Folkestone Beach

This coast was a pristine vision of an early morning.

The clouds masked a nascent sun

glimmering on waves barely born,

their surf sizzling up the sand.

Nothing seemed to move or speak

in this dim heaven

but the whisper of the water,

the unheard voice of the sunlight

beaming through patchy clouds,

the silent wingbeats of gulls.

Each breath drew in the serene salt

of an unspoiled shore

just as the dozing tide snored softly,

reaching with foam-frilled fingers

to touch my shoes.

(Subject to Change)

Ocean's Changeling

I have been fortunate to attend a talk by the local Plymouth poet Caroline Carver twice now and both times, she posed writing exercises which produced, for me, some splendid results. This second is by far my favourite.

Didn't make much sense

until I was deeper in it than before;

until it had me deeper in it.

What could I do to escape?

It pulled so I pulled back,

it drew me in and I didn't like that.

Stop and think for just a heartbeat.

The fish tickle and tease,

tempt me deeper.

Can I really take that leap

or do I fight it again?

Big Blue throbs in his bones

the hollow rib rumble that vibrates

all the water around me

and his breath pushes the tide

in then out,

I am pulled

in then out

to the vacuum of his lungs.

I am hungry now,

starving, even,

but not for food,

no, air is my food

and I think I shall never

taste it again.

The depth keeps increasing,

the pulse slapping me awake,

then the pressure

anesthetizing.

Deeper my fish tail takes me

and now things do not see

they breathe the deep

and eat the dead

and they want me for their own.

With haunting teeth,

light asphyxiated,

life then no more,

I am no more

and yet better than before.

The surface isn't me

and I forsake it for good.

They call me sea serpent

siren of suicide,

but I starve, sink, sing

and suck at the guts

of the ocean floor.

Aeonian Arteries (working title)

As the current theme of my uni work focuses on the sea and waves and things of a maritime nature, my poetry of this time is obviously taking on a salty edge. So here is the first, written in response to a section from The Outermost House by Henry Beston.

Stratospheric flesh

bones of rock

and marrow mould

endure the season

of the blood.

A crashing pulse

beat eternal

beneath the sky,

a briny heart's

tidal contractions -

diastole

systole - 

through carbon veins.

Surf exhales

sighs up sand

dissipating strength

and lingers.

Surf inhales

its shivering water and

retreats

in an erosive breath

an unremitting cadence

heard around the world.

Setting Seed

I know it has been a while since my last post here, but university does keep me busy and so I never have the time to work on anything for my own pleasure, or else I forget to post what I've written for class. Regardless, the submissions deadline for the university's creative magazine INK is approaching and so I thought I'd give it a shot. On the theme of New Beginnings, here is my entry:

Setting Seed

These, my mother’s leaves,

shivered from her crown

fall fragile, skeletal,

into the unknown,

Still to her quickly moulting limbs

I cling – her child.

Yet my sibling seeds

soon lose their grip,

and in a sporadic cascade

disappear from sight,

inspiring in my germ the thought:

I am not long from my descent.

Night draws her veil

in a susurrus of sleeping breath,

rattling the boughs

until detached, I fall

from the edge of the world,

the only world I know.

Mother, I had thought you lost,

but you’d been waiting all along

to catch me

amongst your withered leaves,

and prepare me for the day

when I would begin anew.

A Busy Railway Terminus

As is usual when one is waiting, I decided to pull up my phone's notepad and read some of my past ideas. In light of recently learning about the art of creative non-fiction, I realised this passage fits that genre so I'm sharing it now, as a reminder to myself (if nothing else).

The busy railway terminus is multicultural and bustling with just a fraction of the city's populace. With each train arrival from the underground, another wave of people floods the dimly lit hall, the air alive with the beep and squeal of ticket gates, the drone of conversation, and the low roar of footsteps and luggage wheels. A noisy troupe of children; a small elderly woman; a man with an Ikea box, all pass by, occupied with their own private lives. Umbrellas are in abundance, dripping the excess of our British weather in their bearer's wake. People meet and part in this crushing concourse, with a hug, a wave, a smile. If you are fortunate enough to stand and watch, a whole play of life is enacted before your eyes as a multitude of unique people come and go, their destination unknown, their situation purely guesswork, their conversations heard in snatches. A romance blossoms in the midst of the flow, someone in bright clothing catches the eye, a sudden commotion of friends having fun - unexpected splashes of colour to break up the afternoon grey.

Sun Worshipper

His golden cast upon my sill,

His kiss upon the air,

Lounging like a sultry cat

Whose gaze falls everywhere.

When his scorching eye favours me,

I disrobe and drop like a fly
To be pressed beneath his humid thumb
Though in the shade I lie.
Even in the darkness
His influence still holds true,
Melting me with fever,
My skin bejewelled with sweat like dew
And I am unable to escape him
In the blissful land of sleep
For across my body I feel
His fiery fingers creep.
But even so I love him
For the joy his light instils
And the beauty he can show me
That inspires the deepest chills.

To my unlikely lover
xXx

A Study in Mundane Resurrection

Be silent and be still

for though surrounded by people

solitude still remains

here in a sea of weathered stone

and vacant-eyed angels.

Let them steal the very breath

which they no longer possess

if only to raise awareness

of their very presence all around.

But in that hush there is life still;

their very presence given flesh

as, transcended from the grave,

they take flight,

giving their voices new purpose

as they sing their praises,

and walk again as never before -

as robin or wren,

pigeon or peregrine,

song-thrush or swan.