Poem: What’s safe(st) to take?

For a long time

I would not go to bed.

I got used to it.

You probably remember those months

where I slept in your lap.

I dripped poetry while you dripped paint

and we dipped our finger tips

in wax

and pinched our skin black.

You would speak

and I would tell you

the taste of it.

For old time’s sake,

Which part of your body

Does this poem go to?

Your fingers or teeth,

The top of your chest,

your throat? Does it touch your face?

I thought you were brave in your

Woman’s jeans, but I found

more comfort in your whimpering screams

in the dark.

Our words were soothing

For each other. Then what?

You told me what was safe to take

And what not to take, or do.

But who told you?

For as long as I let it. And I do.

Despite it being our only home

and our new family.

If that stranger above

our window ever jumps.

I’ll come back for you,

and this time I’ll tell you!

I’ll tell you not to take it

and I’ll tell you what to do.

Poem: Lovingly Degraded

I once heard someone say

to my friend

“I want to lovingly degrade you.”

And my friend replied,

calm and collected:

“I don’t know my own Father,

so that’s fine by me.”

And here I am again,

in Cambridge, wondering

which direction

promises this conversation,

or at least a cab,

a God,

a merciless mouth.

I walk.

It’s the potential I’m

in love with. The anticipation

of not knowing a soul,

or more importantly

a face.

What turns them on?

Attention (not affection) normally.

Is there a difference?

I certainly don’t care which.

But I don’t like being heartless.

I’m not good at it.

I quit.

I’m quite sure you’ll die 

a modern death,

although I’d like to see you

'happen'.

But you’re not as heavy as the books -

Or as happy.

Even with those heavy

black boots

In a calm procession of

Darling and Honey.

No matter how much money

they throw at us

I fear you’ll always be lovingly degraded.

And I’ll degrade myself.

I’ll be loving.

On behalf of you.

__________________________________

I keep starting new poems before I have time to finish previous ones. I'm literally drowning in half finished, terrible poetry. 

As a rule, I normally post one poem for every ten I write, but in this case, this is the only one I've finished, so I didn't have a lot of choice.

Deal with it.

Lost in London

Remember when we got
the eighteen past eleven train
from Cambridge
to Kings Cross.
And somewhere between
Tottenham Court
and Soho
we got lost?

And you got really angry
because you swore
you knew
the way.
And you wouldn't stop
apologising
no matter
what i'd say.

But this place that
you had taken me
really was
perfection.
Despite being
20 minutes walk
in the wrong
direction.

And you know
how well attached we are
to the feeling of being
intangible.
And that feeling
followed us round
that night,
"I'll do what you command me to."

And I broke the
law that night
I counted in
my head.
As I swam through
all the feelings -
sensations
I thought were dead.

Remember looking
through a window
at a stranger in
Pulp Fiction?
And we talked about
distracting him
while you stole food
from his kitchen.

But instead we just
discussed in depth
our love for
Christopher Walken.
And decided
that it must be fate
to have this much
in common.

And we spent 3 nights
in London,
proud of our
spontaneous-ness.
And we never
got to Soho,
but we swelled with our
self righteousness.

Poem: Always

'Can I hug you one last time?'

you say

as I role my eyes, pretending I'm fine.

'I'm OK'.

You hug me anyway,

in the same way as always with my face hidden,

and your best side showing off to the world.

And in some ways

I'll miss that.

In some ways? Always.

'Can I hug you one last time?'

you say

as we try to ignore the pittance of things to pack.

'I'm OK'.

You hug me anyway

and I mumble how we need to hurry up

and you say nothing because you never listen.

And in some ways

I'll miss that.

In some ways? Always.

'Can I hug you one last time?'

you say

as we drink too much wine on the roof of this place.

'I'm OK'.

You hug me anyway

and say how you love my face and my hair and my smile,

but I'm not as good as you by miles.

And in some ways

I'll miss that.

In some ways? Always.

'Can I hug you one last time?'

I say

as the car pulls up and you grin my way.

'Always',

you say.

An even though you're arrogant 

and vain and drunk and insane

in some ways

I'll miss that.

In all ways. Always.

