THE WRITER’S LIFE | POETRY
I prefer doorways to doors, things which hold others, yet with no equal reason for being there. I favour skirting boards to taking the floor; and here I am, foot in hand, talking to my door about why I don’t like it. Talking to myself and feeling old:
I find doors difficult to walk through, like Patrick Swayze did in Ghost
People knock on doors
Many doors are closed when I’m awake
People don’t hold doors open much now
Apart from garage doors, all are ‘Push’ or ‘Pull’. None say ‘Lift from the bottom’
If you leave a door open, anyone can get in. If the door’s not there, you’re equal
Doors with locks are a human construct
I fear the next shit sandwich through the letterbox. If I only had a dog. It’s a frame of mind I’m in…
Image: Lawrence Manning, from OzTypewriter, The Wonderfull World of Typewriters (blog)
This was actually prompted (perhaps a coping mechanism) by a particularly nasty individual it wasn’t my pleasure to encounter on Twitter during a debate about Brexit:
Cats scratch, carpenters carve. I wasn’t going to be so short-sighted as to wish them a slow and painful death in return, so I let them have the last word. Better to knit rope than go fishing. While the fishermen of ancient Britain gained the family name of Fisher, Lakers sat on the banks and made nets. Possibly.
Rebuilding this planet will require not just carpenters but many trades, or possibly occupants of interplanetary craft
Who’s afraid of Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings?
INK IN THE SKIN
Gas Station Horror
If you can’t write your dreams, remember to live them. Then maybe someone can write them for you.
We’re only gone when we’re forgotten, but when we remember, sometimes they visit us. They still walk among us. You just have to keep your eyes open to notice them.
That man’s father is my father’s son: A poem about parenting, and about changing generational roles, from the big ones (nearby) to the small (far away); about absent dads, where the Marmite goes in the middle…
Give an infinite number of monkeys a typewriter each, and some will eventually transcribe Shakespeare. Others will sit on those antique writing implements and eventually sell them at boot fairs, while still more might not work out what they’re for. It’s all about evolution. Two views, the judged and the judge…
Image: Tambako the Jaguar via Flickr / Creative Commons
Chimps aren’t monkeys, they’re apes. Give one a laptop, and it might realise it has an evolutionary tool.
More Pan troglodytes / Homo sapiens collaborations in the poetry section of evolution.
This was inspired by a friend who’s moving home. As someone who was transient for a few years, I can empathise. Starting life in a new place can be daunting, but often we’re moving away from something else, where the wallpaper’s peeling. Home is the cloakroom for hearts…
For some of my more recent poems, when I’ve posted them as images (better for Instagram) I’ve positioned the text so that the poem can be read either monologue (down) or as though in harmony (across). I wonder if this is working?