Poetry Blog by Rachel McGladdery

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Rachel McGladdery on Lorna (Tue, 25 Oct 2011 11:08 am)

Rachel McGladdery on Lorna (Tue, 25 Oct 2011 11:06 am)

Ann Foxglove on Lorna (Tue, 25 Oct 2011 10:02 am)

Rachel McGladdery on Lorna (Tue, 25 Oct 2011 09:52 am)

Greg Freeman on Lorna (Tue, 25 Oct 2011 07:56 am)

Isobel on Lorna (Mon, 24 Oct 2011 11:07 pm)

Graham Sherwood on The Hope Chest (Wed, 27 Apr 2011 09:00 pm)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on The Hope Chest (Wed, 27 Apr 2011 08:58 pm)

Isobel on The Hope Chest (Wed, 27 Apr 2011 03:56 pm)

Steve Regan on The Hope Chest (Wed, 27 Apr 2011 01:30 pm)

Lorna

 

It was a public madness:

comments not making sense, snow-flaking words on photos shared by friends of friends.

Oblique comments passed by lookers on. ‘WTF’s she on about?’ and ‘get her tole’ and passive vaguings mentioning getting better  for the kids.

 And I sit and mourn her while she lives. Watch it huge and vast.

Remembering my own lost year

and feel a little anxio...

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The Hope Chest

 The lid is fast,

grimed with dust and age

polish and grease.

If I could open it,

Hope would fly free,

in an exhaled sigh of moths and grit.

It would catch the throat with incense.

Beeswax breath.

So I content myself with tracing round the carvings,

place my fingers where the brailled blind once did

sit with itchy legs on cut moquette

swing them

d...

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Gypsy Nanna King

 A prettiness that was plain beauty

till the flowering season wilted.

But it didn’t matter

that your skin grew parched

and stretched and tanned

and pounced and quilted

by the sunray pleat of wrinkles.

If there was room for flounces or a gem

a turn of lace, a froth of sequinned flair

a dotting of French knots on

skin, a surface brown and bare,

for a sp...

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Summer of Love

  a flashback

sun splattering us in technicolour,

stained with light

cheekbones aching,

currents thrumming

migraine hue at the edges

hearts beat faster

minds and eyes pinpoint

to infinite acuity

heads swell with

chests strain from

and laugh

Steps slapping

rhyming

heads back and

smiling.

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Drugslightlovesummer

Snow at Solstice

 We are snug blanketed under a layer, thick and soft

the wreck of the garden beautified by it

the rooves insulated

gate iron curlicued

thickened in outline

 a stuttering blurred underlining

snow font.

Walking and feeling the tense squeak

unfamiliar gait to ache our thighs

we are un-gendered,

muffled, pillowed

crack of face, eyes skenning

comfort o...

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bloody freezingcolddarkseasonal affective disordersnow

Heartbreaker

I saw her heart break yesterday

the watchful face of late

eyes upturned

smile that had only known sunshine

and said in words

careful and rounded

the news that he would not be coming home

and saw

the instant

stop-release claymation

trembling of the tiny chin

the mouth turned square and agonised

in an eternal instant of distress

I heard the clic...

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break upChildrenrelationships

Why?

Why?

 When we’ve spent the night separately, each seething in our cold sheets

and when this morning has been vitriol splashed and unthinkables thought

when a friend or two has been informed

though not the kids yet,

is it so damned hard to save the change?

The finality, blunt and electronic of:

 your relationship will be cancelled when you press SAVE.

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Death Throes

The death throes are the most painful,

agonal breaths uttered over coffee,

silence filled with quiet recrimination and the ticking clock,

step sitting, eyes distant,

gazing at the horizon. Cold.

Chests suffused with unsaid words

head filled with unsaid thoughts,

eyes with standing water.

Heart leaping at the possibility of reprieve.

Death is dragging her heel...

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Biting The Bullet

 

 

Bleached out happy snaps

in seventies colours

kids in swimsuits a truer red

scanned, seen

heartstrings tugged

another cigarette

an empty glass

thin film of wine grains stuck

picked up,

swished fruitlessly

put down again.

Fingers tremulously tap

delete, tap, delete

finger hovering over

should I?

Wine making bolder

a dark...

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Self Indulgence.

Ah, I can’t force tears

I have my own to get on with

shouldering it,

looking back resentful

and dragging it with me still.

My pack,

loaded with skins and burnt out bodies

reeking of sin.

It’s mine

I can own the shame

the neon phallus, the drink,

the scars on my fat white wrists.

It lingers in my insecurity

my displacement

the worry I will ...

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Jelly Babies

We braved the wasps and nettles,

feet fearing the moist scrabble of tiny frogs

and came home

Twice

with bags of dripping berries.

Elicited nods from sweet old ladies

and questions of recipes.

Oh I scored points for making jam not pies.

To see my babies lined up

neatly labelled

little bonnets

crisp.

To see the sun slant through the ruby

and fee...

