Permission To Shimmy

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Permission To Shimmy

Us women, we just don’t
splurge: let it all hang out.
Ever. We don’t permit it.

We suck ourselves in flat.
Squeeze, tighten and tuck.
We hold still, firmly squish it.

Concrete set with lycra.
Control pants as standard.
Corsetry and constriction.

Restrict. Clench. Cramp.
Strap it down. Minimise.
Don’t jiggle. We crave

an invisibility of hips.
No muffin-tummy flop.
Shrink ourselves mute.

Cheeks without wobble.
Bottom or face. A smile
mustn’t bulge. We won’t.

Yet, a waist that wiggles,
writhes, plays and curls,
is unapologetically us.

Yes, I’m swayed to sway.
Just a wee bit. Baby steps.
Feet I’m accustomed to

thinking of both as left.
Rules we pin our limbs with.
Binding down our self-esteem.

I maybe want to stretch things.
To dip and twirl and spin. Give
myself – permission to shimmy.

 

 

Falling In Spring

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Falling In Spring

Blossom lying in dirty gutters.
So many clunky metaphors:
tragi-innocence-trampled-beauty;
delicate and new – then she fell;
too fragile to bloom here for long;
kicked to wither in litter and mud.

We mourn the sweet-petalled.
Leak tears to sluice them clean
for cosy graves we will not dig.
We’d rather rest them nearby.
To calcify their whiteness.
Preserve and save and keep.

Our frail heroines. Their eyes
know slow wishing-well drownings.
Weak lungs and shallow breaths.
Tentative fingers, sighing tremors.
We will pull them still closer in
like wet tubercular handkerchiefs.

These library-famed Cinderellas.
Gothic-pure deposed princesses:
they are easily spotted. Snared.
Disintegrating in Havisham’s lace.
We have a craving they can slake.
Sniff them out to grant sanctuary.

Would we bother with them at all
if we couldn’t crush them dead
under quick boots? If the blossom
did not drift and fall, would we
feel we had any right to catch?
If they weren’t so sad and pretty?

Window Dressing

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Window Dressing

One day the rail simply breaks,
snaps under the weight and years
of his constant tugging. She falls,
grateful, to scuffed bedroom carpet.

A puddle of voile, tired and frayed,
dusty, outdated and disintegrating.
Rushed fingers always twitching her.
Dishevelled, picked at, unravelling.

A breeze ruffles in. She settles,
pools her wrinkles in pink relief.
Now it’s not her job anymore.
She’s done her time, billowing

her prettiness, wifting and wafting.
A muting translucence. Distracting.
Diffusing more than mere daylight.
Murky weekday afternoon infractions.

Red bras bought by other husbands.
No white thighs seen from outside.
Only she was permitted to observe,
unwilling voyeur, his closed mouth,

body like repulsion, twisting away,
when they came. Or pretended to.
She framed his scenes, illuminated
in blush-rose and fuzzy flesh-tones.

Wove envy from an outside view.
Sock-strewn floor unseen. Illicit.
Complicit. She drew her veil across
all these things: discreet to his need.

Someone’s laddered tights sagging
bedraggled ankle-noose knots
from his bedposts. Empty bottles.
Fun cobwebbing to half-dreams.

Blood fades that little bit paler
with each dilution. She sluiced
against her “dry clean only” label.
Against her nature. Washed away

the watching. She breathed out calm,
fluttered a soothe in silence. In and out.
Up and down. In and out. Up and down.
Hyperventilate. She knew his rhythms,

tired requirements. Sex and violence.
Did his bidding. She was strung up
for this. She was window dressing.
Now she’s glad to be freed to scrap.

Getting Ahead Of The Full Moon

It’s not full moon until Wednesday 27th but I’m getting a head start….

 

The Moon On Being Full

Yes, ok, so I’m a bit bloated tonight.
It’s that time of the month, alright.
Do you really have to be so rude?
Half of you get exactly the same
every twenty-eight or so days.
Is your memory so very short?

Anyway, do I comment on you?
What you do. Things you get up to.
I do see through your flimsy curtains.
And when you roll home from the pub.
Who you sneak up that alleyway with.
You should be grateful for cloud-cover.

So yes, I’m swelled to full tonight.
Spherically cheesy in your city sky.
Yes, point and stare and gawp at me,
how I’m so large, have such a “glow”.
But don’t forget I’m shining over you.
Don’t forget I know where you go.

 

Grass And Dew

Grass And Dew

Goosepimples on bare limbs.
Dew licks her dress to her body,
grass-stains to drink-spilled silk.

Cliché of birdsong. A childhood
half-ghost of milkfloats, burnt toast.
Lost homework and things that

don’t matter anymore. What does?
Where are her shoes? Eyes won’t
open and the drifting milkfloat

has whirred on and away. Now
she lies afraid in the dawn.
Suburban shame, in a garden

which isn’t at her house. Paralysis.
No memory, handbag, keys
or anything useful. Sicky scum

on her tongue, a grazed elbow.
Watch lost, along with pride
and tights and blank hours

she won’t get back. She daren’t
even think about her knickers.
Need to get home. Need home.

