Poetry Blog by Laura Taylor

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Laura Taylor on To Winter (5 hours ago)

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Trevor Alexander on Helicoid (1 day ago)

Laura Taylor on Helicoid (1 day ago)

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Stu Buck on Helicoid (1 day ago)

Laura Taylor on Divine Sight (1 day ago)

Trevor Alexander on Divine Sight (2 days ago)

Laura Taylor on Divine Sight (2 days ago)

To Winter

 

I understand your essence,

that you cannot help yourself,

that Gaia turned her face away from Sol.

Is it a gesture? A way to give her succour?

You let her have a song to sing

while I endure the tempest?                            

Fickle Winter, you do me a disservice.

 

Sometimes, you are beautiful and show me

tiny miracles of light, prismatic splashes,

a rainbo...

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Napowrimo 2019

Helicoid

 

I live beneath a spiral chain,

a silver flow, associating

ceaselessly.

The best of me, the worst of me

won’t let me sleep,

assaults what was my fontanelle,

hurling endless arrows,

silken whispers,

sometimes hammer blows.

Voracious, it would plait me      

in perpetual prolixity.

 

I struggled to untangle braids of lexicon,

loquacity; a glossolalic battle

...

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Napowrimo 2019

Divine Sight

 

Gentle as the lapping frill on Kilshannig shore,

between the strung out lonely poles conducting skylit power,

against the charcoal sketches lining distant Dingle ridges,       

among the oyster catchers and trot-trotting sanderlings:

unbridled silhouettes gaze on the Hogs of Magharee.

Sleek surprises, piebald, white, chestnut, skew and ebony.

Luxurious, they crop and nuzzle ...

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Napowrimo 2019

The Ties That Bind

 

Fur coat, no knickers.

No better than she ought to be.

Common as muck.

Too clever for her own good.

 

Slung out lines to stunt and mould,

ensure she doesn't reach her goals.

Keep her tight inside a box,

locked away from greatness.

 

Slappers, tarts, MILFs and cougars,

girl next door with Page 3 hooters,

sluts and slags and dirty bitches,

fried egg tits a...

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Napowrimo 2019

Immaterial

 

Because our blue-lit journey took us into A and E,

then obs on a proper ward,

I didn’t clear drawers containing sailor whites or flags.

It wasn’t me that sorted photographs,

twenty sets of dentures, broken glasses,

or all the empty bottles that he’d stashed beneath the bed.

Because I’d pleasepleasepleased to the hospital with you,

all I got to see were empty rooms.

 

...

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Napowrimo 2019

Proclivitas

 

I touched her mind and took her body

when she was just a child,

on summer days in hidden fields,

just me and her, alone.

Our little secret.

 

The first time, she was hesitant;

worried that she’d choke

or I would hurt her slender throat,

leave her aching and inflamed.  

She soon got used to it.

 

It wasn’t legal, but no one really cared

as much back then....

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NaPoMoWri 2019

Scopaesthesia

 

You never know

them. Not aware of their location.

Never seen their face before.

No idea where they’re stood/sat/knelt in relation to yourself.

But something’s boring into you,

invisibly.

 

You never know

who they are, what they do, if they’ve ever heard of you,

seen your face around town,

stalking or in love with who they think you might be

by the colour of yo...

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NaPoMoWri 2019

Atlas

 

Legacies live

within cheekbones,

sharp as darts,

freckled luminosity of skin

made alabaster in the womb; 

deep inside the crink of slice, hazelised,

laughing brightly under ginger ice frosting

of the hair gently falling from a head old

as the wild western shore.

 

I can see my roar reflected

in the crash of the Atlantic,

in the dashing rage of wave on wave

...

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NaPoMoWri 2019

Cycle Haiku

 

Never cast a clout

while the cherry blossom’s out;

wait for confetti.

 

“It’s cracking the flags”.

A black and white hosepipe ban;

moonlight sprays the lawn.

