Child of the 80s

Mama said there'd be days like this

when inspiration is a national myth

and bills need paying and

love needs resurrecting fast.

On the Tube to Work One Wednesday...

Somebody's gonna love you

like your perfect jumper, cosy,

worn, pilling at the sleeves.

NSFW

Midway through the phrase, both of us flinch:

"Oh, you're still in the honeymoon phase."

I wanted to punch her in the face.

Too dramatic? I'm not sure. It's just what came out tonight. I'm intrigued to see where that one will go... Also, caution to those who believe in the 'honeymoon phase.'

And, Galway....

At the time I don't believe you.

This place where for the first three months

the bay wouldn't bring my happiness back, where I

believed Bailey's would cure my upset stomach, and

woke up in the bed of an Irishwoman on St. Patty's Day.

How could this place be sacred?

Ah, it was a crass day in my writing world. (Sorry, Dad.)

Monday was for Boxes

My dear storyteller friend is living with us temporarily as she finds her way in this vast world capital of millions. One of the areas of density common in London, among many many things, is storage space. We don't have any. So, in adding a third person's food and likes and nibbles to an already creatively packed cupboard and counter top, we needed some assistance. Hence, I nicked balsa wood 'frutas y verduras' crated from the neat, clean recycle pile outside of the health food shop on my way home. It rode the Tube with me for an hour and I carried it home in the mist. It now holds pasta, can foods, and root veg on the floor in the kitchen. I also wrote about it.

Wooden boxes holding cola bottles

Wooden boxes for jalapenos

Wooden boxes for the sea shells

and tea cakes; fancy cigars and rows of jewlery

Wooden boxes to keep out of mind,

and keep the whiskey, too.

4th, 5th, 6th November

I'm not gonna lie. I didn't write a poem each day this last weekend.

I did think about it. Think about topics for poems, think about all the emotions raging inside of me, think about the commitment to myself to write a poem for each twenty-four hours I live on this earth during this 30 day month.

I started one about mint sneezes. But all I could visualize was a field of mint in someone's nose. (I'm not prone to limericks myself...)

I imagined writing one about holiness during a secular christening, and of wearing my great-grandmother's onyx and pearl cross whenever I attend something sacred. I invoked her and all my grandmothers of faith as a lit a candle for the little one, newly named.

I could have even thought of something clever about the gun powder plot or Guy Fawkes or at least emulated V for Vendetta in poetry form. I didn't. Obviously.

And yet you were never far from my mind: the poetry, and whomever might be reading it.

Travel Buddy

We could chase the sun, you tell me.

Sleep for two nights on the Nile.

See all the stars in the Sahara.

You would take me to a remote island, you say.

Visit all the bars you once danced in.

Charter a boat for the clear blue waters.

We would walk on the beaches til we couldn't anymore

Sip endless margaritas by the pool, you dream.

Revel all day in the sheets and the heat.

You promise the only cruise we'll take

will be to see the Northern Lights, and we can

eat our way across Italy. We'll jump in a car,

drive across the South West and love

even more than the miles can count.

High School Days

I went to get a massage this evening because my neck and back hurt. I mean hurt-ache-twinge-pain-ouch-hurt. It's the second time they've told me I have a "trigger point" along my spine that seizes up when stressed/sit-too-long/insert-relative-menial-labor-task-here. The only thing I ever remember like that was being trigger-happy enough to knock opposing players off the field with my hip while playing for the ball...

I am starting to reminisce --

those days when defense was my stance:

on the court, on the field, off the field.

I can taste the metallic sweat

of not-giving-in, still.

My body is the same me it was, but

I know the muscles have shape-shifted.

The memory retained but they'd mock

my daily performances;

the repetitive plays of "phone, email, desk";

the nylon, polyester, mascara of my new uniform.

Poems in November Month

Howdy y'all...

November's back again, and so is the poetry! Join me, if you would be so kind, as I muddle through another 30 poems (this time, hopefully, with friends j and cissy alongside me offline/online) and see what this construction of my perception comes up with.

A haiku, simple and sweet to start:

So today begins

another journey into

a vast poetic...

Until tomorrow...

xErica

Poem #30 - A Sonnet

Well, today is the final day of November. A full month of poetry and as I looked back through the blog archive over the last 29 poems, I've realized how quickly and slowly the month has gone. So much has happened: newlywed poems, a friend's wedding, my cousin's birthday, writer's block, dirty haiku, and untranslatable words.

My poetry partner in crime, sasqi, also messaged me tonight to mark this eve of departure into the rest of our poetic lives. With it, she sent today's poem, a beautiful moving sestina.

