I Would Put Them Back In Poetry

Here, I lay my words to rest. Etched in ink and pencil lead.

Posts tagged poetry

17 notes


Be asking questions in bookshops just to hear the answers bounce off the walls.
Be falling asleep in airport cafes to let your dreams catch the flights you can’t.
Allow yourself the tender surrender of cinnamon and nutmeg
in April evenings,
embrace second infancy,
drunk, only to rise later,
looking up from the same side of nightfall,
where dewdrops on the window
were as stars in the moonlight.

You are in my colours,
my own quiet, private solace
in the knotted fists of vineyards,
in the Swiss pine forest hearts,
in the suitcase thunder on cobbled streets,
in the muttering alpine retreats.
Let’s have ten tomorrows,
let’s have breakfast under the shadows of swallows.
I’ve learned willows will bend their trunks to drape their fingers in the depths,
and I too stoop and remember the water I grew from,
and the shallows I have left.


(Source: birdcagesfromitaly)

Filed under poetsorg poetrybomb poetry birdcagesformpoetry featured

6 notes


My thoughts grow less remarkable;
they’re fraught with shards and dark troubles.
They dull like blunted blades on flint,
with fading wonder spent and skint.

I talk with cadence falling short,
I wretch to find my meanings caught
and trampled, dragged like brutal giant’s
grasp down fell and valley side.
I suffer the utter unchecked wrath
of adolescent careless laughs;
I’ll choke the joke at the source.

Jaded fools hold no remorse.


Filed under Poetry poem anger poetry anger birdcagesformpoetry spilled ink vent

6 notes

Scatter, Darling

Regret, you have a crevasse-clasp,
I am uncramponed, unprepared.
Neglect, you seize a weekend fast,
then leave me to my streetlight prayers,
creeping like a glacier to the coast,
teasing the beach’s shallows.

I sought my future in turtleshell hills
to realise they were hollow.
I am retreating up the valley slope
to holidays of long ago;
treading water in Salcombe’s bay
and now I’ve found a cause to stay.
I will relive February bliss each time
the sky forgets its grey.

I will build a Devonshire heaven.
I can topple worlds.
I will seek the supreme Southbank sunsets I crave
in the orange indigo of the estuary waves.
The open plains of my coursing veins
will stage the great migration south;
if bluebells chimed I would hear them sing
‘all this earth is lonely now.
Scatter starlings, scatter darling’

and I’ll run until my feet give out,
for why would I not take the opportunity
I chased down to the southwest sea?
If I’m leaving home, then let me go
to the ends of this land and arrive alone.


Filed under scatter darling Poetry university future poem featured creative writing Devon Exeter

5 notes

Last Tango In Reykjavik

Reykjavik bared its teeth to me;
its bay an open mouth asleep,
its blocks were concrete studs
in tarmac gums
and from it sprang a midnight hum.

I, awake with Iceland’s frost in my blood,
heard the beat of the Valkyrie drum,
slunk through corridor soft and dumb
to seventh floor balcony-come-clifftop,
where the dozing busses and snoring cars
played soundtrack to my soaring heart.
This city’s foreign slumber,
dreaming deep oblivious under
Aurora. I glimpsed Valhalla’s gleaming floors.
I stood, pyjamaed tourist, unworthy of this
private promise the sky was making,
that I could belong to an island waiting
to rejoin the myths from which it came.

I stayed awake half the night,
so I could write on the back of a postcard,
'I'm sure I saw the sky alight.
Send all my clothes on the morning flight.’
I would gladly spend my quicksilver youth
standing on the black sands of the Atlantic,
hands pressed to the glass flesh
of iceberg nests in endless headspace.

Instead, I crept down from the fire escape,
imbedded myself in hotel duvet,
woke at five to dejected disarray,
packed a cracked mug in a suitcase,
took a packed bus to an airplane,
boarded and sat, crushed by altitude,
realising all I was about to lose
as my precious hollow filled
with tomorrow’s mundane mundane.
I sighed off the plane and into home,
and missed and missed the ice and stone,
and wished I’d sipped more meltwater from the glacier,
so it could feed my bones,
my knuckles and knees
and teach my tempest mind to freeze.


