Every Ten Years
Her yesterday was just another yesterday
she had fallen asleep as herself
body and mind, one listening
as the other spoke
both hearing the voices outside
and today her mind awoke, alone
an ask to stand, an answer, no
to raise her head, another no
the room was sick as it revolved
and she cried out, a fainting voice
she listened to the cupboard door
an opening of fizzing aid
the outside voices energised, yet
energy was everywhere but here
escape exhaled through the window’s gap
a cool breeze into young sunshine
far from the bed and its ageing heat
her body shook, each effort muted
her head a thickened voice and mind
a begging sleep, as work began
if only she could wait
City Lunch Rendezvous
A lunch in the
City with friends, together again in
a room, crowded
like our office at the law firm.
The business of
fingers chattering over keyboards,
voices sliding
past computer screens. I flex my chords,
so rarely used in
empty rooms. It’s easy to overtalk:
everything comes
out of storage, one box falling
onto another.
Could an underuse somehow create
an old body
soundtracked with a young voice?
Strange how ‘phone
calls with past friends bring
memories of their
younger faces. I remember Paul.
He would telephone
her every day. Sounding nice
meant young and
attractive. Their lunch in the City
meant old and
disappointing. Would I be like her –
old and
disappointing – on a lunch in the City with you?
I’ve Been Listening to
...
like
like like
like like like
like like
like
it’s everywhere
copied and pasted
into every sentence
a discomfort on
the downward beat
a compulsion to
fill a natural space
feel the nervous
scrolling
scrolling
scrolling
such unease with
the tiniest silence
like
it’s the clearest
word and
the greatest
disservice to intelligence
because there is
no similarity between anything in those phrases
none
an ‘erm’ might
quirk an atmosphere, suggesting thought
but preference
aims for a simple pause
to add some
strength to the words on either side
how you do like to
like
like
but why
absolutely?
a ‘yes’ would
suffice
One for Sorrow
A marble headstone
listening to the magpies
squawk
of joy in duets
Weekend Working
A pavement digger
cranes next to a
bus stop as
Sunday pays double
Susan
Wilson lives in East London and began writing poetry following the death of her
mother in 2017. Her poems have been published by Lucy Writers, Snakeskin,
Runcible Spoon, Dreich, Areopagus, Streetcake, Rue
Scribe, Amethyst Review and Lothlorien. Prior to the pandemic
she was a regular performer at “Spineless Authors”, a local open mic event. Her
debut chapbook is “I Couldn’t Write to Save Her Life” (Dreich, 2021).
Thank you so much for these beautiful and thoughtful poems!
ReplyDeleteA great selection of poems, Susan. Wonderful imagery. I particularly enjoyed "The business of fingers chattering over keyboards" - so evocative. And the idea of a voice not used ageing less as a consequence. And then the lovely couple of haikus at the end. Perfect. PS I also cannot bear the word "like" when it's dropped into every sentence.
ReplyDelete