Poem: Left Unsaid

Now we are no longer
any trouble to each other

I can fill my mind, with the infinite list
of all the things that we did, and the important

things we missed.
For instance:

We did all the parties, all night felt the rush
in the air, we felt the feelings, but did I blush

at the sound of your name from my lips?
Or did I let it slip by

Silently
between sips.

And we walked in the rain at 7a.m.
the drugs worn off - a house of strangers again.

But I didn't take your picture as the light came through,
and only managed the memory for a day or two.

And we met everyday for two weeks
at half past 11 before work, on Castle Street,

and every time - always late, you hopped
round the corner

I had sickening butterfly's
as I waited before you.

And not once did I cry.
And I never described

my hearts unrest,
and although I had the words, I never confessed

to you where it hurt, and how much it hurt
at its worst.

And I said mean things and never meant them,
but also sweet nothings anyone could have mentioned,

because I was too busy laughing at our jokes
to provoke

any feelings that might lead to us actually speaking,
or, God forbid, disagreeing.

So now at the end, all the things left unsaid:
about the heart, where it hurts, and whatever lays ahead.

..........................................................................................

I thought I'd try and write a poem in rhyming couplets because I've been reading a lot of Geoffrey Chaucer recently and became a little obsessed with the form.
However, I did not appreciate how difficult it would be. The rhyming itself wasn't too hard because pretty much every poem I write has rhyming it. However, it was deviating from irregular rhyme to couplets that I found challenging. It's safe to say that I didn't really succeed in keeping to a strict structure, and it pretty much became like any of my other poems but in neat little lines. I'm not really sure if I have the patience to try again. Structure sucks.
I normally wouldn't have posted an 'experiment' like this one, but despite not liking the structure, I don't mind the poem itself. I'm still not completely happy with it, but I've been busy with Uni, and people on Tumblr thought I had died, so I thought I better post something!

Choking

Viciously you observe -
making me wait.
You let me run away with
my imagination,
but years too late.
You gave me hope,
but when you woke,
you knew me inside out
and grabbed me by
the throat.

Passionately you hold -
You choke, I choke myself.
But sometimes,
when the passions slacks,
I lean on you for help.
I hate that you
surround me,
burried to the neck.
And I know that you're not me,

But you're as close as you can get.

How I write poems

I've had a lot of people asking me on here and on Tumblr and in real life how I write my poems, like, what is my process. In truth, I don't really have one. Most of the time I hear a line on TV or in a song that I like the sound of and the rest of the poem just follows in like a cascade of pathetic emotions.

I've only performed poetry once at an open mic event thing, and when people asked me afterwards what inspired me to write the poem, I replied with 'its all just whining'. As much as I love reading and writing poems, I can't help but think that most of it is just people moaning about their lives in flouncy language. But hey, everyone needs to vent in some way.

Anyway, I keep all my first drafts of my poems and they pretty much sum up my 'process'. It's just trial and error and a lot of scribbles. For example:

Poem: Why can't we find home?

Why can't we find home?

All that I've found

is you gunning us down

as we went for the bait - 

following blindly

the shadows you make.

Why can't we find home?

don't make a sound

and don't turn around

because our past's bitter sweet,

and repairable maybe

if we learn to agree.

Why can't we find home?

Are we hell-bound

lost in a crowd?

All these lucky kids

who don't have a clue - 

we've nothing to lose.

Why can't we find home?

I see your weakness

but it's reflecting my own.

And this head I hold is sick of lying,

we can't find home because we've given up trying.

Poem: Embrace

Sometimes in our naivety

we sit and wait to grow.

Other times we run

head down, eyes closed

into the rush.

But run or wait it doesn't matter.

One day you'll round a corner

and your path won't be lit.

Stolen, misplaced,

blink and it's missing.

Your heart a memory, a limb, a promise, a person.

Your naivety has gone

and now your journey has changed.

The light of your path refracted,

leaves you pointed in a new direction.

Some won't approve,

Some will want the other you.

Some won't realise you have left at all.

But what has happened has happened,

and cannot be undone. 

We pay for our laughter.

We pay to weep - 

Knowledge is not cheap.

With each breath we inhale

we exhale

we inspire

we expire.