Filed under last tango in reykjavik reykjavik iceland poetry poem birdcagesformpoetry

10 notes

Some Boys

Some boys grow distant like ships
in the midst of the waves;
sails taut, parting fleets scatter faster,
held brave
by their master
and boatswain against
surging blue to black, ‘til canvas slacks,
and currents kiss their hulls, allayed.

Some boys are gulls playing,
wheeling bicycle-bliss about the bay;
stealing crumbs of sonnets from distracted fingers,
calling for artificial prey.
The mist off the estuary lingers;
there’ll be no rest for the timid today.

Some boys are indifferent,
resistant to sea-air and coastal decay.
They are driftwood persistent
and charred from heartbreak,
blackened to the wrist with
tar and hard clay.

Some boys are evening-opaque,
leave some girls dreaming awake,
leave some embers as evidence they ever even stayed,
some gorgeous remnant remains of the day.

Some girls are full of chorus;
some girls breathe to bridge the pores of the earth and find their thumbs on the pores of your face.
They are siren-safe and wild aflame
and worth all the ointment your tears contain.

Some girls will rinse the brine from your brow,
pluck the sand from your hair,
press the ice to your doubts,
pull the reeds from between your teeth when a breeze
delays your voyage by another week.

Some girl, some excellent girl,
will soon enlist your company,
guess whether your tale is trustworthy;
offer theirs as exchange,
commence polaroid days,
which I’ll scan in years to come
when I’m framed in elbows;
some boy’s,
some excellent boy’s,
who found this heart when it lost its voice.

Some boys are enough to lose a year on,
as you relay ghost signals to hopeful neurons.
Some boys are enough to cause daydream asylum;
allow elysium instead,
build Eden in bedsheets,
exorcise loneliness out of your head.


(Source: birdcagesfromitaly)

Filed under poetry Some Boys

5 notes

I hope you’re feeling sunnier, lover,
I know that you’ve been darker colours.
Your palette is patchwork pain and promised better-tomorrows
falling short again,
falling like morning; all adolescent and weary,
trudging into traffic
and easing into light and life teary-eyed.

Dawn breakfasts by itself and its dewdrops frame spiderwebs,
rain is soft as felt and comes in gusts of winter breath
unsettling the hairs that down your cheek,
your lashes are feathers that flutter and keep
the water from finding your eyes.
The water will find you when you next cry;
let it shed,
next time you’re compelled to sigh;
make it said.
Our thoughts confer
like flocking birds;
populate the silence,
don’t leave it dead.

I hope you’re feeling sunnier, lover,
I know right now the clouds have covered
your town,
but you shall not be standstill dark.
We have lamps and streetlights,
candles, hearths.
We will make our own glow,
neon to cinder,
we have our own fuel,
kindle the tinder.
If you’re gloomy then know
we can fix that, it’s whether
light would just light the darkness better.


Filed under Poetry poem spilled ink loneliness darkness candles comfort poetry birdcagesformpoetry theantipoetrysociety

8 notes


I was eclipsed tonight;
my flesh fell out of favour,
and so my skin fell down like paper,
onion shells about my bare calcium
hell lurked in these bones.
I lacked an old Indian dignity,
the fervour of confluent Ganges,
instead my blood was puddled in
my vessels, boiled lust in rusting kettles and in the rising mist were nettle stings and their dripping toxins held only him.
Filter coffee granules litter the sink like static ants, where time left my poor Mother running late;
swerving frantic pottery collisions into cooling dishwater as she exited the kitchen
and I half-wished she’d had a daughter.

I embargo you successfully. My nation navigates trade agreements with your warring state,
exchanging hostages;
hot chocolates for hospital visits, crossed fingers for makeshift crucifixes.
Laying palms flat on linoleum, in walk the disciples of medicine in tunics cerulean,
anaesthetise the burdened, so the cross they bear is light as gas and air, until they fall under like saints into the water.
Easter’s boulder rolled into a forest where no one heard the tree fall cold.
Easter’s rising will be a hungover Simon blessing the water for not being wine.
Easter passes in idol masses dawdling from church to high school classes; I am in the grasp of that restlessness.
Give me tea in flasks,
and your best wishes.