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blackberriesburnt fingersdomesticityjamkidsruined pans

Victoriana

 In the drab walled room in the attic

I peer from the spotted mirror

in the cavernous dressing table.

Ochre lit.

Out of the sooty window

the ice of muslin flapping wetly

the street  all oil cloth and patent roofs

I am corset bound and flesh-pinched

white and soft above and below

all singed curls and droppered earrings,

peeping coyly

hiding the disease...

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Curing Poetry

 

Curing poetry is an inexact science

not quite an art neither.

The men and women tut and nod

at what I have to say

they feign their interest

and scribble things I cannot see

I think they think I think too much

and I think that they are right

they give me pills to numb .

I think it’s working.

Words that wracked me a month ago

now barely leave a di...

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Ceci n'est pas une poeme...

Apologies Francine for my dreadful French but I have a little announcement:

 This afternoon at 3pm I will be plugging Wordsoup and it's 1st birthday party (tuesday 20th at the Continental) as I have a poem to be published in it's upcoming anthology, I will hopefully (amid my inane chattering and nervous giggling and dreadful faux-pas) get the chance to read a poem too..

 If you want to ...

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Lucy

When you,

my darling of three spring times

climb in with me, in the morning early

when woke from dreaming or from birdies chorus

And I fold you into me.

 The coldest parts of you,

though torture to my sleep warm flesh,

 I suffer gladly

to make you warm again.

 Your frozen feet allowed to

kick into my doughy tum

your hands, reach for my armpits

 th...

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Up The Tops

entry picture

 

 

The dints of last week’s walk

still scar the turf

a white scratch

which raised sparks

last Sunday

a scrape, a scuff of ill planned heel

on rock.

The frog had gone,

an obscenity of frogspawn in it’s place

gazing blandly up

with a thousand jelly eyes.

The hare

was still there

the long thigh bones

the scraps of fur

an eye, bla...

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Remembering The Scharnhorst

entry picture

 

 

The sunken, frosted chest that once hung meat

weighed down with metal on Remembrance Day

frail tortoise necked and rheumy eyed

he couldn’t watch the

Sea Cadets Band,

couldn’t

watch the Jacks

lollipopping on the Glockenspiel

 faint tash

and cocky eyes

white gaiters flashing

 

without nodding back the tears remembrance brings

“They w...

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Claustrophobia

entry picture

Claustrophobia

 

 

These lies and half truths

build a wall more concrete

than breezeblocks,

redder than Accrington brick.

If I were to pound them with my futile fists

I’d bleed sooner.

So I don’t

but half asleep

watch them build

brick on brick,

lie on lie,

till I can’t breathe.

Will Ivy ever grow between the cracks

(smaller than th...

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First Communion Day

An early morning bath.

 Sluiced and powdered,

hair in rags the night before.

And  don’t you DARE get them wet.

Shimmying on stiff white petticoats,

ankle socks smelling of sunlight,

new shoes for the occasion,

pearlised to match the missal and the rosary.

Then the crowning moment,

everybody holds their breath as the dress is lifted from it’s vinyl shroud.

...

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I have seen Elvis in my mirror...

I have seen Elvis in my mirror.

Not the blue-black-haired sexy Elvis:

piercing eyes, taut skin reflecting the neon of a setting southern sun,

but the other one.

 

Fat, pig jowled.

cheeks like slabs of something dead.

Eyes like fish,

surprised to be set in something quite so bloated.

Left in a jar too long.

 

 My lips hang loose

as if too tired to ...

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Elvis

Protection Poem

Oh but I would hold you all

coiled warm like viscera

in the dark of my gut

 

but

 

oh but I would tie you up

all of you hobbled by prayer

tight roped bound to me

to keep you safe from death and life

 

but

 

oh but I would hold your

sleep flushed heads and

sweaty hair,

down on my ample thighs

and shield your eyes from the bad th...

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Children

Poppy - Columbine - Tortola.

entry picture

Vinyl bright, wipe-clean tea cloths of names,

women in technicolour dresses,

arms soft and round and brown,

a basketful of fruit for you,

a promise in a full red lip and white, wet teeth.

 

Oh how mis-named

for seal grey bullets

smaller than a trawler.

Like tiny things

upon a board of battleships.

Just 2 squares,

just 2 co-ordinates

and you'd ...

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Death Comes To Fleetwood

Scraped by the sloughing of the Irish sea.
Subtracting at every withdrawal
more of the life,
encasing each grain of sand,
it takes away the land.
Winding wind,
lifting in each updraught,
in tiny increments
a dust,
a black bag.
A fragment of the breath.
Winnowing away across the grey water
sweeping over coastline,
...

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Ronan Kitting

In response to Deborah Jordan's beautiful poem.

 

 

She's smart is Ronan

in more ways than one.

Not only can she open a door with one

hooked claw

and sit on Chris's bladder

to rouse him from sleep

far more ably than I.

But she's beautiful too-

in the Felix Mode

But her black is deep polish

and her white,

that of the

chalk the big bad w...

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My Dead Dad

 

 

Tracks all covered with a  flourish

He’d prepared, deliberated

Took a trifle dish on Friday

With a promise of it Monday

That was that.