Every turn we encounter 

a new laugh, a new cry,

a new story, a new song.

Every conversation flows bitter

or sweet over the tongue.

And when you're born into loss

you grow from it.

When you experience loss later in life,

you grow towards it.

A slow journey to embrace.

An embrace that leaves you holding tight

the beauty wrapped in the grotesque.  

Poem: Touches

What did we do

to find ourselves here?

Our skin cold

and numb with

desperate restraint,

but lightly touching and

pushing, among freezing

cold cushions.

We're drowsy from wine

and you doze on one side -

building suspense -

as you mumble

in my ear - cracking jokes

at my expense.

Every exhale is a 

tired laugh, and we're

suddenly so close

and warm,

with every breath

absorbed.

All sleep is broken

as our bodies press, 

full length - 

shoulder blades to breast.

This is not sex

but we're locked

with your toes

to my instep.

We sink together

and slowly bite back

the chill:

The hard black frost

that only this can heal.

And everything we've ever

been taught to be - 

wrong or right is

forgotten

in our grand passion as we

imagine 

tomorrow's fight.

Where did we spend

last night?

How could we

answer that?

This place is still

seeping through the touches - 

continuous creation - 

but firmly in 

our clutches.

You turn and hold me

tightly, the strength 

of our bodies

set. The only

movement: The fighting

in our

chests.

And slowly we sleep.

And all

intervening thoughts are

deleted

from this place - 

All I know is the feel

of your secure, firm, safe embrace. 

I wrote this poem after reading 'A Marriage in the Dolomites' by D. Nurkse, which you can read here:

It made me think about love in a pretentious and soppy kind of way, hence the soppy, pretentiousness of what I've just written. It sort of seemed like a straight forward love poem, but in the end, I thought it said something very profound about consciousness - that amidst great happiness you can resent each other. I read it thinking that they were happy with each other, but they resented each other because they were excluded from alternative happiness. 

That's what my poem is about, but with a happier tone. Although they are trying not to be in love "desperate restraint"/"The fighting in our chests". They give in to each others love "wrong or right forgotten in our grand passion"/"intervening thoughts are deleted"

Poem: I'm not fond of asking

I won't make time
for frozen minds
if you try and pull my strings,
because I'll lie
and run away
to none-existent better things.

And don't heap this
praise on me,
even if you think I need it,
because I'd lie down
for my cause
if I thought that you'd believe it.

And you take time
out of your life,
to watch me hurt myself,
but I take pride in
who I am,
and I won't ask for you to help.

Because I know
that's what you want -
You want me to give in.
But I'm stronger
than you think I am.
I've grown some thicker skin.

I'm not saying it's your fault,
although you could have done some more.
And one day
I hope I love you.
But never as before.

Poem: Hold On

Curious eye flicker this way
And that.
Whispering ghosts
And walls painted black.
Pillow like stone
Pressed against cheek,
So I smile through the darkness
To keep my mind on its feet.  

And your silhouette’s small
But I know that I’m safe.
Although I can’t see
An inch from my face.  

And what ever happened to that streetlamp outside?
I’m having some trouble keeping these thoughts up inside.  

But do you ever really listen
To a word that I say?
All the stories I tell
Seem to all sound the same.
And we’re so far from happy
When we have to go home.
And I can’t bear to think of you
All on your own.  

But you say      
‘Til the next time,
I have to hold on.
But hold on to what?
And hold on for how long?  

Because the floor boards are cracking
And my shoes are worn out.
And I can’t be heard in this house 

Without having to shout.
And I’m scared of the dark
And I’m scared of the night.  
So if you’ll be my ears,
Then we’ll put up a fight.

Poem: James the Australian Man

James - the Australian man – drank some beer and snogged his wife,

And thought to himself, 

“Well this is the life, 

I live in the sun, with a view of the beach, 

In a really big house with a bathroom each, 

I could never be sad, because I’m never sober, 

OH NO! My wife’s arse has knocked the Barbie over!”    

Poem: Smiling

I’ve spent my time just smiling,
At all the troubles that were building
Between us.
And I held my breath,
And laughed at all the insults
And meanness.
But the laughs built up,
And all I want is my
Curtain call.
But now I’m all choked up,
Throwing my thoughts
At a wall. 

