Precious (“Oh, so you’re a poet…?”)

Precious

Of course some will say
I doth protest in excess
when I swear it’s all fiction.
Pursed lips, they know best.

They scramble my words,
seek out soap opera plots,
Jeremy Kyle dilemmas,
confessional therapy.
“I knew her when she…”
Did they? Maybe.
Not necessarily.

Dissolve these pages
in boiling water, then pour
me out. Read me mystical
like tea-leaves, wherever
my scalded ink falls.

Add a prayer or a mantra,
a dictionary, a birthday card,
faded, from ten years past.
Proof of authenticity.
Ownership.

The hotline to my innards.
They insinuate fingers,
hungry between my lines.
Shuffle my Scrabble tiles
to make the highest score.

And that’s their right,
even if factually wrong.
I’ve put this out on my step.
It’s for whoever. I won’t exclude
anyone who chooses to read it.
Free will. But I will not approve

selected interpretations.
Our views are our own.
Words, they’re all borrowed.
These are not precious to me:
there is simply no need.

 

And after a poem which (to me) expresses a view on how at times we all look for hidden “ins” to our favourite artists and writers (I have done this – I don’t take any moral high ground here), I had to include this track, not least for the wonderful line “I don’t care what you think, as long as it’s about me”…. I do love a lyricist with a well-developed sense of irony!

 

Moseley Cat (And a bit of The Cure!)

Moseley Cat

It’s always bin day in Moseley.
Black bags – never seen wheelies.
And there’s this cat, mostly white,
a grey ear and a few smudges.

He’s eternally on the wander,
like a feline glitch in the Matrix.
He mooches, lazy curls and purrs,
in the centre of the road. Residential,
but still, he courts those reversing.

“Here kitty, you’ll get squished.”
And he gives me that look. Tail up.
If you know cats then you’ll know it.

 

 
Recently I’ve been going to a monthly writers’ workshop in Moseley, Birmingham. The workshop always happens on a Wednesday, which seems to be bin day in those parts – so really, I know that it’s not always bin day in Moseley, but it is when I’m there! So no disrespect to the denizens of the suburb whatsoever!

 

And because the poem has a cat in it, here’s possibly my favourite ever song involving cats! Enjoy!

 

 

Nothing Heavy

Nothing Heavy

You said we’d go somewhere nice.
Wanted to treat me like “a lady”.
I thought I already was: regardless

of your chosen venue. The mood
lighting and soft furnishings. Here
they have particular linen napkins
and staff who smile at your face:
seemingly genuine, not weaselish.
I hope they’re paid something more
than minimum wage for that alone,
though I catch your inward “Ouch!”
at the wine list prices. Pinot grigio

at over a fiver a glass. Dry lipped,
I glug: here now, might as well.
Just a light lunch – nothing heavy.
A crinkled wink as you tell me that.
And so we dither, politely ponder,
for want of any conversation.
Whatsoever. I chase down
our allotted olives: they squirm
from the cocktail stick, ‘til I pierce
their gloss-oiled skins. You watch
the clock and my chest as I stab.

A waitress gleams in, bleached teeth
What would I like? You suck in your gut.
Her eyebrows are plucked incredulous.
She must draw them in. Or always
look slightly surprised. And like to.
I might get mine done the same,
to at least make people think, a bit.
I don’t think you’d like it. Yes, good.

Around us, people eat, consume.
Gorge. Huffing their rancid out-breaths.
Wipe their chins. Tear crafted breads,
drool continental cheeses I can’t spell.
Slaps of flopping red meat flap rustic
with veins of lard – streaky, organic.
I think of old cows’ tongues that loll
and dribble, grassy-gas belches.
Green stains, manure, lazy flies.
I don’t want anything with pesto.
And when did you loosen your tie?

There are more tables outside
for the smokers, now exiled
and fenced off, quite cheerfully,
by law. Main road out of town,
hardly European café culture.
More splitting grey concrete,
bird shit and cracked tarmac.
Buses. Supermarket lorries.
Grubby black cabs. Exhausts,
congestion, schoolkids skiving.
I’ve never smoked. Never felt
the allure. Your hand delves
under the table and, right now,
I’m craving forty a day. Escape.

Cloud Cover

Cloud Cover

You descended at dawn, initially as mist.
Wound round me, slowly. Didn’t see at first.
I wandered barefoot through you.

Muted treads on a sprung forest floor.
I gulped in your cool: a dewy decongestant.
Everything blurred. What I saw, what I heard,

who I was. Didn’t question the whited wonder.
My fingers lace-splayed before my face.
No hang-nails. No ragged edges.

Nothing moves too quickly anymore.
The racket outside is muffled low.
Cotton wool cushions. Absorbs.

You thumb the dial, unseen: darkening
the sky, squeezing the atmosphere.
Inching us nearer to storm pressure.

 

Soft-Muzzled

Soft-Muzzled

Her mouth is tongue-full.
So many words and teeth.
and nothing at all useful.

Her head is over-stuffed
with ifs, maybes and buts.
One day she just might.

