proud november / parklove - boredom and lifedom.
late. sticky - - drunk. mess. dustbin.


Litter

Grinning and stunned by itself - November wins
awards for the month most like a
pause, and we will spend each
street-wrapped little evening gathering
misled clouds of popcorn, clutching at your
belly.
We'll watch glum repeats on telly and
perfect our technique for throwing
battered playing cards down
your blaring
cleavage.

Come midnight or any 2 a.m. we will clamp ourselves
to the flinching park floor
and undress
and then adore each other, shivering and sticky
as stable hatched babies, -
maybe a pigeon or some passing drunk to play
the esteemed role of
perverted donkey. (Just as slight shadows are
camouflaged by dusk's sneakily darkening surge -
tiny, tiny you
blend with the tarmac and train tracks, so that I
cannot see where your backbone begins and
the streetlight continues.)

The blunt feeling of stubby railings, edges
of castle or museum steps
for your chair, the cold glaring itself through
your jeans. Everywhere is blurred and
tumbling like the fizzing memory of visiting
fairgrounds - the balconies of sick,
dangling between those lips and gloopy fingers.

We moaned about the music bulging from
car radios but sang loud enough to make tough
mouthed old women flick lights on and
swear out their megaphone windows. We will
name you "Weekend", soon Monday will come with
its rumours of coma - we will bundle up homework
and send longings and the fondest regards. We
will send glinting apples to tempt each pretty teacher -
although few leaves remain to blanket our
custody. Your ownership. My selfishness.

Back again. We loved and studied you, we
constructed obsessive shrines,
in our little minds
to bleat our faith in you.
We tried to welcome brand
new sculptures -
but deep inside we knew -
that yours are the only legitimate
spaces in the universe.

First we knelt, then kissed right into you. You knocked
the watercolours off your brush, your brushes
are shy and perfect,
your brushes look like shrinking tulips and
the sound of you
knocking
the watercolour off your
perfect
tulips is
the sound of mice
pleading to be let in to your perfect
house,

and there is no sound so beautiful
in anything
else.

Vague, sleepy and stunned by herself - November wins
awards for the month most like a pause,
applauds herself
then proceeds to vanish.



Poetry by Claire
Read 986 times
Written on 2005-08-04 at 20:03

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F.i.in.e Moods The PoetBay support member heart!
damn... that rate is supposed to be a 5... clicked on the wrong spot... meh... sorry..

later...xx
2005-08-05


F.i.in.e Moods The PoetBay support member heart!
drunk by yourself going through events and moments shared with someone is how i perceive this poem... again, reflections... but im thinking with these its about the easygoing times of pleasure and not-a-care-in-the-world attitudes that once were shared with someone... but something about the mood makes me think that the times are over... i like november grinning and stunned sitting by itself and at the end vague, sleepy and stunned by herself - winning awards for the month most like a pause... i like the shift from it to her... and well, the awards part is ingenius, i think... i really like the sound and feel of your whole poem actually... sincerely excellent... i enjoy reading your creativity... thanks for sharing :)

later...xx
2005-08-05


loualoui
This is one I've read before and didn't comment on. I loved it then and I love it now.

I think the reason I don't often comment on your work and other's who write like you (although I have yet to find anyone who can exactly match up to your unique, random style)... is because so much of what you write is open to interpretation and I guess I am a scaredy cat about interpreting it wrongly and exposing my simplicity :P... but then again I do appreciate that part of the beauty of poetry is that everyone is able to get something different from it... and what I got from this, and enjoyed most about it, was the sense of being young and carefree... experiencing life with that youthful clarity that fades and is so often lost once you've had kids and resigned yourself to never going out in the cold, after dark, unless of course the house is on fire or something.

What I really love about your writing is your original way of describing things...
clouds of popcorn, blaring cleavage, stable hatched babies, balconies of sick, music bulging from car radios... to pick out just a few examples... oh how I wish I could come up with stuff like that... you are an extraordinary poetess with an extra ordinary mind... and ohhh to think... I would have got 5 points if I had had the guts to post this comment on ap!! :P
2005-08-05


intothehaze
I love November, it's nice and cold-like and comes before December. :P

This is another great piece of poetry, love the sounds throughout, especially the ending.

Very enjoyable.
2005-08-05


chasingtheday The PoetBay support member heart!
i like your style, the sarcasm dripping. you have a unique way of speaking how you see reality, a good thing. i like june better than novemeber but i am biased as she gave me my life, the swine, i have been trying to get my own back for time.
2005-08-04