And what was that ever going to achieve?
Except tears, a broken hand and a feeling like I can’t breathe. 

So instead I’ll keep my head up high,
If only to stop me
From screaming.
And I won’t change my mind,
Because no one can stop me
From dreaming.
And I’ll wade through thoughts,
And I’ll find somewhere
To sleep tonight.
And when the smiles run short,
I’ll come home for
One more fight.

Poem: Here's to me

Here’s to me getting on with myself.

I never did get along with
Everybody else.
And here’s to me giving everything I’ve got,
And everything
That I've since lost.  

And here in my head
I don’t have to shout.
Here in my head
Trying to work it out.
But in or out I still don’t know
What on earth this fights about.

Maybe that’s the reason why she won.
She fears what she can’t understand
And I can’t back down to anyone.
 

So hear the anger through the drinking,
Hear me sobbing and over-thinking.
And here’s to crying through the laughter
And here’s to stupid fucking laughter 

That I keep up for hours after.  

And in that moment I ruin it all.
Hear me chuckle to ruin the fun of the fall.  

And here’s to not knowing
How to fix it anymore.
Here’s to the memory
Of being adored.
I haven’t done anything
That I’ve not done before.
What’ve I done this time
That you can’t ignore?  

And hear the punch line of the joke
Hear the laughter through the lump in my throat.
Here’s to me
Here’s to giving up.
Here’s to me giving up on luck,

Here’s to not proving that I can be strong.
Here’s to crying
And crying
And crying
Because I got it all wrong.

Katy Card

Poem: New York

The pavement has rhythm,
Irregular beats
Through cracks in concrete.
A wave a wave.
The ding ding, the hum,
The smoke and sights from New York’s mouth are loud
But young.
It never passes,

The lights go forever, a wave.

Heinous grey somehow shines
Like metal.
Wet orange reflections
Capture lights that last forever.
The bricks look like paint in this city.
The sky is made of smoke,
The doors are made of the dead,
And the people are made from paint.

The river water flashes with light.
It’s bright,
And every night
The light from glass towers
Flashes back and waves.
It shows its colour,
its glimmer,
It’s heat.

It waves and plays.
A thick glimmering fog
That latches onto you,
Shimmering.  

This place has deep vibrations,
Purpose and strong footsteps, Rumblings and concentration.
It’s the people here that keep it up.
Wet, dry, hot, cold, down.
It’s a furious devotion.

Excitement flows like a river,
Going to each and every corner,
Then floating,
Awestruck In the middle.
Anticipation.
A flurry of turmoil,
A laugh,
A shout,
The never ending sound
And the mesmerised whisper.  

Try to paint the city black.
You’ll never succeed.  

Shout among the hum, the hiss
And New York’s smoke.
Open your eyes,
Smile and plead.
Walk with the wave until you’re part of it.  

A thousand fingers point
At the view from a postcard.  
Strong footsteps, anger and perspiration.
It’s thick with colour.
The lights are wet.
The eyes,
The smiles,
The sighs are loud.  

The city that never sleeps
Shimmers beneath a painted sky. 
The suffocated hum and hiss
Could not disturb this wave.  

The peripheries shake but don’t
Shout as loud.
A patient calm to the hum it surrounds.
The city exhales.
More eyes,
More smiles.
Look and remember
Red brick and chewing gum for miles.    

The flashing stops with the lights.
No more fight
No more smoke, but a fire.
It’s warm and it floats on the walls.
These aren’t the tourist’s details
These are the details of the strangers.
Privacy breached,
On the edge of the wave.  

Some prefer the bustle,
The commotion.
The wave, like an ocean,
Washing over every other feeling but pure awe,
Delight.
Bumping shoulders
With every person twice.  

It ends so fast.
Down an alley, down a road.
A new silent world
That quietly unfurls.  
These memories won’t be printed on paper, or
On a screen.
These are to be remembered,
Fleeting,
And not shared

Because why would anyone care  

About the shape,
The smell,
The charm.
This is the calm after the storm
Quiet and forlorn
With a ripple not a wave.  

The city’s awake,
And the blackness shines.

Katy Card