Reblogged from :

Cormorant, Oh Cormorant, I wonder at how you ornament, The morning Winter sky. Cormorant, Oh Cormorant, I see you as I go to work for-my-rent, Settling on a river near by. Cormorant, Oh Cormorant, Neither svelte nor corpulent, But adapted to be the perfect size. Cormorant, Oh Cormorant, You would never swap for-a-tent, Your nest with guano piled high. Cormorant, Oh Cormorant, Not depressed nor discontent, But very difficult to rhy(me).

I didn’t know this ‘reblog’ function existed on wordpress…great way for me to highlight poets I really like.

Look at the rainbow drops, aren’t they so pretty?

No they’re not my dear, just oily and scummy.

Teeth

The rotten, enamel jewel he wore
Resting on his chest like a prize
Was the result of horrific pain
A tooth that would mesmerize.

Moorland rescue

In her drunken stupour
She dropped her phone in a ditch
The border collie found it
She was a clever bitch.

Rucksack

These black and blue threads
Cross continents without slack
They haven’t worn out yet
14 years loyal to my back

Curtains

The clucking midwife pulls them noisily
The undertaker shuts them quietly
Between times, blinds are up and down
On stage
Behind the scenes
Until you’re underground.

Difference made plain to see
Rewards reaped for he and she
Is this all volunteering is?
How terribly righteous and twee
If the press is to be believed
You’ll feel virtuous but bored in this scene.

You have to dig deep to understand
Volunteering lets you explore new lands
See people fresh in your mind
Reach beyond the daily grind
Not just doing stuff for free
It’s celebrating community

He did a sketch about voyeurism that inspired last night’s micropoem, which was a bit shabby on first submission to the world of twitter:

“Sight and memory the enemy of touch, for the addict now devoid of lust, for the one who’s love was built on trust.”

I’ve now written a longer version that hopefully conveys a bit more of what I intended:
Sight and memory, the enemy of touch
For he who’s now devoid of lust
For her who’s thrusts are built on trust.

She still believes he’s making love
Not reliving imagery that makes him erupt
He can’t get aroused from touching her up.

And it’s not her fault, his gorgeous wife
It’d be the same for any woman who entered his life
Sight’s taken over, he’s forgotten how to feel.

He pushed her towards the fire place, the coldest face in the hottest flames, the consequence of her disgrace.

We’ll be tweeting our micro poems and blogging the longer pieces all as part of the One A Day project – maybe there will be some sort of fundraising element further down the line…

We’ll be choosing a different theme each day and I’ll come back to this page to add them, if you have a suggestion for a theme then please don’t hesitate to let us know!

1st January – Hungover

2nd January – Resolutions

3rd January – Three

4th January – Pets

5th January – Sleep

6th January – Late

7th January – Country life

8th January – David Bowie

9th January -Fireplace

10th January – Addiction

11th January – Chess

Image by Kat Austen. Poem written by Helen Williams and Kat Austen.

awake, leaping out of bed
excited to start the day with football
part of me wants to be outside joking with friends
playing with my brother on the same team
but this is a solitary game. I’m scoring the goals for me.

Lounging in my pit watching the players ranging on the pitch
safe and warm inside no slippery grass under my feet
I don’t need to run breathless in the fresh air.
I’ll sit all day desperate to win the trophy.
can of coke in one hand, mouse in the other sweating as the half time whistle blows.

Break time! I spy oranges
I reach for the biscuit tin, I’m sated
now my brother wants to play, I let him I’m ready for a rest, a substitution is made.
but immediately frustration kicks in on no, I want back in the game.
we battle for control Dad the spectator steps in.
headlock, deadlock he knows I’m the best, I’m playing again.

Before I know it the game is over
the whole day has gone it feels like less than an hour
but I won my team won!
I slump back on my bed players cheer and run.

I’m exhausted, I’m exhausted.

To find out more about the creation of this poem and the cleave element, read my previous post.

awake, leaping out of bed
excited to start the day with football
part of me wants to be  outside joking with friends
playing with my brother on the same team
but this is a solitary game. I’m scoring the goals for me.

Lounging in my pit watching the players ranging on the pitch
safe and warm inside no slippery grass under my feet
I don’t need to run breathless in the fresh air.
I’ll sit all day desperate to win the trophy.
can of coke in one hand, mouse in the other sweating as the half time whistle blows.

