London to York

London to York

by Helen Barter

Trying to write for my daughter, but

the image of your ebony skinned lover

and a life which no longer includes me

keeps forcing itself into my mind.

Tall, elegant, shaven head and 

those white, white teeth.

A smiling vision of sophistication

exotically opposite to all that I am.

The image will keep returning 

at times of self-doubt and 

uncertainty - like now.

York to London

York to London

by Helen Barter

Trepidatious fluttering stomach

sipping tea from a spouted paper cup.

Dried up bacon, from a less than fresh bun,

lodges in my teeth as the train arrives.

Seat reservation made

the line is caught.

Hooked and pulled tight.

Reeled in by the

frantic spooling of an invisible thread

drawing me closer and closer towards

the rod which I beat myself with.

Accompanied by a constant shadow, 

now running alongside the sunlight which 

catches on the endless track,

flashing through the muffled voices of 

suffocating conversations and soporific shrouds.

Ignoring reserved, class, coach, seat C71, 

I face the other way.

The tugging line which draws blood from my lip

as I writhe and fight against the future

becomes a safety harness

as I relax, blinkered,

leaning my back into the now.

There is no shadow running alongside.

I am basking in bright sunshine.

My eyes close, and the soporific shroud

becomes a welcome lullaby.

Unrequited Love

Unrequited Love

by Helen Barter

If you were here .....

I would kiss you gently. 

A kiss of welcome; of knowledge;

a kiss of shared experience, and yes,

a kiss of love. 

A kiss so soft its imprint 

would be left on your heart 

rather than your lips.

I would kiss you firmly.  

A kiss of familiarity; of intellectual stimulation;

a kiss of things to come, and yes, 

a kiss of desire. 

A kiss so meaningful it 

would awaken feral memories

of a lust once aroused.

I would kiss you passionately. 

A kiss of urgency;

a kiss of overwhelming lust.

A kiss to atone for unfulfilled and unrequited longing.

A kiss so full of necessity it would 

tear at your soul 

as well as your skin.

I would kiss you with abandon. 

A kiss of uncontrollable ecstasy.

A kiss with orgasmic intent.   

A kiss so full of us both

that it would burn your taste into 

my mouth 

forever.

Cupboard

Cupboard

by Helen Barter

I am drowning in stuff, and

it makes my mission impossible.

Just living a life

is an insurmountable effort, if

I can't get from A to B.

Displaying my stuff in the window means

I can't close the curtains

without knocking things over;

The kitchen is an uncharted deep, dark cavern

beginning to grow mould on mould

and even getting into the bathroom

is a nightmare.

I clear a space, for me,

in my small corner.

Large enough to sit.

A kennel for my black dog.

I can make my life in that small corner,

showing the world my 'happy head'

still unable to light a life

with my own dim candle.

I'll come out when it's all over.

There are too many obstacles.

There is too much mess.

It is too hard

to take that

one

small

step, again,

and again, and again . . .

let alone

the

giant

leap

required

to hurdle the piles and piles of clutter.

"Release your tight grip on that candle-end

and allow the world to warm your cold, numb fingers.

It's ok to kick and spit and fight.

But not with yourself.

Not by yourself.

You are not Old Mother Hubbard

The dog may still hold the leash but

it is not your master."

Three poems from SCARBOROUGH FLARE workshops

I was delighted to have been able to attend two poetry writing workshops over the long weekend of Scarborough Flare. These are poems which I wrote at the workshops.

The first two were inspired by Jo Reed's "WOMEN's WORKS" workshop:

Pass the parcel

Layer upon layer of names

protecting me from myself.

Pack up all the emotions

but leave no forwarding address.

Brown paper packages tied up with string

but these are not favourite things.

Tie the string tight - so that none of me escapes.

Then i can be myself again.

Hot Tap

Hot.

It's no more hot 

than Magritte's pipe is a pipe.

The ceramic, the word.

Even the beautifully turned metal thread of the connector.

All plastic.

Cold hard plastic.

It offers no conduction 

even if heat could be applied.

The next was inspired by Adrienne Silcock's 'Waves and Wishes' workshop:

Me.

Alone.

Searching.

Bent double with my hands digging wildly in the wet sand.

Wearing rags as grey and damp as the air which enfolds me.

Lost in today, and maybe tomorrow.

I want to bury my whole self, along with my hands.

I am me.

I am alone.

Today, and maybe tomorrow.

Catching Rainbows

Catching Rainbows

by Helen Barter

Focussed on hedonistic pleasure,

our prism spins, flings 

rainbows towards my heart.

We feel the colour and

embrace in refracted light.

So why try to catch rainbows?

Appreciate the exquisite now.

Trust in tears and sunshine.

Our rainbow will come again. 

And again.

Apologies

Apologies

by Helen Barter

She phoned

to apologise.

Assuming I was your wife.

I said I wasn't.

I apologised.

Was she your wife?

She said she wasn't.

We both apologised.

Your wife phoned.

Your poor, poor wife

apologised!

But are you really sorry?