The blog was going to be taking a break today, because I have a unicorn wines post in the queue but I haven’t finished writing it yet. Then I logged onto Twitter and saw that it’s Teacher Appreciation Day, so I thought I’d share a poem I wrote about the teachers at my old school, who were utterly fantastic and without whom I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t be alive. Continue reading “SGS (a poem)”
the sights of 2017
the grey sofa covered in grey blankets, and grey me lying there greyly
a purple laptop with flickering screen, nestling amongst white bedclothes
a piano covered in dustsheets
plants at the end of the bath, fronds dangling near my toes
the glaring bright of the bathroom light: an attack
my face in the mirror, a white death mask
and smoke rising from a cauldron.
This morning a friend tweeted me asking for some famous poems I know. I wasn’t sure why at first, then I saw it’s National Poetry Day and perhaps that had something to do with it. Or maybe it’s all just a coincidence. Anyway, this friend grew up in New Zealand and said she felt like her Kiwi education may have been different from other people’s.
Since she seemed to be asking for recommendations of well-known poetry, I responded on Facebook instead because there isn’t a 140-character limit there. I also ignored the actual question and recommended poets and movements rather than specific poems, except in a couple of instances. Often what speaks to one person doesn’t speak to another, and arguably this is especially the case with poetry. Some people like flosculous language, some like post-modern syntax, some like poetry but only when it’s performed. It’s pretty much impossible to recommend a poem that everyone will love. So instead I gave a brief intro, and once I’d typed it all out I thought I’d stick it in a blog post as well, in case any of you are trying to work out where to start with poetry.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
~ Emily Dickinson
calling a dead man’s phone
for the past few days
that’s what i’ve been doing
trying to find out what was wrong
the smell of 2016:
sickly-sweet incense from zara
her house, a mix of essential oils with underlying tobacco
a going-off fridge
and, right at the end, Hillside
my friend is coming over today
isn’t that nice?
she’s a therapist
obsessive compulsive disorder