Break time! I spy oranges
I reach for the biscuit tin, I’m sated
now my brother wants to play, I let him I’m ready for a rest, a substitution is made.
but immediately frustration kicks in on no, I want back in the game.
we battle for control Dad the spectator steps in.
headlock, deadlock he knows I’m the best, I’m playing again.

Before I know it the game is over
the whole day has gone it feels like less than an hour
but I won my team won!
I slump back on my bed players cheer and run.

I’m exhausted, I’m exhausted.

On a whim I asked my friend and housemate Kat Austen if she would be interested in working together on a National Poetry Day piece as she’s an artist and the illustrator in residence for Utter! spoken word events. The initial idea was that I might write something and then she would illustrate it. We set a date at a local pub – The Palm Tree near Victoria park and took ourselves, some sugar paper, pens and an idea for a creative session last Sunday evening.

So, the theme for this year’s National Poetry Day is games. Just last week I got ditched by a friend for a computer game. We were supposed to be going to the pub to celebrate the birth of my new niece, but at the last minute he told me he couldn’t get out of a gaming competition. I told another friend about this who then confessed that he used to be addicted to football computer games when he was a teenager. It struck me that football could be an interesting theme for a poem about games. From there I came up with the idea of a cleave poem where on the one hand you could capture the thoughts and experience of a young lad who gets up early on a Saturday to go and play football with his friends and the other hand a lad who gets up early on a Saturday to play his football computer game by himself.

Luckily, Kat liked this idea and so with two glasses of wine at the ready, we set about mapping words that might capture these two experiences.

We then started to construct the lines and much to my dismay, this very much was a joint effort. We both contributed to most of the lines that make up this three part poem. Below is our three-in-one effort.

awake, leaping out of bed
excited to start the day with football
part of me wants to be  outside joking with friends
playing with my brother on the same team
but this is a solitary game. I’m scoring the goals for me.

Lounging in my pit watching the players ranging on the pitch
safe and warm inside no slippery grass under my feet
I don’t need to run breathless in the fresh air.
I’ll sit all day desperate to win the trophy.
can of coke in one hand, mouse in the other sweating as the half time whistle blows.

Break time! I spy oranges
I reach for the biscuit tin, I’m sated
now my brother wants to play, I let him I’m ready for a rest, a substitution is made.
but immediately frustration kicks in on no, I want back in the game.
we battle for control Dad the spectator steps in.
headlock, deadlock he knows I’m the best, I’m playing again.

Before I know it the game is over
the whole day has gone it feels like less than an hour
but I won my team won!
I slump back on my bed players cheer and run.

I’m exhausted, I’m exhausted.

So, we hope you like what we’ve written so far. If you’re still a bit unsure of how it works, first read the whole thing, then read just the blue side, and then read just the red side.  We’ll be unveiling the final version with illustrations in time for National Poetry Day. Can’t wait.

pig face bum triangle eyes danger mouse
pig face bum triangle eyes danger mouse ears
pig face bum triangle eyes danger mouse ears short
pig face bum triangle eyes danger mouse ears short white
pig face bum triangle eyes danger mouse ears short white hair
pig face bum triangle eyes danger mouse ears short white hair long
pig face bum triangle eyes danger mouse ears short white hair long nose
pig face bum triangle eyes danger mouse ears short white hair long nose love dog

Photo by Leejay Heffer.

Cressida who ate or Cressida who starved,
A beautiful young woman, self-belief marred
Isolation crippling, alone in her head
Then she saw clearly, her body now dead.

Cressida who sang or cressida who painted,
Amazing Grace in death, shrill not tainted
Take me to the light, she said in colours
Angel there for days, they said, gently hovered.

Cressida the mouse or Cressida on fire
Painted cheeks, eyes wide to admire
A childlike drunk, needed care taken
Next morning forgotten, friendship not mistaken.

Will she be crazy or will she be sane?
That guilty thought runs through my brain.
Cressida brazen or cressida tame?
Childlike nymph, elegant not vain.

Cressida high pitched or Cressida soft spoken
In Paris we bonded talked sex in the open
She asked lots of questions, can’t disclose them here
Curious and unsure, we settled her fear.

Cressida grew wiser, had big plans in sight
Worked hard for good will had skills to delight
New prospects afoot before cancer came
Then reality took hold, devastatingly brave.

A birthday party for Cress a boat on the river
We remembered her generosity, tried not to shiver
Loved her for those hours, even more than usual
Brought us all together, we sought her approval.

Cressida wasn’t crazy, nor was she sane.
A stoic, startling lady who flummoxed my brain.
Cressida was brazen, cressida was tame,
Childlike nymph and elegant not vain.