Wasi has something to share

(so, actually i got home in plenty of time, so here goes - last poem.  it's definitely been an experience.  i'm glad i did it, but not sorry it's over - some days it's been really horrible, posting stuff that i'd rather toss, but overall, at least it's got me writing. not sure i'll be doing it next year though...) -- the end -- this is the end the announcement comes over every loudspeaker echoes out of each carefully hung tannoy no urgency voiced but the implacability of the statement brokers no argument house lights go up, smooth, just as the curtain came down red folds drape a velvet silence over what has just come to pass as though it's not yet quite blatant enough an usher approaches, pale hand stopping just short of meeting her elbow as he pronounces again the end of the show he is not unkind, but offers no apology beneath the regulation gold braided cap, eyes waver for a second momentarily bewildered at the final turn of events switch back swif...

-- dilemma -- i ponder and i vascillate truth or spin, honesty or tact sent a mail that told the truth i never got one back

-- 40 home from Bang -- the bus driver is eating a pear enjoying it too, every grainy, juicy slurp at stops, he leaves go of the steering wheel grips the slippery fruit with both hands his eyes riveted on its sadly decreasing flesh chomps and swallows doesn't miss a single drip no wash needed for that shirt when he's done and in between, as he traverses his route he holds it steady in one hand steering and stopping with the other eyes ahead, but sneaking glances at his luscious prize he lingers overlong at each shelter and every late night punter that runs to board waving manically to flag him down doesn't realise this driver's benevelonce stems only from the precious pulp in his palm and once core exits window and trousers clean hands he'll be back to being wicked once again

-- but i'm a princess -- you can't always get what you want the stones knew it, and my mum too and so now i pass it down, tell it her keep her wings trimmed so when she flies as i also teach her to she doesn't sail too close to where pride becomes fall

-- discovery -- read Rumi today eyes and heart opened: have i ever known real love?

(i actually wrote this at 3.30 this morning, before i prayed and went to bed.  the router was turned off, so i figured i'd post it in the morning... almost forgot entirely) -- seeing clearly -- she left no trace, no trail no signs that she had gone except a note to one side, an afterthought a last attempt she left no apology, no story, no explanation except 'i need to be where i can see the stars' she left with no fanfare, and no forewarning there were no witnesses, no farewells she left with no preamble she left with no burdens she left with no history she left

i am sitting writing this in the sun, in a plastic chair in the back garden.  at my feet, one of the dogs is giving herself a wash, and the other is having a barking contest with the duck.  We've just had a chat with the neighbours about their tree - her mum's looking out for seedlings so my foster mum can plant one too. after a tour of my foster mum's greenhouse, and a pause to spot a newt in the frog pond, and marvel at how many tadpoles there are, and how big, we've sat down to chat about planting seedlings in the cardboard from toilet rolls (something i've heard from another friend), and how i've maybe left it a little late to plant seeds, so maybe will have to go for seedlings instead. still, it might be worth trying a few, and my foster mum promises to give me some runner bean seeds from her crop last year to have a go at planting. 'you've got up to may the 25th to plant your beans, as my uncle used to tell me' she says 'keep them well mois...

(a little bit of a bitter rant tonight, not so much a poem as a long drwan out sigh with line breaks - at/before/after any wedding i attend, there's always one person that will ask...) -- friendly advice -- maybe you should look further afield i've heard the states can be a good place to start you know women's time is short and you can't wait around for perfection it's all about compromise and anyway, you can always change him later did we mention women's time is short when i was your age i was having my third and that was a difficult birth you can't leave it too long i have a friend he's interesting - if you like that sort of thing well, what is wrong with moving to nigeria well, what is wrong with him not liking to read well, what is wrong with him not being muslim of course, we have your best interests at heart just sometimes we know better than you think you do and remember, women's time is short

(i wrote this last night, during the disco of the wedding i was at.  i was a little bit distracted. title is taken from the east17 song, and there's a line in there from james' 'sit down') -- house of love (everybody) -- disco flashes - damn good night and the dance floor rocks and shakes to james and pulp and blur reminds us of when we were green jumper, tartan skirt, school colours clad in love, in fear, in hate, in tears heads bob, hands wave and the pictures are red tint, green hue all a blur and sparkle, fairy light lit, soft glow and you can't believe you've done it taken those vows school-girl crushes given way to love and support, care for as long as disco ball flashes - what a night couples the las to leave the dance floor as bodies shake and sway, in time and out we love you and our joy is in every hair flick every twist, every shimmy, every grin, every move wishing you this: happiness every day and love        love    ...