Tonight, I took her cue again with a form poem. I found myself struggling to sit down and actually write (a month of poems is HARD, my mind said, and the dishes had been waiting for days...), but then realized, again, what to write about?

One of my message over this month with sasqi checking in on our poetic adventure was about how I was grateful for its timing. For me, it's been a year of celebrating my love and commitment for and to another person. Our second and final (?) wedding was in October and by the time the first of November came around, I found myself wanting only to write of her and my love for her.... *sigh*

Of course, as you know, I didn't write sappy love poems all month. But it did feel appropriate to end this project with a form poem historically dedicated to love: the sonnet.

Without much more ado then, I give you a love sonnet. First though, one more thing: I don't know yet if I'll keep writing a poem a day from December 1st onward, but I'm sure glad I did in November. And, I like writing to you again so check back here tomorrow.

Sonnet #30

Waking up beside you looks like all this:

your sweet face hidden by a quilt cover;

eyelids closed in absolute blissfulness;

a kiss waiting on your lips, my lover.

Rising in the morning with you brings such

joy for the day's possibilities that I

can hardly contain songs from my lips much

or from snuggling back into you beside.

But this is only the briefest of times.

Then the day stretches out before us--

away from the lands of duvets the clock chimes

and the hours become our heard chorus.

Still, my love, my sweetheart, my one darling,

there is always the song of the starlings.*

*Poetic inspiration to ee cummings and Josh Ritter

Late Night Writing (Monday)

I won't lie, given how I make my schedule, I do a lot of my writing in the evenings, sometimes from bed. And when inspiration gets tight and I'm without a prompt, sometimes it's the nearest object to me that makes it onto the page (just the first stanza).

I want to tell you about my bed:

the pine frame and mattress came with the flat,

the pillows were airmailed express

having been selected for perfection

a few years prior. But the bedding, it's new.

Writer's Block

or, otherwise, how to split my time:

How do I

split my time

between you, dear reader,

my first love,

and the one with whom

I share my bed,

our home,

the dreams and

silly things,

my her?

Decorating for a Birthday Party

On Saturday, my love and I baked cupcakes for a friend's birthday and traversed south London by bus and by train with a dozen birthday balloons to decorate the flat for the party.

The very shape of balloons is tantalizing.

The way the light reflects and bounces

as the orb responds to the currents

of conversations, the draft of the door.

After the Vintage Shops

On Friday, while malls across the US were ensconced in Black Friday mayhem, my sis-in-law and I hit up the vintage shops in Covent Garden. I very nearly bought an XL blue and yellow plaid men's shirt because it reminded my dad, and stealing his shirts to wear when I was little.

There are certain days

when I just want to throw on

a blue plaid shirt or a white

tank top and call it good.

Thanksgiving

A day of baking and eating

I took the day off from writing

and reflected upon

where the years have gone

since I was home last...

Shoe Observations

Shoes to the Londoner are like

jeans to the American:

at least that's how it appears on the tube.

Each pair is distinct to style, comfort,

pay rise or shopping ethic. The weather

seems to play a role in the number

of boots and brogues of leather worn,

but canvas is also a preferred option

despite the forecast or the colour.

What'll It Be for the Next Generation

In a discussion with Alex about the increasing instantification of our culture and that effect on kids born post-1995 who have never known differently led me to remember the day my dad brought home our first stereo with a CD player.

A big box labelled stero

with a built-in CD player, and

Sheryl Crow's new album.

I danced around the dining room table

to All I Wanna Do, delighted.

Baking Without You

In preparation for Thanksgiving, and the three-day cookies:

In my memory, I know exactly how I assist you,

the kitchen warm and me adding the flour slowly.

In my home, when I only have your recipe,

I struggle to remember which order to add

the egg, butter, sugar, making it up as I go.

I Dreamt of Purple Flowers

Collaborative art rocks. And even more so when it's unintentional, inspirational, serendipitous. Hat tip, Chesney.

You've never been to London

and yet you've entered here into my brain,

seen what I've seen through my words,

reproduced it back to me in purple and hues...

To Do List (Saturday)

It seems now that married life has officially begun without any secondary wedding on the horizon, the nesting has begun. And my nesting I mean a deep urge to paint the walls, frame and mount prints and photographs, and finally find covers for our ugly, red couches. Here's part of our To Do List:

A broken down ranch house,

poster from the free blugrass festival

in the city's park, an anchor in the sky,

your college diploma, and clever photographs

I brought back from Canada for you

that spell out our initials in architecture

...

these are all the pieces

I want to frame for our home,

find the perfect spot just so

build our sanctuary together...

Wedding Quilt (Friday)

Detailed in the fabrics

are berries, shamrocks for luck,

leaves of growth, English roses,

gentle swirls my love loves best.