I work in mental health and write poetry for enjoyment, therapy and to share in open mic settings. I have never been published, but have ambitions to do so. In 2005 I co-hosted (with my son Martin) an open mic night called ILL--Literature held in Manchester at both the Briton's Protection (BP) and The Hare and Hounds Pub. We were inspired by a poet called Conor Aylward who was running Perverse at the BP, prior to our night becoming established.. I like to vary my style of writing, experimenting between rhyming schemes and free verse. In 2005 I completed a short creative writing course, and recently (Oct 07) spent a week away on an Arvon writing course with tutors Neil Rollinson and Leanne O' Sullivan. (Highly recommended).
Lightness It was all black and bleakness until the Greek man boarded, he must have been twenty five stone plus. My friend and I helped him with his suitcase as he wrestled with his breath. Armed with three common words we rattled through a thunderstorm borne from Greek gods, light and vibrations imagined from the starting point of life. ‘Yassou’ I opened breaking the ice, and he replied by opening up his case. A generous beast, he shared with us a feast of the finest greek cheeses of all smells and colours, cutting the slivers delicately with his pre-packed knife, mediterranean cakes, that snaked down the gullet, strange tasting cooked meats, followed by glacial sweets, and cool lakes of Retsina. Each piece described in his native tongue. From Lamia to Athens we buffeted along for five hours into long deep tunnels, through the throat of a foreign terrain, while Greek food soothed the sky. We arrived at the capital full of new words that were flashing of the Greek man’s tongue, as I laid down his suitcase, Lightness fell upon us. Grammatical Errors Placed on a section and pressed between these four walls, wrote off and unpunctuated and covered in black and blue. From waged hands I’m carelessly portrayed disrespected and stamped with dark brown coffee stains. A trademark that left a bad taste I manifest on the page as a question mark hooked and hanging, like the misplaced apostrophes; I’ve lost my sense of belonging. The voices have gone now replaced by the scratching of cheap pens scrawling into my brain. My only release from the pain; the paper cuts. So I while away the day playing games of scrabble an escape, making links throwing tiles and drinking tea from unshared mugs that divide us. But all I can see are grammatical errors, daubed with double negatives that change angles and perspectives. Time shifts with the misuse of tense And in between there’s talk of independence, but all that hits me are the coffee stains, and the 28-foot high green fences, labelled filed and still, waiting for the full stop at the end of my sentence.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
The Key (02/12/2007)
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