Tuesday, 24 February 2015

Friday, 20 February 2015

A Poem For Today | 10

Above all else,
it is about leaving a
mark that I existed:

I was here.
I was defeated.
I was happy.
I was sad.
I was in love.
I was afraid.
I was hopeful.

I had an idea and
I had good purpose.
And that's why
I made works of art.

- Félix Gonzàlez-Torres

Tuesday, 17 February 2015


I've disregarded the idea of a physical home in the last year. It's a notion. One not too dissimilar to love.
I have swayed back and forth between fighting the restlessness my bones absorb and keeping my roots intact. 

It's risky business.

I don't own much. Sure, I have things, have been gifted a lot. Lent this and borrowed that. But little is mine.
This sits well.
I have many notebooks to my name and years. Some bought purely for their pretty covers, ribbon bookmarks and soft leather feel. 

One, I keep close.
I am never far from.
Not tattered how most adored possessions become. It's pristine; almost brand new.

Handed to me a little after the clouds rolled in. And that's the risk. You can't always predict a storm.

I'll write about the storm one day. That's what I do. I open my stories to close them again. To nod a familiar "Hello" and wave a final "Goodbye".
I will write, in detail, with love and sorrow, of the hurricanes that have grasped me. I'll explain that it was hard, but that I wouldn't undo it. I will remind myself that I would never redo, reword, rethink - not for a second.

Too much light has come from my darkness. 

A physical home. The same front door, fridge, worn in carpet, body dented bed will never be my home.
I've taken refuge in my head. In other's front doors and worn in carpets. My home is the warming smell of a different linen powder, a fridge with eggs on the top shelf instead of the bottom.

To allow myself the sentiment of anything more would be to destroy all that I do not already own.

I'll write it all eventually. But not tonight.

Tonight, I will listen to soft jazz with a glass of wine. I will count the hours until I start work. I'll draw a few faces, scribble a few thoughts.
Tonight I will talk of how I came to this home through another's choice. I'll talk of how the furniture belongs to the bricks and that I am in debt to the walls. The walls that stood strong through my hurricane.

I let go of the idea of home. And here I am, home. Waking early most days.

This isn't what I dream of, but my, it's good.
Odd and disjointed, but so very comforting.

Sunday, 15 February 2015

Saturday, 7 February 2015

Wednesday, 4 February 2015

On Love

I'm not sure what love is.

I've never been sure, but I think it's hearing her say "You're an asshole", while her smile betrays the words just uttered.
It's a small child wearing a vest, shirt and jumper; simply because its mother is cold.

I think love is having two apples. A crisp, juicy one and a soft, bruised one. From that, it's offering the better to her.
It's sharing a clementine. A segment for you, two for her.

It's looking at her, like that. With those eyes and that smile.

Love, I believe, is the gentle hand that reaches for you at three in the morning after you've gotten up to use the bathroom.

The message you receive when you arrive ten minutes later than usual, "Are you home and safe?"

I trust it to be everything that goes unsaid. It's incandescent and organic. Mesmerising.
Yours. Mine. Ours. To share.
A yearning for what was and what will be.

I'm not sure what love is, but it just might be magic.

Monday, 2 February 2015


The words come quickly when things get hard. Maybe it's because the thoughts appear more extreme, more defined. And the last few days of January hit me with a sour note of melancholy. Defined melancholy.

The bigger picture got lost somewhere between bouts of disappointment and upset. Truth be told, it's still a little lost as I write this.
I saw only what was right in front me; a lack of this, a broken that, an empty mind and a loss of balance.

Imagine the annoyance you feel when your headphones tangle in your pocket. Forget that. Now, imagine what they look when they become tangled. That ball of knotted wire has been nesting in my head, stomach and hands for the most part of the last week.
It's confused me. It's hurt me. I've seen no sense and been a lymphatic so-and-so.
I couldn't see what was right in front of me.

I forgot to see that in a few weeks this won't matter, in a few weeks I'll have a few days away from full-frontal mayhem. I forgot that the next few days, perhaps, won't be as hard.

I forgot to see that in a few weeks this won't matter.

In a few weeks, this won't matter.

This won't matter.

It's the end of the world, sure, but it won't be forever.

Sunday, 1 February 2015

Dear February...

You are short and delicate. An escape month. Like a new island you glisten with the commotion that life is possible. Sweet smelling and ravishing with natural delight.

Bring me anticipated hope and gentle belonging. Show me enough gusto to see you through.
Show me your fury and I'll stand stable.

Flow well and thorough. Busy, but able.

Flirt with the notion that you are more than March; resilient and vigourous.

Dance fast. Run fast. Think fast. But please, be gracious and show a loud silence, a vacant presence. 

Just be, February.