For Lent I’ll give up listlessness,
or attempt, then break my promises
like fast, and feast on equinox’s kiss
or relent for next evening’s eclipse.


Filed under eclipses poetry Beat poetry deadbeats poem evening creative writing birdcagesformpoetry

4 notes

I am not indebted to you.
There’s little left for me to prove,
There’s some respect I’m yet to lose,
So I will bury it
Certain fathoms deep
Beneath the safety
Of a pebble beach.
When the shore beats,
And it will,
Against the stones and sand and silt,
I’ll still have that piece
Of my pride
Outside the reach
Of stranger tides.

Filed under poetry poem spilled ink theantipoetrysociety birdcagesformpoetry

24 notes

Formidable Women

I recommend you befriend
Formidable women

who know sometimes justice
just isn’t enough,
Whose tempers are land mines;
you trip, you trigger, you fall.
Women who align themselves with you,
fellow magnets pointing north,
but remind you it’s a coven
and they can summon up a storm.
Women who are stubborn strong,
Women at their weakest,
Women who kept you together
before you knew you were in pieces.

This convent mutters gospels
over popcorn, tea and pizzas,
here gossip isn’t slander,
it’s the last-surviving treason.
It’s appraising others’ secrets;
not for leverage, or ammunition.
It’s considering
what could or should
be done and if done,
done for good.

Your tongue will start at manual,
and shift to automatic,
And if you disrupt the current,
then prepare to feel the static
They are conductors, they are teachers,
Lightning strikes on empty beaches.
With them, I’m learning not to dilute;
don’t measure life in millilitres.

I am fierce in the face of silence now,
I can use it as a weapon.
I question them, I call them out,
It’s natural to be threatened, but
I am heading towards accepting
compromise in moderation.
There’s safety when sorority
outlasts your graduation.

If you’re not a formidable woman,
then accept an invitation.
Befriend one or become one,
baby, it’s in your nature.


Filed under formidable women feminism feminist poetry poetry poem theantipoetrysociety deadbeats spilled ink

1 note

This is my third poem to be published in two years, and this time, does not come from a place of mistreatment, as Picked Last and No Shame did before it… instead, I wanted to capture something beautiful, and, hopefully, reassure the reader, by advising them to accept the scale of their feelings, know the world understands and is on your side.

This is my third poem to be published in two years, and this time, does not come from a place of mistreatment, as Picked Last and No Shame did before it… instead, I wanted to capture something beautiful, and, hopefully, reassure the reader, by advising them to accept the scale of their feelings, know the world understands and is on your side.

Filed under Pathetic Fallacy comfort poetry Poetry poem birdcagesformpoetry

4 notes

Friction ~ 08/01/2014

This is friction.
Knowing the position
I’m in is withholding me,
Tension building inch by inch,
I’m going to give, I just know it.
My temper’s a tremor growing. The bridges
Are showing weaknesses. Fractures,
The fastest I move isn’t a patch on you,
We’re matches and waxwork, I lit the fuse,
It’s going to blow, I just know it.
The fallout is huge, it spreads like news;
Gossip on the tongues of the loved and the bruised.
I’m using all of my energy now,
All of it.
What a way to start the year,
What a way to lose a friend,
What a long way left.
The ground is as lined
As the shallows of my eyes,
And under each footstep, stress.

This isn’t my fault.
This is friction.

Filed under friction stress Poetry poem the words actually sound like my feelings birdcagesformpoetry

8 notes

Should I be thoughtless,
Be a fortress
Against the forces of this love?
Be more cautious,
Hold my horses,
Wait for orders from above?
Or test the waters,
Fall like autumn,
Smother all this, suddenly?

There’s something for us,
Something gorgeous,
Something sure ahead. I see
Torches are lit.
Life’s taught me, it’s
An awkward, flawless little gift.
I’ll walk the hills,
I’ve caught the chill,
I’ll author all of my own myths.
I’ll find there’s more to life than this.

