Plum Poem

To The Beautiful Man Who Gave Me Free Plums

Thank you for knowing

sell by dates are a nonsense

I took two of them to bed tonight

my first fresh plums some folly

Had persuaded me I did not like them

till someone handed me a plum cake

The fruit jewelling the top

These were my first fresh plums

as my teeth broke in I thought

how fragrant the skin was

let juice run my chin

how small the stone is for such flesh

Considered I have many more

firsts to find in this life of mine

consider the idea of my next lover

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More Arran Poems

I have returned home and typed up poems from my notebook more to follow

Things I had Forgotten:

The alarming geometry of gorse

Poisonous beauty of foxgloves

How to walk across streams

My feet know how to negotiate stones

That sheep give no fucks

The smell of a foison of ferns

Childhood scent of getting lost

And not caring

How the oyster catchers scream

How jagged the sea becomes in wind

How delicious I find the smell of seaweed

how much I love to roll and loll on grass

how I sniff in all the deep green scents

of grass gorse fern and trees

how to walk in absolute dark

my night vision returned faultless

linked arms I walked all three of back

Lochranza Distillery

I tried to walk back up the way we came

separately, you charging ahead

this treacherous path

my incredulous reaction

to your lack of care your laughter

for my bog soaked twisted ankle

was when I knew I wasn’t

really in love with you

I was still considering the idea

of not living alone

in the years that have passed

I have not cleared a path

through the woods

to my heart for another

I got as far as the ferns

their rich smell heavy

with the secret thoughts

I had wandering alone as a child

the mouse ornament I hid then

recovered from a hole in a tree

the carved fur smeared with dirt

The slugs were out a warning

as I headed for the hills

in search of waterfalls and eagles

the rain came down

As it took my sight

It taught me that I cannot

walk into our past

last time I saw you

there was a calmer air

you were kinder and almost

asked to go to bed with me

I knew you were after comfort

of a familiar body in sleep

I thank you for all the poems you gave me

we cannot walk back

and make either of us

easier to love.

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Third Arran Poem

Follow the Stag

he has hung stars

from his antlers

he has leapt up

and pierced the sky

his antlers are stained

with stardust

he is as silhouette

as the leaping stag

on the road sign

on laminated signs

beware the sign of the stag

beware the stag

be aware of the stag

be wary of the false stags

and their fake stardust

glitter is not stardust

find the stag trailing

stardust in its wake

and using it to hover over lakes

rake up the dropped stardust

and learn to fly

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Second Arran Poem Patti Smith Workshop Redux

Today on the island we did a version of the Patti Smith Workshop https://stirredpoetry.wordpress.com/2015/06/25/patti-smith-poetry-workshop/ we free wrote from a line from Patti Smith’s poem from The Coral Sea about Robert Mapplethorpe Reflecting Robert http://www.brainpickings.org/2013/05/31/patti-smith-the-coral-sea-reading/

The line we wrote from for five minutes was ”hoping to grasp a handful of cloud” and the five extra words to add in were: fox, chain, carve, teeth, rip.

The mist today looked solid enough to carve from out the sash window there was the unreal notion of mist causing a disappearing act, a coast, whole mountains the sheep in the hills with their vicious voices, all the seals we weren’t sure were rocks yesterday. The cloud had come down from the sky and conjured whiteness. There was no fear in this moment of fox cunning by the weather. I knew the mountains and the cormorants would still be there the mountain and its glacier memories  the cormorants heart and wide wings. There is a chain reaction of thoughts when the mist glamours away such weighty geography you grit your teeth to remind yourself what sensation is and find yourself wondering what else is hidden from view.

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First Arran Poem

The dangerous graves have been reclaimed

by the boggy earth

the angels have lost their heads

and all messages are obscured by lichen

many are lost at sea

the weather wears down monuments fast

the sea makes time more sudden

the robins remind us of this

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Message in a Bottle

Message in a Bottle

This is my message to you it bobs on waves in a bottle so green you will think it is made from early summer leaves you will want to drink the chlorophyll feel it will nourish you. The message is something for you to consumer with your eyes and mind and heart. It is a message I need to hear I am repeating it turning it over tuning it to music a joyful refrain. Something that will calm you and stop the want you knew it once and have forgotten this is self-love repeat this often enough and your heart beat will sing it to you ‘’you are enough’’.

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Merpeople x 2

Below are two poems written several months apart that I had left languishing in my notebook until now which prove I am really a mermaid.

You are most of my length and rightly admired

Even down to the too narrow ankles

You look dazzling in fishnets you are

Sinuous as a mermaid’s tail

You are a siren call with your thighs

You have been known to entrap men like seaweed

You dance like a wave full of jellyfish

You are the pull of the tide

There are hidden treasures in this deep fishes with no name merpeople and things with so many eyes and whiskery protrusions you cannot count. Some make jewels part of the shells hermit crabs and their ilk are known to scuttle off with a tiara and build a sparking carapace before discarding the whole thing to the depths. The wrecks are subsumed by the merpeople like the hermit crab into their palaces. There are hulking wrecks of steel twisted into beautiful towers and Elizabethan oak bellied vessels form vaulted ceilings. They laugh at the figure heads simulation of merpeople the breasts and lurid paint work amuse them they place them in galleries for them all to laugh. There are not many now who rise up above the surface for long the new ships are too fast submarines gave them a fright until they realised they could not reach their glittering junk palaces. The pressure too great from anything made by man they never seem to reach that depth remain many fathoms above and still debris rains down. They do not distinguish between televisions and diamonds all are precious objects and fashioned into something useful. Twisted by their hands and tails and the depth pressure into stair cases they have no need of windows use portholes as decoration they make tiaras from silver spoons and keys they find watches smashed, stopped some kind of beautiful moon-shaped mystery. There is no sound that you or I would hear they pull percussion from oil drums and feel the vibrations to dance in their aquatic way, make xylophones from the ribs of the bodies of humans decayed by salt water. They have no reverence for our dead they are merely calciferous as coral.

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