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

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

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 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.

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

'We'll sort you out' blues...

They say it'll all be over

In a month or two

You'll be much happier when

You stop feeling the way you do

It all takes time you see

I mean... what did you expect?

Your problems are only ours

When helping you is easy

And by that we mean pills!

Lots and lots of pills...

It doesn't matter if they

Turn your brain to mush

Until you forget your own free-will.

But it'll all be over

In a month or two

And then you can go back

To doing whatever it is that you do...

And then it may start all over again

And there'll be more pills to fix you up

And catch you out of the blue.

Poisonous Fruit

I may be bought and sold

Caught and told

Always weak, never bold

But at least I’m not your doll

You can chew me up

Spit me out

Eat me alive

And curse me with this drought

But I’ll still be mine

Though never free

At least I’ll live

At least I’ll be

You made my clothes

Sowed my woes

Took my hands

And kept me on my toes

Now I am a porcelain prize

No sailor will call for me

Until my cradle is made

Until I am no longer

Fruit of a poisonous tree.

Eclipse At Sunset

She smiles with weak eyes

A glint of wisdom

Guarded by her age

Threatened by a single hymn

Palms of wrinkled leather

Blue and grey like murky water

A stream into her lungs

Lived on through her daughter

The power and sanctity of youth

Are no longer of any use

Like the arm around her;

No longer tame but ruse

The candle she lit with a frail hand

Will eat away the dark

Until all the wax is consumed

And the light is no longer within her heart

She’ll leave with a whisper

On everyone’s lips

Though she died at sunset

They’ll sing of an eclipse.

The Nuclear Family

There once was a couple

Who had it all;

Money, fame and

Their own grand hall.


But their nights were restless

As they tried and tried,

But no child would come

Oh, how they both cried.


They were offered a contract

That would set them for life,

But only on one condition...

She was to become his wife.


She never believed in paper

Their love was simply enough,

But her name was changed

And she was tied to his cuff.


And thanks to science

A child was born,

Though their love had gone

And the contract was torn.


The court saw praise

And pittied them both,

No Bible was needed

No hand shake or oath.


The child grew up

He was big and strong,

Looked just like his father

And never did wrong.


But time passed by

His parents were gone,

They never were happy

Though their lives were long.


What was there left

To love in this world?

Five decades he lived

Before the lies unfurled.


He wasn't happy

He wasn't sad,

But he felt guilt

For his mum and dad.


It was his fault

They never did love again,

He reminded them too much

Of all their conflict and pain.


So he tied himself a noose

And took one last breath,

He thought of his parents

And embraced death.

Just a Suit

You stand afar
always a silhoutte
always just a suit.
I should have been proud of you
the money, the house,
the lifestyle too.
I should have been happier
as I, the flesh and offspring
born into a cocoon of your success.
Shared by blood and bone.
Now luxury is a rarety
as mind becomes eternal
and independence brakes suburban comformity.
I am just an expectation
but you will never realise
I can also be such a devestation.
I carry no beacon or ticket
no, I am inside - a screaming mute.
And my future will not be a suit
no, my future will not be a suit.

Untitled

The crisp, white blanket of gleaming envy
will embrace us in snowfall
and dress us in the finery of all the green emeralds
and all the manicured jewelles of mankind.

We will gather in mourning
for the sun has already sunk deep
into the earths hollowed crust
magma no longer burns the insides.

The clocks will tick from dawn to dusk
but no light or dark will come
but waves of pristine anger
decorated with riches and drum rolls.

How very lavish,
How very decadent they will become
and from all the corners of the world
they will build again this damaged soul.

The Mirror

A mirror infront of me, a reflection of truth
But I, the believer can lie and fake my youth
I can throw away scars and cover-up blemishes
With foundation and concealer
Even wash away the effects of alcoholic beverages.
I can breathe in, making for a perfect toned stomach
And wish away the thoughts that prove my mind havock.
My hair can be tied away, my eyes painted over
My lips only rosy with gloss, my nails pretty with artificial perks.
My legs are shapeless and will prove to be a task
Leggings and jeggings will be used as a mask.
Oh what a dreadful thing a mirror can become
You think you look so pretty and sweet
Till you realise it's all just a cheat.
I think I'll stay at home today
Who needs this reflection anyway?

Sylvia

Sylvia

They put your face on walls

and your words in song,

tattoos of you so you can be

remembered by severed flesh.

Your bones, bleached white and pure

innoccence is now restored,

no more thought

this death is your reward.

Oh, how we like to gaze

upon every lingering words you

wrote,

every single attempt to end your life.

Your family, craving for your privacy

the public, lapping up the stories,

and the media using your body

and mind as script.

"Mind living on paper

and flesh living in offspring."

Syvlia, you lived like a queen

Sylvia, you died like a peasant.

Your religion was only that of life

and you never did really believe in it,

and though you loved the flesh

it was heart you wished upon,

it was brains you longed for

and death you poured yourself into.

So, this broken child you once were

never truly was a woman

and can never truly be at peace,

not with our tears still salty fresh.

Not with annivessary edition of your books

or special edition hard-backs.

You died as you were made,

a pale, broken body

a pale, broken heart

a child, a pupil and teacher,

         an idol, a decoration, a mantle-piece feature.

Literature

The steady varnish of a brown oak-wood desk
Appeals only to those who wish and devour
The simple sentiments of life and courtesy
And the structure of pity by hand and wishful thinking
It is not one’s fault for all the ecstasy taken so shamelessly
From a fellows pardon or an enemy’s scowl
Nor is it that of friend or foe
Or the authorities right wing deceit
A simple term and a complexity of words and thought
Can describe only the most wonderful and valiant of others
As can the most complex words put so simplistically
To have one’s life turn over at the drop of a pen
At the sound of a cry and a touch of a season’s welfare
Like the crispy orange leaves that autumn ascends unto the sunken ground
How do we hark at a crow and not read the fellow’s burden?
And take the pain into one’s hand and mouth to spew out spittle
And the foul flavour of a worded phrase that repeats only a painful memory
It is of a nature so divine and without acknowledgement of its own pride
We take notice of and spread rumour of a hidden soul, an exposed promise
And so our humanism takes not a beating or a praise of tongue
But a step back to allow the past and all that of its present
To define the future’s worded nature of consent
And the eyes of war and tranquillity steal one last glance
Before the writers hand scratches the brown-oak desk
And beholds literature of such beauty, of such pardon and honesty
Of such regret and unfound knowledge of conspiracy unto a scripture of purity