Filed under Poetry poem aspirations questions theantipoetrysociety spilled ink poets on Tumblr featured birdcagesformpoetry

49 notes

Re: Solutions

In response to all the problems you put me through last year,
I’ve drafted some solutions. I’ll list them for you here;

  • Apologise less.
    Assemble your self respect,
    Don’t tremble at the prospect
    Of not always being liked,
    The war within yourself isn’t worth
    The smile of someone else.
    Everyone you’ve encountered seemed to learn how to hold their ground,
    It’s your turn now.
    Be the express train they didn’t expect.

  • Listen
    To your parents, though they don’t always know best,
    And it hurts to know
    They’re only ever as happy as you are,
    Be as close and tolerant as you can,
    Let them learn who they once helped stand.
  • Listen
    To your friends, though there are many
    Yet hardly any you remember enough,
    Know their waters will be just as rough,
    And if they’ve given you their trust
    Then you should
  • Listen,
    But don’t you dare fall in love
    With someone who lets you listen
    And not interrupt,
    Just wants you there
    As an echo for their thoughts.
  • Listen,
    And really listen, to the observations, hesitation, the elation,
    In their voice.
  • Don’t
    Project the plot you wish would occur
    On someone who didn’t want you hurt
    And so let it unfurl. Don’t romanticise them,
    Don’t be surprised that gentlemen exist.
  • Don’t
    Give up the kiss you’ve saved
    For anyone that doesn’t move you,
    Who’s just a moon to your sun
    You deserve better than a reflection
    And less than perfection.
    They should have a solar system
    Of a personality,
    And be as hot and cold as yours.
  • Please
    Talk more. Until you’ve navigated so many conversations,
    Your instincts will be your sails.
    Until you’re confident to expose yourself,
    And accept when you have failed.
  • Please
    Think things through.
    Don’t think them true, or sink them,
    You must prioritise what needs to be done.
    Step back into the shadows until you’re ready for the sun.
  • And finally,
    Don’t expect to have achieved this list, Simon.
    You achieve all the time.
    Little victories.
    You’ll be fine.
    You have a string of fairy lights formed
    From the times you made people glow
    And they returned the favour,
    Hang it in your bedroom.
    Savour every moment you want to.

Wishing you much good luck,
Don’t reply too soon.
Remember, tomorrow is
Yours Sincerely,

(Source: birdcagesfromitaly)

Filed under Resolutions featured Poetry birdcagesformpoetry

2 notes

Desolate ~ 28/12/2013

There is nothing beautiful about this.

The words clatter against my teeth,
As I scatter all the brief and fleeting
Hopes I had. Bestrewn beneath
The gravestones of these keys,
I know they will be glad
They held a flicker in the pitiful darkness.
Winter came and killed the harvest.

If I’m the vessel for your thoughts
Then know they barely stay afloat.
Your clichés always end up caught
In nets and drowning deep below.
The sheer carelessness of your glance,
Betrays the bubbles in your throat.
You have a hundred half-made plans,
And now, nobody wants to know.

And if you could make any sense
Of what I almost saw in us,
If your war within relents
And you find the time to pause,
You might put me in that letter,
You swore you wouldn’t ever post.
Well now, if you’re going to haunt me
I ought to treat you like a ghost;
An absence where you used to matter.
Here’s my empire, bound to shatter.

If you depend on my words at all,
Then I will cut them out.
And seeming as I built these walls,
I can tear you down.

Filed under desolate Poetry poem spilled ink poets on Tumblr I hope it hurt

14 notes

Slumberdrunk ~ 26/12/2013

There is something unlovely about us.

A thread picked out of place,
A bed left unmade.
A summer day spent inside
And alone, adrift, ashamed.

Where do people go?
What do people plan?
I will write you on a postcard
And send it to the man
I’ll be in five years time
To see what he makes of you,
Who wakes and breaks my heart anew
Each month.

I will write you in the sand
Or in the creases of my hand.
I will count out twenty pennies
And buy myself a stamp;
Perhaps in letters I can spell
What I struggle yet to tell.

I will sleep until I’m slumberdrunk,
I was sober when I fell.

Filed under slumberdrunk Poetry poem I feel like this one's quite T.S. Eliot ish as in The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock maybe? spilled ink birdcagesformpoetry