Imagining Myself to be a Poet

 

 

 

Imagining myself to be a poet

 

Baby cradled in one arm

 

I wait for a flash of inspiration

 

 

Words seem to peel off my other arm

 

In strips, skin curling upwards,

 

Turning into crisps

 

 

My toddler picks one up and

 

eats it – Mummy, I want some

 

more, more!

 

 

All hope of an idea vanishes.

 

Inside Out

 

 

 

Taut skin

Belly button sinking.

 

Who are you?

 

I feel that you –

 

cannot really be there

 

inside me.

 

I don’t want to be turned inside out.

 

Have you got anything to do with me?

 

Really?

 

Will I cease to be real

 

when you are born?
 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool

Image: A photograph taken by Espen Klem titled ‘It’s gonna blow!’ available for reuse via a Creative Commons license and available on Flickr.

 

Dying Apart Together

 

I saw what could be,                

 

Your gravestone with my

 

name on it, two bodies together

 

in death, as if we were still

 

living.

 

A strange thing to hope for,

 

I kept my thoughts to myself

 

not sure that you would

 

understand.

 

 

I said goodbye to you at

 

the station.

 

I thought, this is how it

 

was

 

for lovers during the war.

 

I suddenly understood their tears,

 

the thought that today

 

might be

 

the last day.


 

I saw through you, straight – as I

 

stepped onto the train;

 

you, already a long way

 

away.

 

I knew then, just how close we were –

 

that I could read you;

 

the relief behind your

 

eyes as I waved

 

goodbye.
 
 
Copyright owned by Jay Cool

Image ‘Loveheart, Gravestone, White Rose’ courtesy of Max Pixel by Creative Commons License.

 

Do I still know you?

Do I still know you?

 

The walls themselves groan with your echoing moans.

 

Voices like out of tune violas merge into the wailing phones.

 

As they ring, desperate to be heard above your din,

 

Even the TV newsreader gets louder, struggling for recognition.

 

It would be rude to cover my ears,

 

I am a guest now.

 

My room smells of your drying laundry.

 

The titles of my books are no longer readable,

 

Covered by the white pants turned grey.
 
 
Copyright owned by Jay Cool

Image: Viola photo from Wikipedia and labelled ‘free for reuse’.

 

Tutorial Notes

You will know when.

 

How?

 

You won’t have any need to ask yourself.

 

Why?

 

You will just know.

 

Just know?

 

Yes, you’ll know. You won’t need to say anything. Or give anything of yourself away. It will

 

just be there. You will know when.

 

Okay, I’ll keep quiet. Keep listening.
 
 
 
Copyright owned by Jay Cool

 

Death at Christmas

The tree is up and the lights are on

The glow is bright and warm

 

But I feel cold

 

 

The tree is real, not a plastic job

 

The colour is green, but parts are yellow

 

and the ferns are falling

 

 

The glow may be bright

 

But the lights are not real – look closer.

 

See the icicles hanging

 

 

The tree is green, but not forever.

 

Its roots have gone

 

It is dying

 

 

Icicles melt, but the moisture is too late

 

The tree is brown and dry – the carpet is wet –

 

the dampness spreads

 

 

All is dead.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool

 

Revisiting a Childhood Home

 

The smell of sleeping mouths hanging wide open; damp fumes spreading.

 

A pair of shoes with black melted plastic soles sizzling next to the fire.

 

A panting beast – it’s dreams interrupted with the occasional snore – with bottom parked on singed shoes.

 

A pair of red ankles emerging from beneath the dog’s belly.

 

A rug with a hideous green-geometrical edge pattern, filled in with brown-stained flowers.

 

A glass-fronted, saliva-sprayed and finger-smudged, orange-tinged bookcase – crammed full with

Catherine Cookson and her friends.

A ‘Mallen Litter, cursed with a white streak, taking comfort from ‘Poldark’, and bookmarked forever

with ‘Our Daily Bible Readings’.

A dying arthritic dog with loose bowels, yellow fangs and bad breath called Skip.


Last days.

No more crying.
 
 
Copyright owned by Jay Cool

 

Liver

 

Eat it up.

 

It’s good for you.

 

Especially at your time of the month.

 

 

Why?

 

 

Why am I expected to eat a brown fibrous lump full of open caverns, jugular veins, worm casings and the concrete tubes on kid’s playgrounds?

 

 

If I eat it, I’ll only have to crap it out again.

 

But I’m being watched.

 

My mother’s eyes devour me.

 

Scour my face for the appearance of red-raw blood cells.

 

For the evidence of dead veins clogging up my maze of threads.

 

 

I examine the dead flesh on my plate.

 

The best I can hope for is to …

 

Enter one of the openings.

 

To crawl inside it.

 

And.

 

Most probably.

 

To find that my arse is stuck in there.

 

When I try to crawl out again.
 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool



Image of  ‘Pan-fried Lamb’s Liver’ by Alpha. Available under Creative Commons License on Wikimedia (originally posted on Flickr).

 

Sibling Territory

 

Magazines neatly piled –

 

the edges all lined up with each other and

parallel to the edges of the table.

 

A dust-free table and a strong smell of furniture

polish, toothpaste and starch.

 

Shirts hanging in the wardrobe;

 

each hanger exactly two centimetres from its neighbour – not a crease

 

to be seen.

 

No scrunches, craters or hills in the duvet.

 

The smell of shampooed hair exuding from the plumped-up pillow.

 

Toe nails, dog hairs and Bonio biscuits under the bed.

 

My brother’s room.

 

 

 

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool

Photo by Dennis Yang and available on Flickr by Creative Commons License

 

Preserve

 

glass impenetrable

 

where is the odour

 

coming from?

 

 

a toe nail flickers

 

the liquid yellows

 

and thickens

 

 

can I break the crystal box?

 

your toes cry out

 

untouched, unloved

 

 

your sweet smell

 

grows foul

 

with decay
 
 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool


Image ‘free for reuse’ in public domain, by Lai Afong, c1870s, available on Wikimedia Commons.