An author of Speculative Fiction, speculates about fiction.

My terrible poems…

Someone once said to me “is there anything you don’t do” when I said I’d have a go at pretty much anything when it comes to my writing. Screenplays, comic scripts, prose, haiku, I’ve had a bash at it all. With varying degrees of success (mostly varying into the “that was abysmal” area of the gauge). But one thing I’m really quite terrible at is poetry. I don’t think I’ve read enough of it, or know enough about it, to have a decent idea of what makes a poem good or how one works and another doesn’t.

But… (you were waiting for the “but” weren’t you?)

Despite all that, I kind of enjoy writing poetry. Especially when i’m having a blank spot with my prose. It’s a great way of making your brain take a step back and do something different. And I find that even thought my poems are pretty damn terrible, the occasional line comes out of them that I can then use in my prose later.

And so, because I love you all (or hate you, depending on your perspective) I’m going to subject you to….I mean…let you read some of my poems! These should come with a government health warning, so remember to ward yourself against the dark arts before you read on.

A Tree

In coldness I’m naked,
In heat I’m stifled with clothing.
My feet are bare in the rain,
My skin splits int he sun.
I eat nothing,
Say nothing,
And watch politely as you
roll and screech and chew
at my feet.
 
 

The Fence

They said the grass is greener.
So here I am, to find out;
To frolic on your rockery;
To peep inside your potting shed.
 
I hopped the fence,
landing bare foot on your lawn,
And marveled at the greener than green,
the new scented breeze.
 
But now I’m ready to go back home
to familiar soil,
I see that on this side
the fence
is higher from the ground.
 
 

Short sighted

I don’t want to know
every hammer that forged you,
only to study you as you are.
 
Let me admire the scar
as part of you.
the strike of an expert chisel
 
Rather than some half-remembered story.
I’ll trace the coloured lines
across your skin
 
Not questioning what whim of
inspiration decorated you.
You were born with them,
 
Only moments ago
when we met and nothing
you have done matters now.
 
With no past to spit at each other,
no future to plan,
or weighted expectation,
we’ll exist only in this moment
and those like it.
 
 

Well, I hope you enjoyed them, or at least didn’t pluck your eyes from your head in disgust. Any comments, as always, are most welcome.

Thanks for reading.

 
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