Continuing: Bring in the Books / Bottles / Fire

So the strange creative renaissance continues. It isn't quite as manic is it was at the beginning of the year, which is good because I'm sure I would have exhausted myself. I am still writing and painting, but I also feel like I have the mental energy for other things - which is great, because... well, I'm an adult and have to do other stuff than play with paper, pens, paints and canvases in the dark.

For example I now work full time for an energy company. Which is... well it has pros and cons, like anything. I have more money! I am doing interesting things at work, and work with amazing people. But also it takes up a lot of my brain ... parts of my brain that crave something a little less mundane, a little more poem-y.

Speaking of which! I've written quite a few since I last posted... so here are three that I like:



Bring in the books

I told you to bring the books inside,
to put them in their places on the shelves
that line the living room, like badges of knowledge -
I told you to bring them in, and now
they are wet, and dirty, their covers unreadable,
their pages wrinkled and altered into
a metaphor for ageing or consumerism.

I watched Maria die today.

Oh, we knew it was coming, and
she knew it was coming, (in some moments),
but you should have heard the wracking sounds
her daughters made. I’m not callous, but you hear
enough people grieving and it starts to sound
like laughter.

I told you to bring the books inside,
now see look at this? My favourite collection -
and you can barely make out the words, or tell
which page was weary from dog-ears and thumbing.
I told you to bring them in, and now
they are dying, and I don’t know if I should bury them
or put them back on the shelf. Are they ruined
or symbolic?

The funeral is tomorrow.

Bottles

Alcohol burns at the back of my mouth
but in a way you tasted the same -
your tongue had a similar quality
in flavour, and in its ability to make me
lose my mind.

Dizzying; your words sent me spiralling,
the last of a bottle that would have
been better down the drain. But you know
I’ve never been good at walking away
when I’ve had enough.

Fire

Fire licks at my feet
but I don’t make a move.
My eyes are set on the stars,
pain a forgotten memory -
dull throb in my mind
where it was once processed.

Fire licks more insistently,
discovering my legs,
and my eyes in some primal response,
work tearfully to put out the flames.

I remember when you
discovered my body, a heat
not dissimilar to now
- white, eager, flickering -
consumed us before you
were consumed.

But that was long ago, memory
buried under layers of stale air
and wood, and dirt and grass.
Fire does its efficient work.
Smoke, its friend, gentle in its lullaby.