Her hands are trussed
with invisible silly string.
Taught-stretch insecurity.

Her chest is wound tight.
Jumping round a lamppost,
muzzled. Going nowhere.

The Hardest Word

—————————————————————————————————–

The Hardest Word

“We hurt the ones we love the most,” she mumbles.
An alleged joke. Sidles a coffee mug onto my desk.
Two custard creams. Outside the rain’s come on
again. Heavy. Battering down her tulips. Snapping
their stems. Both her hands grasp the doorframe
like she might fall, a crumple of jeans and jumper
for me to kick out of the way. But she foot-to-foots.
Can’t put both soles to the floor. A comical dance
(if today wasn’t so far from laughter), her jigging
on the spot, a pantomime of really needing a wee.
I can’t look at her: the blur reflected in the laptop
is enough. And her cried-out sniff. So persistent.
Get a tissue. Memory’s pollyfilla pastes the gaps
so I can view it all in widescreen 3D. Everything:
performance aimed at me. That sob-cracked mouth
doesn’t ever say she’s sorry. This time, neither will I.

 

Saucy Pudding

Ok, so this is in complete contrast to my earlier post today, as it’s very much a “silly” poem… for those playful moments…

 

Saucy Pudding

Are you a chocolate mousse
with a sensual hidden centre?
Will you dribble down my chin
and drip your sin a little lower?

Or are you really a horny moose
with bad breath and a hairy arse?
Snorting and flatulent. You stink
and claim it’s nature’s erotic musk.

I’ll play safe with actual chocolate
puds. No need to fudge the issue.
Won’t suck your saucy metaphors.
Tell you where to stick your spoon.

Real Cut Flowers

————————————————————————————————————-

 

Real Cut Flowers

Cut flowers. They’re dead.
He sends them. It’s simple.
I take them. Say thank you.

Put them in a vase. Water.
Proud in a sunny window.
Corpse laid out for viewing.

Look how deeply he loves.
He spent fifty quid on these.
A tip and a wink for the girl

in the florist’s, with the nifty,
quick fingers. She blushes.
She’s only young. Envies

me: the ideal me, air-brushed
serene. The handsome man
in the suit, with his cheek,

who treats me like a queen.
she sighs. Shakes her head.
“One day…” Knocks off work.

In the pub later with her mates.
Two halves of giggly cider down.
The barman slips her free crisps.

The flowers are cut. Dead.
They’re still crowing at midnight,
showing off in my black window.

Dead flowers. Quiet house.
He’s out. A guilty blessing.
I take it. Say thank you.

 

Bus Station Reaper (a semi-true story…)

Bus Station Reaper

One of those startled May mornings,
spring just about catching on to herself.
He’s stuck inside by a cardboard stand.
Top of the creaky bus station escalators.
Superdrug and the fruit and veg place,
the one that’s not been there for years.

Upright sentinel – bold man in black.
But not Will Smith or Johnny Cash.
Smile on loan from the Cheshire Cat.
Palms clasped, cuffs peeping pristine.
Suitably suited and booted. I don’t
buy it – whatever it is he’s selling.

I swerve an eyes-down panic-zag
through tired formica tables spilling
like ingrained tea-stains from the café.
Fumble my bags, my phone, look busy.
“No thank you” poised on my tongue.
He’s got broad shoulders – can’t help

but notice. And that smile, Cheshire,
but not cheesy. Still Cheshire-ing me.
Like he knows things. Really sees me.
Cynicism slips: I glance, snag his eye.
“Funeral Plans – will you rest assured?”
He winks. I remember I am very late.

 

FTW Poets Against ATOS – and they’ve taken two of my poems!

Regular readers may remember earlier this month I posted about Fit To Work: Poets Against ATOS, a campaign to protest about unfair “benefit reform” in the UK. The site is going great guns and has over the past month amassed a considerable amount of wonderful, thought-provoking poetry. There is also a section of related links and factual polemic pieces, which make for interesting reading, especially if you or someone you know is affected by any of these issues.

Today I’m extremely proud to announce that I have two poems published on FTW: “Diversity” and “She Wants”. I feel honoured to have my work featured amongst such amazing poets. I would urge anyone even mildly curious to take a browse round the site – it’s not just for disabled people…

Here’s a link to my poems, but like I say, delving further than that will prove reading-time well-spent…

http://ftwpoetsagainstatos.wordpress.com/category/magill-holly/

In the meantime, here’s a little abstract doodle that seems appropriate to include with the above… It might sound Orwellian, but this is sadly often a true representation of experiences…

As always, thank you for reading.

Holly

 

 
Assessment

Procedures: to assess your
work (you have no) options.
Fall (often, actually) into line.

Ticking on-screen (get in your) boxes.
Pre-instructed (they have no) choice.
Westminster-prescribed responses.

Quality (what’s that?) of life.
Dis-(permitted no)-ability.
Read the (you see no) signs.

In your best (they have no) interest.
There by the (you’re allowed no) grace.
Doing you (you ask no) favours.