Don’t like poetry. Don’t like poems.
She said.
I like words.
She said.
Your words. Not poems.
She said.
I did.
poetry
Living with a poet
The nets on the quayside are not the wiles with which I charmed you. They’re nets. They’re not the fisherfolk’s dreamcatchers that took our ambition. They’re nets.
The dinghy bobbing on the incoming tide is not your spirit that soared when you first saw me at the party. It’s a boat. It’s not our hopes and dreams before the love tide turned. It’s a boat.
The gulls that swoop down on the flecks of foam are not poembirds. They’re gulls. They are not lyric snatchers from the frothing deep. They’re gulls.
My heart is not – my heart is not a cartoonish pink, arrow-pierced. It’s my heart. It’s not, I’m afraid, any words that you may say. It’s my heart. And yes, it’s broken, but it will mend.
I wake up early in the morning
I wake up early in the morning and do not understand why you are not here. The bed and the room look strange, perhaps a hotel. I don’t remember checking in. I’ll write you a poem for when you walk through the door. I fold the paper and leave it on your pillow.
I don’t recognise the woman who walks me along to the breakfast room but she seems very friendly. I feel a bit of an idiot that I still don’t remember checking in but breakfast is tasty. They have all my favourites.
Our bed has been made when I get back. I think I left something on it but can’t quite remember what it was. You’ll know, you always do. I’ll ask you when you get back.
As someone once said, a sleep is always welcome. When I wake up, you are not here. I think I’ll write you a poem for when you get back but am interrupted by that nice woman again. She shows me a pile of papers she is holding. What do I think of them? The first one is a poem. It’s rather good, if derivative. I think I may have seen it somewhere before. I look at the others. She has made a mistake! They are all the same! I don’t want to embarrass her so I say I like the first one but am not so sure about the others. She smiles. She’s very pleasant.
I can only get one channel on the TV but that’s ok – I haven’t seen the programme they’re showing. It’s a bit amateurish, some sort of reality thing, but I like the look of the young woman. Lovely smile. I’ll tell you about it when you get back. I’m not sure why, but I’m exhausted. It’s night time already. I’ll write you a poem in the morning.
I wake up early in the morning and do not understand why you are not here.
I said to my mother
I said to my mother that poetry was power, that the voice of the young would ring clear in the spring. She told me to get up and put some clothes on, I was missing the best part of the day.
Poets in pyjamas
Poets in pyjamas
Autumn’s open fires
Warmth that surrounds us
Cats stretch and uncurl
Books and pens and papers lie now abandoned
Your hands
Autumn arrived on Poets’ Day
Autumn arrived on Poets’ Day. Some skipped through leaves to the skirl of the pipes, kicking them high in the air. Some foresaw the bleakness of winter. The cold and grey in the cast of their eyes steeled the yellow and blue. Until a fun colleague dropped red leaves on their head and pinched their cheeks for summer.
Tear stains
You said the book of my poems I lent you was now tear-stained. My breath was taken, and I too cried a little. But you had said tea-stained.
simonsalento 