I'm at a wedding, typing this on my phone. Today's poem is written-and dedicated to the newlyweds-but will be typed and up tomorrow. I thank you. Xxx

-- good friday -- they've come in their hundreds, hundreds and thousands come marching, come chanting, beseeching, demanding come streaming, come huddled, they're hurrying, calling come from their homes, come to the townships come from obscurity, come into focus come from their silence, come into protest and the response - reports left me wordless raining down terror, spiralling death-tolls show of life taking, sweeping, haphazard that as your answer, that as your warning skin flaying, feet churning, arms raised, scant shelter bullets and shrapnel seek homes for sharp edges ripping their way in, forcing all entry foreign bodies, such speed, no immune, no defenses puncture bodies that stream with no room for the outpour bodies that slump, smashed, grabbed away life force   bloody ballistics, sweat mingles with life streams boots stamp their way home, prints trailing behind them feet stamp their way, drag their way, find a way home home to recoup, to recover, rekindle ho...

-- not quite the one i meant -- this is not the poem i set out to write these are not the lines i hoped to share the ones that speak of awe and wonder stanzas stuffed full of total amazement this is not the poem i planned to type these are not the words i wanted set here not the expressions i'd hoped would come as i stared at the screen's blank invitation it should start out slow, understated setting the scene lulling the reader into a false sense of security a few gentle metaphors a couple of similes to add to the imagery then wham, bring on the twist the deeper meaning what it was always all about from the get go tied up neatly in eloquence and articulate verbosity but this is not that poem this is all that's left since that one was imagined since those lines were dreamt up and discarded that poem is trash waiting to be emptied is scraps screwed tossed  headed for recycling this one made it though and will have to do instead

-- bricking it on the bridge -- i can feel it, you know while everyone else goes about their business commuters power pumping, briefcases banging joggers pounding trainers to tarmac tourists snapping, young mothers yapping while their kids scream and squall in the latest buggies all springs and vorsprung durch technik they know at least we're doomed i can feel it in the sway in the give of supposedly solid ground the easterly 'breeze' has destructive aspirations this bridge means to take us down it's worse on tower bridge walking across that the first time i figured i'd have to turn back not even hollie mcnish could distract me from the fact of my imminent death from the fact that we were never meant to cross wide expanses of water on flimsy paths cracked in the middle from the fact that it's falls, not heights, that are my problem that will be the death of me that will be the end of it all i'm not over-reacting i'm not imagining things it's d...

-- worth repeating -- you see things differently given that awe is your default setting that pigeon's neck is green you tell me and shiny i teach you the word 'irridescent' tell you it means like a rainbow and you shout your excited 'yes' tell me how the pigeon's neck is beautiful, how everything is beautiful don't i agree? you wonder if dandelions roar ask me because of course i know everything i tell you of course dandy lions roar though they're always sure to do so gently so as not to upset their carefully set manes you agree that dandelions have far too much time on their hands

-- the world on a plate -- her hands span from the horizon to forever and the lines that etch age on her face speak of the wisdom of the ancients whose lineage she continues dry hands that can never quite be salved by the softness of petroleum jelly nor ulay's finest and grey hairs, each strand a thousand worries take precedence, each day advancing no mercy on darker tresses that once held sway she would give us the world if only we knew how to accept but our hearts can never stretch that wide we are not made to accept that particular dish instead strike out our own paths prefer to learn from mistakes that have been made since time began which foolishly we claim as our own and when we see our own offspring diving headlong into the error of their ways not even that offer will be enough to hold them back from doing as has always been done and likely always will be

(with a little help from my friend - thanks Mia) -- they told me muslim women wear black -- cocktail coloured peacock plumed draped in sapphires, in scarlets, in pinks headtie creations to rival any horse-race fascinator arms ache from the pulling and styling guinea brocade, diamante laces you glitter and sparkle to celebrate births weddings even deaths don't escape colour as you flock together wrappers pulled firm round large behinds to mark occassions as they should be not stopping at splashes of colour total drenching preferred asphalt irridescent reflections in every puddle as you pass defy this country's monochrome bring back home to these streets

