On Being Left

On Being Left

By Helen Birmingham

With my eyes closed

I stare at you.

Unblinking.

Did I pull the words from your mouth like vomit, and then

Watch them pierce my flesh.

Watch as each hole.

Each scar,

Each wound,

Bled with your words?

Your sentences drew blood from my lip, as I

Writhed and fought to keep hold of you.

But when you were done with me

You simply snipped the thread, and

Walked

Away.

I know.

You made me beautiful.

So who scribbled onto my beauty

With these scratches, scars, knots and tangles?

In our white box with padded walls

So many words were stitched.

Now everything is black knotted thread.

And with my eyes closed,

I stare at you.

Unblinking.

Why Did the Old Woman Cross the Road?

Why Did the Old Woman Cross the Road?

by Helen Barter

A road separates two old ladies,

on opposite sides, both dressed in turquoise coat

and beige trousers. Each wearing one red shoe;

both leaning slightly, to opposite sides,

listing with the weight of their shopping.

Which one will cross to meet the other?

They both set off, step for tentative step,

no eye contact, no gesture of recognition.

A road still separates the two old ladies,

on opposite sides, both dressed in turquoise coat

and beige trousers, each wearing one red shoe;

Now walking, in opposite directions,

listing with the weight of their worlds.

First Oyster: French Kissing a Mermaid

French Kissing a Mermaid

by Helen Barter

Mouth curves to meet lover's gnarled lip.

Expectant tremble of anticipation as 

tongue touches tongue;

slide then swallow her

salty gift of 

love. 

X

Reader, she married him.

Reader, She Married Him

By Helen Barter

Ignore that remnant of the past, 

screaming from the roof, and

walking the corridors after dark.

Did she leave because he lied?

What if he had told her?

Would they simply have pined

for that which they could not have?

Lived a life frustrated.

Screaming in unison with 

the anguished soul of another?

She would not accept

the remainder of him.

What if he had asked her?

Turn a blind eye to attic-bound death 

in exchange for sight and freedom?

What if he had asked her that?

Was that punishment for his lies

or absolution for his sins?

Reader, she married him.

The burnt and beautiful remains of him.

Not the remainder.

Regret

Regret

By Helen Barter

Out, damned spot! out, I say!

Here's the mark of regret still:  

All the lasers of Harley Street

Will not sweeten this misjudgement.

I must bear the scar.

What's done cannot be undone .....

1970's Mere

1970's Mere

by Helen Barter

And there we were

you and me, in a beautiful pea-green 

paddle boat.

Bright red handles of

innocence turning 

water 

churning 

as

bare knee brushes bare knee

and the sun shines.

Edison's Elephant

Edison's Elephant

By Helen Barter

All the fun of the fair.

Smile for the camera.

Smile damn you, smile.

Smile as the foetid smoke rises

from between your toes.

Smile as you fall; darkly.

Rigor mortis

stiffens my resolve

as well as your tortured body.

Tess

Tess

by Helen Barter

Memories of reading Hardy; 

obsessional Fairytale hunting -

Ignoring the text.

The only word to register is 

lovemaking.

Angel is not mine.

By the hairs on my chinny chin chin, 

I will not let you in.

Tears fall onto tombstones

as the christmas bell tolls.

Tussle

Tussle

by Helen Barter

I want nights of tussle.

Fighting over the duvet for warmth.

Generating heat.

I want days of tussle.

Fighting over thoughts and ideas.

Igniting flames.

I want evenings of tussle.

Using reignited flames to light

independent candles of ...

Life.

But we can't always have

what we want.

Luggage Labels

The "Windowful of Pockets" needs an extra frame and labels in the pockets to write the names for the running order. Felix, the editor of "Pocketful of Windows" likes it!! I am so pleased!

Another good day .....

Windowful of Pockets

I am so pleased with how this work is going. The acetate looks like glass in an old bookshop window, and the pockets look like books on a bookshelf. I am going to handstitch scribbly couched lines, like writing, linking across horizontally with the words of the poems, in black over the hessian, and in white over the window 'leaded lights'.  Very happy. 

 I really liked the ragged edges and fraying from the interim stages, and will continue with this in another piece, but for this particular piece, I want crisp window bars to emphasise the regular look of books and the window, contrasting with the random and fluid lines of the writing.

Progress

The thing  I am working on is for a poetry anthology book launch and open mic night on 5 December. The title of the book is "A Pocketful of Windows". I also needed a method of randomly selecting the running order for the evening. Thinking too literally, and since I have lots of dolls house windows left over from a previous project, I decided to start there. (See previous blog entry).

But it quickly became obvious the logistics of getting the windows to open, to reveal the name of the next reader,  was going to be too much for my non-carpenter's hands - these are hands to sew with, not saw with! I asked the editor of the anthology to send me a couple of lines from some of the poems. Inspiration overload!!, lots more ideas in the back of my sketchbook!

Windows, pockets, words, poems, December, advent calendar - a Windowful of Pockets - on its way!!

24 pockets, with verse, set within a window-like structure.

 

A new piece of work in the making........

I think this may be significant (finally) so I am going to blog its progress. For my benefit more than anyone else's because I still wonder about the value of a blog for the rest of the world! This makes a nice change from posting a poem though.

You Can't Have Everything

You Can't Have Everything

by Helen Barter

I used to say 

I didn't want anything.

Now I have nothing.

No responsibility for anything, 

except staying alive.

Not even for staying alive -

unless I want to.

Oath

Oath

by Helen Barter

Paroxysm of rebellion coughed 
into an empty ice cream tub.
Girl, guided by duty, to
promise that I will do my best.
Whose law should I be keeping
if not my own?

Half Term

Half Term

by Helen Barter

I know I am being a pain
but it's half term. 
School's out.
School's been blown to pieces.

Always the thrill of counting down the days.
Always the thrill of expectation.
Always the let down.
Reality.

I know I am being a pain.
It's half term.
I bought smokes for rolling behind the bike shed
with the big boys.

"Get bigger knickers if your pants don't fit."
Always the let down.
I thought I was supposed
to have grown out of nappies.

Clock Cafe at Eleven

Clock Cafe at Eleven

by Helen Barter

Reality is an unexpected companion.

It is here. Clock Cafe at eleven.

Dress considered and make-up applied.

Today there will be no tears.

That's a grain of sand which blew into my eye,

and the pale channels which appear

on my cheeks

are evidence of a turning tide.

Release

Release

By Helen Barter

There is no sense of distance, no sense of time.

The approaching shadow recedes;

pulling a breath deep from within my lungs

exhaled on the turning tide.

Imprisoned within each other, 

we are finally free.

Mother

Mother

by Helen Barter

She recognises in him

A bright openness to

All the possibilities 

Of the world.

But she can't remember

Seeing it in her own children.

She only remembers 

Pushing, forcing down.

Not able to cope with

Another bloody child walking.

Let-down

Let-down

by Helen Barter

Reflex response 

to suckling pig, weaned 

and no longer curious.

Bare breasted

I still ache.