 

Knowing well that in the meantime

I would not expect to see him,

Knew his time frame int-i-mately

Knew I’d wonder at the trifle

And not him.

 

Instead I invented reasons

For the making of a puddin...

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Dead Language.

Boa Sr.

I cannot speak to you.

You cannot hear my words.

You are there.

Even in this bright sun I can see your shape and

I can smell you child.

I may thirst.

I may need embraces.

Look at my eyes,

they do not work as windows,

the skin has grown over

but they can still serve as

messengers.

See, if I furrow here

And pull my cheeks towards the...

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For You.

You move like Mowgli,

my jungli,

my wild girl.

Leapfrogger of bollards,

wall clamberer,

runner with your school socks

falling down.

Don't change

yet,

Oh writer of tiny most miniature love notes

to your friends

and me.

Don't stop singing,

in your nasal way, off key,

the narration of your life

when you think that no-one's listening.

...

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Man Overboard

After laughter

ribbing over The Golden Rivet

and who was Blossom giving it to tonight?

A sudden screech

and thirty sunbrowned arms

shielding Pale Northern Eyes

from the burning sun.

And sommat's comin'

Sommat's comin'

kicking the fanny over

sluice with soapy bubble of

rum and oil and water.

And man the fuckin' gun Tom.

Man the fuckin' gun.

...

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They Can Be Polished

 

 

It was exquisite,

A satin finish

Like lightly oiled plasticine

Not quite gloss

Just enough lubrication

To leave a fraction of friction

So the frisson

Of it’s exit was palpable

Turd doesn’t cover it.

A light tan,

And tapered towards the end-

Natural

Not snapped off

Before it’s time.

It smelt of Indian

But merely a hint

T...

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House Porn

Another deviation from the norm for me. Slightly silly and if anyone can help me slip in the word fellatio I'd be ever so grateful! By the way I'm gonna pronounce patio as Payshio I think! Be brutal, it's character building for me!

House Porn (written while watching Grand Designs.....Mmmmm)

I watch the house porn
Get Real Wet
For the cathedral ceilinged kitchen neat
Groaning, moaning ...

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Darling Sweatheart

This is a deviation from the norm for me. This year, one of my resolutions was to attempt writing in different styles. This is an attempt at rhyme. Don't think it sticks very rigidly to the pattern, but it's an experiment. I think it's a little clumsy personally, hmmm....need practice! Any advice much welcomed.

The subject matter is real life, my late granddad sent home letters to my grandma when...

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Snow

 (a very silly poem about snow )

 

Craning to see into the grey dizzying flakes,
Crazy swirling, grey on white
It won't settle
I want to shout
To stop the suicidal descent.
"It's wet
the ground is wet".
Oh what a waste
How full the sky is, never ending
Blinding hurting to see
But doomed, each one to end as
a grey slush cadaver
then melt,
gurgling murderously down the flood drai...

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rejection

I couch myself, crouched arse out, towards you,
Smooth and perfumed, polished clean.
Your eyes should travel down my back, flared like a cello at the hip.
Down the length, white and shining of my legs
To the shiny red heels.
See the contrast, white and soft, warm dimpled
And the shiny, brittle, violent, vinyl shine.
Ohh, that you would be the hard to my soft
Tense to my dimpled
Taut to ...

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Little Clock

Her eyes fast forward through the scenes she's played.

A warm and milk rimmed baby boy, sleep slack against her shoulder as she hefts him for a burp.

A sturdy legged toddler kicking round a ball, skenning against the sun

A leggy youth awkward in his best shirt smiling, shoulder shelfing on his mum,

A son to grow, to outgrow her.

All halted like the stopping of a little clock.

She shyl...

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Stockings

 Not of the Christmas variety though....

 

 

 

The feel and the scent.
Stretching
the fabric over my fingerends.blunt.
It makes softer
it blurs out any flaw or indiscretion
it smooths and glistens.
A striptease in reverse
I unfold my leg to the pointed toe
and roll it on up in a sinuous embrace.
 The business end, pulling taut the sticky rubber button and dressing it in nylon and cl...

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Sunrise Over England

entry picture
 Under the expansive sky, night blind as yet,
But soon to blossom;
A ribbon of molten light begins to boil
And light up cloud
It spreads it's fingers wide
And Peek-a-boos
At bolts of trees that took a run up to a field and stopped to rest
Where bodiced and be-ribboned
Couples courted
Ruddy faced
Sipped cider
Kissed with freckles
 
The motorway slides by
with a hiss.

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Where the Wind Sweeps Down To The Sea

 A skeleton structure, whipped gritty and wind bitten.
I'm running, thudding, water rushing in to rinse the dint.
Salt rush, water brash,
grey sand in horizontal flight.
 
The gull stalks sand in a parody of tap
orange stick legs and a sudden splash
of White
against that breast of grey,
that soft bubble of pearl,
The biggest sky you ever saw.
 
I am caught in a shining net strewn,
I...

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