Some Seam Shared

Gold cherry

By fatboy74

Fri, 09 Feb 2018
  • 9128 reads
22 comments
 

 

So she's slumped over sobbing,

great heaves of regret 

falling onto orange nylon, 

and there's a baby murmuring 

and the still-hot-hard brittle sound 

of footsteps, hollow ricochet going down, 

down and away, away keep going, away. 

The sky is not slag and not slate,

but some seam shared, 

and she hears the kettle sigh, cry, scream - 

but stays still, sits, 

until the windows seep and blink 

and try to show something more 

than what's outside's outside 

or the faded lines of dancing men,

and she thinks of the Joneses above 

and the peeling crysanthemums, 

the runty landlord all smiles and stains 

and keep the fucking noise downs and 

rent 

rent 

rent 

dya hear me?

 

The air is a shock;

past the estate and the factory mass 

are fields and fat hills;

it's a long way there and a long way down. 

The child in her arms is her flesh and blood

and she holds him tight,

remembers a song from the wireless 

they played this morning. 

She thinks there was sun 

and if she closes her eyes, a light forms 

and she hears the song louder,

sees the sun and the rush of light 

and music and light and skin warming,

beams catching rising dust over his shoulder, 

the stubble of his chin -

and she remembers her feet moving 

and a sound like a voice singing 

that might be hers or someone else's - 

singing the song on the wireless now. 

A long way there and a long way down. 

She remembers the sun on her face, 

a song playing 

and her bare feet in the carpet,

dancing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Certificate 15
Poem
A Doughnut Sends A Postcard Home
Miscellaneous

Comments

Submitted by Ewan on

loved this. Visceral and authentic.
Not keen on the monster font, but that's just me. I know we have a lot of older members who like their letters BIG.
Good stuff

Author Page at the 'Zon
 

Submitted by fatboy74 on

Thanks Ewan. This is the second poem i've posted from notepad on Ipad and for some reason it comes out Godzilla font. Can you change the font size in edit?

Done it, I am a tech prodigy.

 

 

Submitted by mickleinapickle on

Powerful poetry. 1950s or thereabouts? Brought back memories/emotions from long ago.

 

Submitted by fatboy74 on

A little later Shackleton but not far off. Think that wallpaper's probably back in fashion now. All the best.

 

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

well done for fixing the godzilla font. Nothing to distract from the poem, which is brilliant- I imagine it spoken in a kind of furtive rush. 

 

Submitted by fatboy74 on

Thanks poncey, you are spot on about the delivery. It was originally in a two block paragraphs, I didn't know whether to split as I have, or leave it like prose/poetry. It seemed to work both ways, but it seemed more breathless the other way, which I liked and hence the mass of conjunctions. 

 

Submitted by skinner_jennifer on

I found this to be such an emotional poem F B, but I suppose that's because I'm sensitive. I thought you captured woman's feelings in great detail. There seemed to me to be a yearning for the springtime of her life when things were easier. I apologise if I've got what you were trying to convey wrong, but this is how I pictured the scene, which I found very moving.

Jenny.

 

Submitted by fatboy74 on

Thanks Jenny for reading and your kind words, really pleased the voice worked for you and you found it emotive. I think once it's out there, interpretation is each readers and what they get from it is just as valid and I really like yours. 

 

Submitted by Parson Thru on

I couldn’t agree more about the "out there" there thing. It's whatever it conjures, within the bounds of suggestion, I suppose. I like the break, but I don't know why. Thinking time for the speaker, maybe. Reflecting on what they've just said, on the landlord and rent. It adds another layer of authenticity. Just put Auden down to read this. How did the Audens of this world gain their recognition? Some good popular ballads, but this poem of yours leaves more of an impression than most of what I've read today.

Parson Thru

Submitted by fatboy74 on

Ha yes, I forgot the 'within the bounds of suggestion' part! The break is movement from bed to window, but what you said and everything in between as well. Never been a fan of Auden, what little I've read. I'm currently reading The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry a UEA creative writing graduate. There is some good writing, but it's incredibly self indulgent and the characterisation is awful, just awful. But she's a UEA creative writing graduate which I guess helps. Your comment has made my day and I hope the sun is shining for you wherever you are.

 

Submitted by Parson Thru on

I often wonder whether the likes of Dostoyevsky benefited from a diploma or degree. Perhaps.

There's a balance. First person, semi-autobiographical writing can be intimate and vicarious, or can tumble into self-indulgence, as Kerouac did. Or self-pity. I'm learning not to write when drunk or during the night. It means I don't write much, but the world's a better place for it. I'm giving Auden some time. Part of going out and looking.

Parson Thru

Submitted by Parson Thru on

Bright sunshine outside. Chilly though.

Parson Thru

Submitted by fatboy74 on

I blame John Hannah for Auden, although I liked him in Sliding Doors, but he was not right for Rebus. I always write late, but never after too much sauce. I'm also trying to sit on what I write for a few days before putting it on here, because like you say, what smells of roses at 3.00 a.m, in the cold light of day, can often be just a big pile of horse shit. Sunglasses and scarves for you today then PT.

 

Submitted by Parson Thru on

It was, yes. Nice to see the sun though. Hope it's been shining down your way. Yes, sitting on it and reading it afresh is the way to go. A friend suggested that I don't post everything I write, too, which makes a lot of sense. I've been treating it like a long-term experiment. Just pouring funny coloured liquids into test tubes to see what happens. A bit more craft, maybe. Doing lots of reading now. And trying to learn a bit. Let's see if it helps.

Parson Thru

Submitted by rjnewlyn on

This is our Facebook and Twitter Pick of the Day! Please share/retweet if you like it

 

Submitted by fatboy74 on

That's great, many thanks.

 

Submitted by london_calling79 on

There is such a strong voice here. The scope is compact and that adds to the claustrophobia and the depth of emotion.

 

Submitted by fatboy74 on

Thanks London Calling, appreciate that. yes

 

Submitted by Ed Crane on

This morning I found this gem. This is so visual to me. I see everything in black and white, not because it's like an old movie or an early Ken Loach play of the week, but because it tells a story, or should that be the story, of mining and heavy industrial communities pretty much everywhere. Folks there often live surrounded by natural beauty, but it's masked by daily drudgery and the ever present shadow of danger and death.

Of course the mention of the Joneses deposits 'the valleys' in my mind, but to me this is bigger than that. Poetry or prose it works either way, I can't help feeling a little of Sylvia Plath's desperation in this, but overall it's as hard hitting as a miner's pickaxe. 

Terrific work FB ... this could make poem of the month IMHO 

Regarding a reading, certainly it would spring to life in the hands of a good reader. Personally I think it would benefit from being read slowly, with deliberate pauses, not necessarily at line breaks. If someone could manage the style of Anthony Hopkins or the great Burton it'd make your toes curl!

Good Luck

Ed Crane

 

Submitted by fatboy74 on

What a wonderful comment Ed, I very much appreciate your feedback, many thanks. That place is always Salford for me, the original Dirty Old Town, I can't get away from it, but you're right, it could be south Wales, the North East and that ever present danger of death you mentioned, and I was thinking of DH Lawrence's Odour of Chysanthemums (among other things) before I wrote this. 

I know that Rob Brydon does a very good Anthony Hopkins, although come to think of it, Anthony Hopkins is still alive, so he could do it himself. 

All the very best.

 

Submitted by Philip Sidney on

The beauty and agony of life - wonderful stuff.

Submitted by fatboy74 on

Dear Noo and Philip Sidney, thanks for the lovely words, much appreciated.