Poetry Blog by Celia

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Celia on Mild depression (Tue, 20 Oct 2020 10:50 am)

John Coopey on Mild depression (Mon, 19 Oct 2020 08:43 pm)

Don Matthews on Poems are not for happy days (Tue, 14 Apr 2020 11:57 pm)

Liam Osaneo on Poems are not for happy days (Tue, 14 Apr 2020 10:31 pm)

Celia on Bird poem n.3 (Tue, 8 May 2018 02:39 pm)

Wood on Bird poem n.3 (Tue, 8 May 2018 02:42 am)

Celia on lovesick (Sun, 25 Dec 2016 02:08 pm)

Jeff on lovesick (Sun, 25 Dec 2016 06:09 am)

Celia on erotic agape (Fri, 25 Nov 2016 11:42 pm)

Dave Morgan on erotic agape (Mon, 21 Nov 2016 06:40 pm)

Mild depression

I have black sand at the bottom of my soul.

It is not always still. It whirls around sometimes,

Sometimes it creases and makes shapes

(If they mean something, I don’t know)

But then it settles down again.

Dark, harmless, smooth. Each grain tiny.

So what’s the weight?

Other people have rocks at their bottom,

I only have sand; I cannot complain.

Black sand and rather still...

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Poems are not for happy days

Poems are not for happy days,

For resolutions and self-promises,

For being tough and unresponsive,

Poems are not for new beginnings.

Poems are searching, searing, morbid,

They turn you in and leave the sun,

Poems seek out your obsessions,

They tickle them, they wrap them in a bow.

Poems are not for going out and doing,

For being your great mechanical self.

Poems preve...

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Bird poem n.3

The chirp comes halfway between my dreams and yours

And this time you’re not there for me to ask

What did you dream

What did I dream

To confirm that what we dream is real

Like the bird and its little white chest

Is my hand as it strokes yours on my stomach.

The bird waits patiently outside my window and yours

Now at different places, but the very same bird

How does he do...

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On my way

Excuse me sir, how long

till Central Station?


Thirty. Five. Minutes. 

Thirty five. Another hour

Or day springs open abyss

Before me, that is, before us

Before I can rest my hand on your shoulder


And pretend not to expect you there

Or you me.

These minutes are unlike any other

Minute I’ve known on earth

They are viscous, solid,


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Eroticexpectationpublic transporttime


I can only think of your gentle

lips, I can only picture your

delicate touch, I can only

remember within myself

the words, those words

you never spoke.

Because time is too small for

us caught in the wrong

corners of it, at the start

and the ending, but never the


Because yesterday was the right

time for today for the

kiss that I gave to the



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erotic agape

This gushing of love from my eyes

At the dark-haired mug of the stepped-in passenger

Ugly like a dark night with no moon

Dirty with paint and with a grin

Of pain and tiredness and incomprehension.

Love gushes through eyes and pores

Of my skin, leaking out of any orifice

At the reticent hard reality of a train car,

The suited and tied clerk fingering

His phone oblivious o...

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For Simone Weil

She saw the stars

apart from one another and serene


like one could never hope to be

or wish to be, upon this crooked Earth where


a galaxy onto himself

commands and strikes and wrecks

a disappointed mind bent upon illusion.


Sometimes the stars

would send a soul-mediator

disguised as bird or grain of sand

alighting on her open palms,



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Speak to me like you speak,
in tongues, or in plain old English
dusted with a view of sparkly seas
or oceans, as you say, my owl.
My crow, my dove, my dolphin
plunging among the waves that roughen,
among the sands that graze and toughen
your skin and hair but soul untouched. 
Tell me of the call you heard
from a distance, from the depths 
of blue or green or blackened water,
the rover, ...

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escapeoceanromantic distance lovesea


Swing around on your fixed throne of sorrow

Pushing on hardened feet the world away,

Away, let the landscapes slide and disappear

From languid eyes and parched open lips.

Tears have always been ungrounded, you know,

Unhinged like your throne and flowing like your hair,

Falling on newly sun-warmed hips that twist as well

And have no memory of what once seemed so cruel.


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Nothing's easier than leaving

when the trace of smoke behind you chokes

the asphalt and the road is empty for you.

Behind and ahead confuse each other

with mingled salutations aimed at your heart,

puny heart that every touch can turn to blood.

Blood left paths in your dreams, remember,

as they used to swallow up these streets and rooms

and lock them, skinned alive in fearfu...

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The only life in here is you

The only life in here is you

Crying out for food or for your mouse

You righteous creature demanding your due.

Your skin does not erupt

Nor flake at blows or wear,

You wear your coat without remorse

Without a tear.