By the way… For a little while now I’ve been meaning to set up a section on here giving details of magazines, etc. who’ve kindly published my work. There’s a link at the bottom of each blog post and I hope that this section will grow in the months ahead. But for now… here it is!

http://hollyannegetspoetic.wordpress.com/publications-where-ive-been/

The Odd Number

The Odd Number (a character monologue)

We don’t dislike her – no, not at all.
We’d never be that type of people.
She’s simply a little bit inconvenient.
I’m sure you understand the issues.

For a start, there’s the seating plan.
When we all know the importance
of correct placement. Not her fault.
We’re sympathetic to her situation.

And then there’s the atmosphere,
the ambience. She couldn’t possibly
know the exhaustive efforts we make
to ensure each occasion is special.

Weeks of planning: scripted subtlety,
staged serendipity. Our gourmet menu,
matched with right-on Fair Trade wines.
The affinity of like-minds. Appropriate

conversation. It’s a finely honed art.
Can so easily dip low, to disarray, be
unbalanced. Stray to things best not
discussed. The husbands, over-wary

of accusation from their wives eyes,
if caught spying her neckline (blowsy),
if illicit fingers brush in the candlelight
when passing the balsamic dressing

or the bread basket – it’s scandalous,
the way she wolfs down those carbs
with such blatant disregard. We do try
to include her, yes of course. The men

wax paternal – educate her: literature
and current affairs. We’re embarrassed
for her really, the way she holds forth.
Like they’re her peers. Can’t she smile

and nod like anyone else? I suppose
that attitude explains a lot. We do know
it’s our lives she covets. The poor love.
But in truth, she’ll never be one of us.

 

Whilst writing this I was reminded of this scene from Bridget Jones’ Diary, so I thought I’d include a clip of it there. A lot of people forgot that the Diary was originally written as a satire and not simply a jolly romance. And for me, this scene does the satire thing rather well… I mean, one doesn’t have to be “smug” to be “married” or vice versa, but oh my, how I love the line about being covered in scales…

On Motherhood (Hollyanne gets thoughtful…)

Today is Mothering Sunday in the UK, so I thought I’d re-post this one for anyone who is thinking about what “Motherhood” means… I wrote this a couple of years ago and am soooo tempted to do some edits before I post, BUT, for these purposes, I feel I want the old version to stand. Interestingly (at least to me), someone once said to me “only a mother could have written this poem”… I will leave you to your own thoughts on that one. For me, “mothering” is about more than shared genetics and “blood”.

 
Stinky (A Love Poem)

I will wrap myself around you.
I will hold you safe ‘til morning,
even – especially – when you
whiff of puke, ‘cause it’s likely

now I do too. You shared: life
lesson no.1 learned. Churned
my own stomach. Your smiley
eyes sleepy, but don’t want to

miss any good bits, or be chased
by monsters if you do drop off.
Please drop off… Just for a bit,
I promise to wake you if anything

happens… I promise. And scary
monsters cannot get you here.
I will outrun your nightmares on
sturdy Celtic legs – piggy back

on my dreams. You are warm
always in my arms. Your truth
is protected sweet to my belly.
Snuggle tight and cuddle into

me, tiny feet sleep-tussling,
scrambling for purchase. But
shush – the world is not ready
for you yet. Hush awhile: be

patient, just be and be you. But
sometimes be quietly… please.
Lovely, stinky, bubbling, grubby
little thing. You are newness.

Purple Tongue

Purple Tongue

Her breath is chemical-sweet.
Saccharine and batteries.
Powder-sniff theatrical,

she slicks on the pan-stick,
rolls eyes like cheats’ dice.
Her purpled tongue drags

chill-burns on vodka ice.
Hands whip despicable slices,
rip new holes for weeping.

Fingertips smear wet hearts
on fogged glass. She singles
out limpets and lingerers.

The Walking Woman

The Walking Woman

It’s fog-haze and halogen orange out.
Casting her skin more greys than fifty.
Illusion: the real illusion is it’s not one.
Daylight slubs her palette the same.

She’s not ashamed. She’s stoic with
her shopping trolley. She’s peaceful
in piss-reek bus shelters and practical
with scavenger-wiles and skip-tippings.

She stomps the sluggish suburban dawn.
Pebble-dash semis, slumped bungalows,
UPVC and hungover postmen. Families
bickering. Someone being sick in an alley.

She sneers in windows framing tiny tears
and toast. Mummies scraping desperate
knives at burnt bread. (Pathetic, she huffs:
who are these women?) She plods ever on.

Prodding at clods of dog shit with toes
of her cloggish brown shoes. She hawks
phlegm-splat frogspawn, gobbet-y dew
in the privet hedge outside your house.

 

Might Once

Might Once

Pink plastic hairbrush.
Bristles might once have been
white. Would this hurt less
if they still were?

Her mirror says used-up pretty.
Hair that might once have been
corn-gold. Would this hurt less
if it still was?

Suitcase: bashed corners
scuffed raw. Might once have been
quite smart. Would this hurt less
if she still was?