Poetry Blog by Laura Taylor (2016)
Wednesday 21st December 2016 1:19 pm
A penchant for pain and a lack of remorse
marked you out as a 'mental case'.
Dog chains for fights, cock of the town;
you shared a room with your mother
until your brother died.
In every cup of Stephen's tea
spat bubbles of your hate.
Lock-knives launched into the fields,
between/beside our legs;
endless games of chicken.
Your legendary enmity emptied e...
Wednesday 14th December 2016 9:21 am
This is a road with no name.
A road that leads to
war / peace / love / hate / escape / return / home.*
Repositioned, reframed, retold;
a road without a name can lead to
anywhere / everywhere.*
Scenes unfold in simultaneous motion
as the foot, the wheel, the eye, the mind*
ride this road
in parallel / sequence.*
Represented, recorded, reordered;
Wednesday 7th December 2016 10:13 am
It’s just locker room.
It’s just talk.
It’s just locker room talk.
Locker room mocking.
It’s just locker room banter.
Locker room assault.
It’s just locker room misogyny.
Locker room rape.
It’s just locker room rape.
It’s just rape.
It’s just misogyny.
Nobody has more respect for women than I do.
Wednesday 12th October 2016 1:44 pm
The kitchen table’s nice and neat.
No tea stains, ash or traces.
No paper strewn.
The bed is huge.
My legs have room to stretch.
The dishes few, the bathroom clean,
no hair or splash or mess.
No rhapsody or midnight kiss.
The nights are wiped of snore and twitch
but I can’t sleep
and all I feel is mirrored in the order:
and cleft an...
Tuesday 4th October 2016 10:24 am
Brring brring… brring brring…
“This call is being recorded for training purposes”
and Christ you hate that fucking thing.
You speak for 7, 8, 9, 10, however many hours,
losing faith in all humanity with every mardy customer.
Explain to re-explain to re-re-re-explain again,
no deviation from the script,
and you can only tell me this, no more, no less,
this call’s ...
Monday 5th September 2016 9:57 am
Thursday 28th July 2016 11:46 am
We went out of season, so it was cheap.
I wanted to explore the caves
where, I’d heard, people actually lived.
Imagine, living in caves.
I wanted to hire a car, drive the length of the island,
touch each tip of it with my Northern English fingers
and taste Balearic boundaries;
take home a token pebble
to remember ephemeral freedoms.
Thursday 16th June 2016 1:43 pm
With reference to your letter dated blah blah blah
about insufferable nuisance in your local public park.
The one about dogs.
Big dogs, little dogs, fluffy dogs, scruffy dogs,
running dogs, spitty dogs, dogs off leads (dogs on leads).
I believe you when you say you feel threatened.
Plus, no one likes to step into a poo.
And with reference to your letter dated blah bl...
Wednesday 11th May 2016 1:42 pm
Crisp within her vase,
dead red roses on display;
fragile in the light.
Lack of sickly scent.
Seeing beauty in decay;
Look but do not touch,
your fingers are forbidden;
petals turn to dust.
delighting in senescence;
ring of rosy death.
Wednesday 20th April 2016 2:40 pm
A sea of faces
staring blankly in the dark;
will a haiku work?
I open my mouth,
so do the folk at the back;
my words drown in theirs.
I cannot punch them.
What would Ivor Cutler do?
I wither with verse,
begin to shriek down the mic;
they match my ascent.
What would Ale...
Friday 8th April 2016 1:53 pm
It was Dante’s cat that caused it;
ignored by Alighieri, busy with an epic,
he trod on vellum, got chucked off,
then grinning like a witless fool,
played a game with candle flames,
balloons, and unattended tails.
The smell of burning fur
and fear shat across the room!
The door to Hell now battered down
by four demented paws of doom.
Friday 1st April 2016 1:12 pm
Whatever happened to those noble mountain men,
darlings of the media,
Ronnie’s holy warriors,
freedom fighters, locked
and benevolently loaded?
And do monumental errors
have a domino effect
in a land where the one eyed man is king?
And who are these dirty radicals
where did they get Kalashnikovs
and did they pay in dollars?
Thursday 24th March 2016 12:38 pm
I’d go for something by Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass
to start with, as folk filtered in;
set some off sniggering.
Then Jammy Smears, in full.
Ivor would have loved that,
gleefully noting the increasing unease
that imbued the occasion;
sobriety lost to a rousing ensemble version
of Squeeze Bees.
For those wishing to observe traditional reverence,
Tuesday 8th March 2016 9:11 am
(This is a re-post of a series of five interconnecting poems, previously blogged as separate poems. The death of my mother last year was preceded by hearing the tone poem Finlandia, by Jean Sibelius, on the radio, and it so completely described how I was feeling that it took me over, and informs the whole series.
As a big nod to Sibelius, I decided to use a loosely-based symphonic structure, so...
Tuesday 26th January 2016 2:32 pm