Friday, 13 February 2015

Some Love Poems

Since tomorrow is Valentines day, I thought I'd share with you some of the love poetry I've written over the past couple of years. They're not all technically very good (not fishing for compliments here - literally they are technically (metrically, rhythmically etc) not very good), and most are not page poetry (ie. they should be spoken not read). Nevertheless, I'm proud of them in my own way. Also, sorry about all the sex references - apparently my love poetry tends that way (I think to stop it getting too sappy).

I'd also like to take this moment to remind everyone that just because I wrote these poems and they are about personal things does NOT mean they are about me, or any of my former romantic partners. All writing is invention and construction: these are stories in their own right and should be treated as fiction.

** (This poem was originally published by Concrete (I'll add the link when it appears online). The prompt for this piece was 'love on one condition'.)

Sex in a Single 

Some say simply sex is the performance of perfect unity but I disagree. 
You know you're committed to the act when sex becomes mathematics. 
You have my respect when you can show off your A-Star GSCE: 
move shape A to shape B using factor two rotational symmetry. 
Employ Pythagoras as we switch; work out the angle between my hips 
and yours. Get me from my knees to my back via SOH CAH TOA. 
Mirror along the (se)x axis: to-you-to-me, or one-two-three, 
ease my linguistic brain with geometry
to achieve interdisciplinary synchronicity.  
We can make love on one condition: 
you can do the maths.


The Jumper

He gave me his jumper.
He said it was a trade:
him for it to keep me warm
whilst he was away.
Although the jumper's comfy
there's still something it lacks:
no matter how I hold it
it still can't hug me back.

** (This poem was originally published by 140Story)

him. Bent his spine
until he cracked. Dog-eared
the pages of him she liked best;
then left.


No Sex

Our red wine lips press against each other
remembering the days his best friend yelled
through the window of a French mobile home.

We listened to him then but now we laugh
and I can taste myself in our kisses.


Week 31

I left my baggy T-shirt,
a pair of clean pants
and Mum’s old painting jumper -
the one my uncle bought her
from his trip to Aus in ’89
(’89, the year mum and dad tied the knot,
bought a two up two down) –

You said:
‘You don’t need the pants
In this house,’
I laughed.

Your toothbrush sits in the pot;
Your towel hangs over the door;
My bed sheets smell of sugar beet sweat.

I toss and turn
Caught between the wall
And you.

Your hand reaches out
Pulls me

It is easy how we intertwine.

You twitch in your slumber.

Chewing gum on the bedside table.
I taste your morning breath.

We’re cartographers,
Our fingertips map familiar landscapes.
Sandpaper stubble;
The jut of a hip;
The bulge of muscle.

You were right about the pants.


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