternal
If the body
Is more husk than shell?

Did they have children
A mother or father?
Were they a spouse
Maybe a sister or brother?
How lonely
One must have been
To lay forgotten
Beneath grass no-longer green
A heroic death
Or welcomed perish?
This mystery...
I shall forever cherish
For whom else
Will grieve with me?
For this long-forgetten soul
We shall never meet or know
A story that
Will always be
Echoed through the debris

What I see

Do I see

What others see?

All this that surrounds me...

All the dirt and beauty

The wind, the cliffs

The sun and the sea

A man standing on his own

A women with a coat she's long out-grown

A feather floating by

A school boy on his way home

His mother, hiding bottles

So he'd never know.

And all this time

That ticks silently away

Begins to echo

With each new day

And so I stand in idleness

As the echo's fade away