-- this i do remember -- they say it takes time to heal. i can never find the time to forget

(mid-way through, and i have a feeling i'm going to miss this  when it's over...  this is a true story.  the guy in question had been introduced to me sometime in the semi-distant past as a potential... he was a little miffed when i couldn't remember who he was) -- was it that time when... -- i am not joking when i say i can't remember not  being modest when i tell you i'm terrible with names believe me when i tell you i don't deal in false modesty and all your pointers 'you know, the one' 'remember, that time when' aren't going to help there's nothing there to be jogged i wish my retrieval system was better equipped to perform on demand without error or glitch but like i said, i'm not fibbing no word of a lie i just really, really, really can't remember how i know you sorry...

 -- you probably think this poem is about you (you may be right) --- i have a friend he writes poetry like he's having a conversation with the world in words that are easily understood and phrases that cut like broken crockery scattered on ceramic tiles the unwary walk gingerly at his approach lacerations at times unavoidable i have sisters they spit lines that make grown women cry and despite what people may think that is no mean feat their lungs hurl hurricanes that hush the room they make believers of drunken revellers they trade in truths, give voice to light i know wordsmiths who draw laughs from those that attend them unexpected bleats of mirth appreciation roared, gurgling rivers i aspire every day inspired by those who surround me working towards becoming my own friend

(just had a bit of a cinderella moment. went to an amazing poetry night, Poetree at the BBC, and realised as it ended that it was already ten past eleven, and i still needed to write today's poem.  which made for some odd non-sequitur goodbyes 'sorry, i've got to go, i need to write a poem before midnight'...weirdo! so i did it on the bus. it is an example of why i hardly ever even attempt to rhyme...) -- after fool's -- out of time and chasing rhyme and searching for a piece that aches to be sublime attemptng genius, attempting smart looking for some lines that justify the term 'art' as i scribble, pen scratch graze ink onto the page writing as a fool aspiring to be a sage never for a wage, rarely for the stage fingers fumbling, poem rumbling, tumbling from my my mind cage but the padlock's got stuck so all my lines suck and the rhyming scheme i've started's run completely amuck but i don't give a hoot about the lines i unroot only care a...

(this is possibly another unfinished one, and doesn't mean very much at all, but makes me smile all the same) -- running circles -- i see your lips curve up rise to one side like a swing at full tilt but no danger of it hurtling down to where i stand smiling back up at you and my hips bloom and my belly blossoms til small children could walk behind me on summer days grateful for shade that billows a me-shaped shelter cool as hell and this is how it was always meant to be no crazed saviours or burning femme fatale just the quiet craziness of the everyday and you holding my hand as we let our magnums melt onto diamond cut grass and consider paddling in the algae-clad duck pond

(i am both busy and distracted. i apologise) -- unsure -- i'm never sure why i find it so hard to write about happiness why is it so difficult to document joy every other line is love-lorn, love lost or some other such lament, and the rest, feeble rants or deep complaint and somehow, happiness escapes a friend asked once why this was the case and i wrote a reply claiming darkness needed epxression but that joy was too busy being experienced to make it onto the page but now i wonder at the truth of that unsure if the real reason lies in a basic lack of skill the elusive brevity of happiness or simply in the joy of being miserable

- - walking on water - - laying you to rest in the morning and all i can think of is that last trip of ours to brighton bus down early morning,  yawns and marmalade crumby fingers arriving with cricked neck and creased shirt and foggy head early enough that even the gulls weren't out in full swing yet eager to walk the pier despite us both pain-puffing, gammy leg a-piece rocking and rolling our way across the sea heading for the end, fair rides and slot machines back on dry land, fish and chips early lunch you laughed at my shock at the size of it battered cod easily as long as my forearm and enough chips to feed a small family for at least a week stuffed and ice-creamed sea life centre final stop off and somehow you convince me to pose with an oar attempt to outpaddle a shark and your guffaw as the flash bulb popped me gurning earnestly trying to hide my delight at the cheesiness of it all so as we walk away, dark suits and sighs remind ourselves it's past tense now an...