The only life in here is you

Fantastic creature whom I fail to adore,

Imitate you I would, I don't know where to start,

For between us two

The only life ...

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Sylvia and Ted

She broke the waves thinking that England would make her famous,

He sat in homemade tweed and knew his critics were just heinous.


She took his heart and gave her life in the bargain,

He took her hand and scribbled something in the margin.


She hoped that love from him would burn and inspire,

He stayed out late and burned of an earthlier fire.


She opened up, confesse...

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Morning work

Rising sun upon the smoke clouds, and you,

Dragged out of bed, out of sleep, traversing

The rising city upon mountains of dust,

Challenge the glare, defy the sun.

Betrayed, the light won’t set upon your face

At sunset, leaving streaks of orange

And pink over the fields, over the city,

But you, expectant and resigned,

Lie on the rug, offering up your face.

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song for today

The third one was born alive
the second one so and so
the first let's forget about him.

Nobody said it'd be easy
to tread on this land of discomfort
to walk among throngs of discordants.

The first day he thought rain was sunshine
the second he drank from the pond
the third one he picked all the flowers

and wiped off his tears with their leaves
and lay on the petals till sunset

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Another night

The night comes. The fire crackles. And nothing happens.
Nothing happens to your voice, once so mellow,
Nothing happens to the sky, but where are all the stars?
Nothing happens, I can see it,
I know, I'm here,
But the magpies in the gutters
know far better than I.
Another night has set. The world's revolved again. And nothing's left.

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'I am open to the possibility' you said,

'of love with you, at least I was,

then something happened which drove me quite mad.'


Love is not a possibility

a stranger at the door

you may invite inside

if fancy takes you;


Love is not a beggar

after a bowl of soup

which you can refuse

if your day’s been rough;


Love is not a tree in the garden

which you...

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And now I must recover myself

Left, after centuries of fearful neglect

Washed up to dry on a sunless beach.


And now I must plait my hair

Dull, after nights of washing in grease

The guilty searches for lost affection.


And now I must return home,

Home, where I’ve never been

And sit a while and say sorry, I’m sorry, to me.

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Failed Buddha

Life must be held suspended in a glance

That moves backwards, forwards, holding

Your life together, ceaselessly

Reminding that you are

Something; this thing.


You stop looking: You fall

From a vacant gaze

Into vacant skies

Or even less.


That time is now and truth outside

You can assent to abstractly,


While the watchman in your eyes


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Hold your head high and smile and

Straighten your back and look ahead

They tell me

Because I

Never know who I am and what I deserve

Never remember

My place in the world.

I think I am a cloud or a see-through curtain

I fancy myself a vase with no flowers in it

I walk around like a clown on a journey

Outside the walls of the home.

I would let birds alight on my shoul...

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Late out of bed

From my bed of butterflies I stretch out a hand

Toward the sun, who caresses my palm,

Tepidly, because of the distance,

Tentatively, because I am a woman

Who worships the night, womb of forgetfulness,

Night of night mares,

Night of utter release.

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After T.S. Eliot

Weaving sunlight in one’s hair

Is not easy, uncle Thomas,

As you should have known best of all,

As I had to learn overall.


The days are grey and my energy saps

Sunlight I can no longer produce

And it’s all for nothing, all for no good.

I wish you had told me before.


And to tell me you tried, I grant you that,

My ears inattentive, or biased, or sad.

It’s alwa...

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Dead of night

Here I begin again
Not knowing where I'm going
Not even wanting to.

I go to sleep late and wake up later still.
I water the plants when I remember.
I have a cat with a cone round his head.

These things are transparent
To my daily pattern-making occupation
My storytelling condition
My meaning making compulsion.

I sleep, forgetting plants and cat,
Forgetting you thank God,
And forg...

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Balancing act

I should find

some way to combine

the lightness of these giggles

and earnest, loaded questions,

this freedom, ropes of light,

my sorrow, pounded wisdom.


I should move

between the child who wants

just to be fickle, tickling, gaping,

and this silent, throbbing person

whose torments are my own.

Red leaves are rotting under too much care.


Can we tilt


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I didn't know

how many muscles

a body can have

until tonight.

I didn't know

one can dwell in Eden

if there is no god

until a year ago.

I thought I knew

one can fall from grace

any time

without relief

or justification.

But I didn't know

what it means to descend

and how long the road,

and to where,

to crash or land,

I still don't know.


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In Absentia

You are imperfectly absent

unlike god,

you are in the empty house

too big for me.

You are outside,

in the thick ancient walls

where I run my hand

and make my finger bleed.

You reverberate

in the space,

surprised by my voice


You are the absent answer

to a cry stifled in my mouth

with a handkerchief.

You are not

where I reach out, when I try


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