Pages of Notes (2010) is a short collection of poems that I wrote during and in the aftermath of the whirlwind Summer that I spent in Italy and then Edinburgh before starting at University at the age of twenty one. So called because the poems were mostly short lived little outburts that I just scribbled down as a way to order my mind. They tell of a battle between head and heart but love, it seems, inevitably will out.
Pages of Notes
Just before stepping into a steamy smoky warmth,
I’ll take a second for you lovely boy.
What a beautiful summer it was,
still is of course even though our part is through.
My half-filled case is spilling across the bed
in anticipation of the next colourful adventure.
No doubt yours will remain in chaos
until hours before you too have to leave our summer behind.
I caught sight of two moons tonight,
one through the glass, the other in its reflection.
I miss watching moons and fireflies with you
and dancing in circles under the stars.
I have tasted love, to my knowledge, three times.
The first was the first. First love is tricky.
It was clumsy, confusing and taught me a lot.
The second came easily but did not run smoothly
and left me hurt above everything else.
Then the third brought something new to the table.
A gentle, easy way of being.
A new found strength through self-respect.
A disregard for traditional timings meant that
ours was a world built on us alone.
The third is now my yardstick, my colour of comparison.
Measure up to that
and you might just make it through.
But pale in comparison,
you’ll fade into the background.
I liked the taste of love, the third time around.
It’s late and I’m tired but I miss you still
It was hours ago sunbeams slipped down off the sill
My skin feels the shadow of your lips on mine
Tracing with fingers to map out the line
Then falsely I fall to a moment of bliss
Lost in the longing to capture your kiss
Sitting somewhere between two very different realities
a position is carefully considered.
Almost nightly not-so-brief exchanges
make clarity a probable impossibility.
Time alters to accommodate
and sleep shifts down the list of importance.
Late mornings allow for even later nights
leaving breakfast untouched on the table.
In the late evening fall out
after happy news from a mutual friend
I think a little on what our love means.
For you, dear one,
I know these thoughts are
and indeed should be a million miles away
just for the moment.
But being of female persuasion,
given a moment to myself
I permit my mind to wonder to such places.
I have seen love, known love
am happily, utterly in love,
But beyond now is then
I like the thought of then.
I don’t know of course,
But I can see it,
on some days, oh so clearly.
you and I,
There really are a hundred other things I should be doing
A thousand other thoughts that should be in my head
A million reasons why this is a bad idea
But a hundred other things can wait
A thousand other thoughts will be there later
And a million and one reasons why this is a good idea
Mystery of Nature
The world spins.
everyone knows that.
The sun will rise tomorrow
just as it did today
and somewhere in between that
the moon might show its face.
In some places
the ground is flat.
In others it waves,
cracks or crumbles.
Water might appear to be still
but dive down deep enough
and life runs riot.
What of all this,
the mystery of nature?
So constant and inconstant.
All at once
and changes unalterably
then all in a moment
it remains the same.
You are that invisible force.
At the first warm whispered word
I am sent spinning.
I walk, I sit, I stand, I sleep.
Six hours later, you do too.
Every day the same.
Then somewhere in amidst that
I might catch a glimpse of you.
Sometimes you will speak to me
with heavy laden lids
then conversely you’ll communicate
from tall towers of sky high happiness.
Often you appear still, smooth
a sea of calm.
I watch those waters with interest
only having explored their depths
a few times before.
You are all this,
my mystery of nature.
So constant and inconstant
all at once.
Together we breathe
and change unalterably.
Then all in a moment,
we remain the same.
It hurts to swallow
with its spines and core.
Though some take it with sugar
I prefer to have mine raw.
I can take the prickles
and I’ll even eat the pyth,
my apple has no poison
that’s a culinary myth.
I’ve climbed my share of fruit trees
one or two that weren’t yet ripe.
There are reasons we have seasons
if you listen through the hype.
Though I’m content
with just a bite or two,
I’ll take what I can get.
I’m happy waiting, knowing
it’s the best fruit I’ve had yet.
For it grows sweeter with every taste
with every bite I try.
I hunger for it every day,
the apple of my eye.
With carefully considered precision
his hands move in intricate circles,
his mind mapping every motion,
sensing the slightest change,
fingers find out every detail,
searching and seeking
and smoothing as they go,
each joint lifts and rotates,
he works tirelessly,
paying intimate attention
to every slight sensation.
This is what he does.