 

Fires in the fall.                                                           

Dead leaves to feed tomorrow,

daily bread for all.

 

Walking on thin ice,

I have promises to keep.

Season of goodwi...

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NaPoMoWri 2019

Triptych

 

Things That Make My Throat Close Over

 

The radio: Sibelius.  Finlandia: the cello dread and brass intent of poems written afterwards, to tumble back before she left, for me to hold the hand and turn the cogs of my salty dog, bereft. I cannot listen without echoes.

 

The unexpected note my lover leaves me on the table, which I only see when he is far away.

 

The Grapes of Wr...

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NaPoMoWri 2019

Buzzword Bingo

Monday morning meeting.

We are gathered here together

to cultivate ideas for performance-based incentives,

and the hot potato pay gap that we didn’t know existed

when we settled on the salaries.

Honest.

 

So let’s talk benefits, with which to touch base on;

construct a presentation by the close of play today.

This pathetic sex pay gap will be smeared

by the media tomo...

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NaPoMoWri 2019

The Gift

 

To have grown without the grain of hate.

To sleep and want to wake before the school day starts.

To finally believe in happy endings, and beginnings,

and later, to know that it wasn't my fault.

To not be the crop she raised from kernel

to a raging field of fire, taking

half a span and passing to extinguish.

To not walk wanting, or wounded through the stubble,

smoke lyi...

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NaPoMoWri 2019

Sustenance Rap

Snakes go ape for mice and rats.

Dogs eat dirt and snaffled snacks.

Mice adore a fragrant cheese.

Flu likes humans, hens and seals.

Bats eat beetles, moths, mosquitoes.

Bees are nuts for nectar.

Rabbits gorge on grass and bran,

and dandelion dinners.

Maggots love marshmallows.

Dust mites munch on pillows.

Streptococcus hungers after meat or milk or fish.

Necrotizin...

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NaPoMoWri 2019

Song Sung Blue

 

Well I remember every little thing

as if it happened only yesterday

Parking by the lake and there was not another car in sight

And I never had a girl

Looking any better than you did

Remembering the first time, your pinstripe suit and Oxford knot, Dr Martens,

five foot two, and Paradise by the Dashboard Light, bellowed over tables stained

with too much wine at daft o’cloc...

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Napowrimo 2019

Incomplete

 

The years went blind.

I slumbered in a cage

containing recipes for melodies,

bent to bathe in plastic-wrapped

shiny-shoe approval.

A matte black horizon,

made bearable by you.

 

I decorated top-to-toe,

re-arranged the furniture so often

that a trip down to the toilet

was a broken bone in waiting.

Someone said it was symbolic

of a disconnected essence,   

...

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Napowrimo 2019

Once Upon a Time

 

On Sliabh Mis mountain, Foley’s Glen,

the Widow Scotia lies in wait;

incantations meld with mist

and twist in curl and bloom of cloud,

avowed to wreak revenge

on Celtic kings.                                                                                                              

 

Four hundred years before Our Lord,

belly-heavy, battle-torn,

the Pharaoh’s daug...

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Napowrimo 2019

Call and Response

 

If it was your son,

you’d want to know why.

Wouldn't you?

What was on his mind?

Could it be predicted?  

If he became the source of a statistic often quoted,

I think you’d want to know.

 

Or would you veer away?

Never ask yourself why

he reacted in that way.

Was it deliberate?

A choice?

Did you raise your voice too often

in his formative years,

or ...

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Napowrimo 2019

Recipe for Change

 

Take two over-ripe ovaries,

one worn womb,

five consecutive nights of broken sleep

and enough perspiration to make a brand new ocean.

Congratulations – you are now a topographical feature

(or a gatefold concept prog-rock album).

Perhaps you could call that ocean The Sea of WhatTheActualFuck,

or for a more formal, though wildly optimistic, nomenclature:

The Sea of Oppor...

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Napowrimo 2019

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