A collection of poems and other writings...

Tuesday, 27 June 2017

Will you never kiss my face again - A Villanelle

We've been looking at the villanelle in my writing class, so I thought I'd have a bash at one.  There's something very wistful and slightly archaic about the form for me - the repeated rhymes and refrains.  I have been a little free with the form but I think it is still recognisably a villanelle....


Will you never kiss my face again -
your hands reach out no more, your finger's tip
not trace the line of cheek on down to chin?

Will my tongue not taste your breathy stain
and will your lip not press upon my lip?
Will you never kiss my face again?

Remember times when we embraced in rain.
Remember how we gave the sun the slip.
Now there is terror in this parted pain.

You struck me once, I still recall the sting:
your hand against my cheek – my swollen lip.
Will you never strike this face again?

And tears you cried, when stressing under strain
or contemplating yet another trip –  
for there was terror in that parted pain.

But now the parting is complete. Death's train
has swept you from the platform, made no slip.
Now there is terror in this parted pain
For you will never kiss my face again.

Thursday, 1 June 2017

shell

I meet you
and my heart bleeds words

and so
upon torn scraps of vellum
I write the words down
in my blood ink
to capture
the beating heart of you
in the beating heart of me

I have chosen my most special epithets
and inscribe them
upon this precious parchment

and with a gum construed

from saliva
and sweat
and blood
and tears

I paste them
upon your soft skin
to cling like lips
to each ululating contour
to follow the curve of your cheek
the sweet overhang of your breast
the challenging valleys
the darker ravines of you
shaped and followed
by my anxious collage

and through such moulding
have I not trapped the beauty
of your spirit
within this papiermâché shell

you dance
and dandle
drift and delight
and I adore you
in this cocooned form

even while I watch
the spirit sift like spun sand
from the pulpit
of your eyes
and listen
to the sea
shudder in your breast