Five Poems by Mona Dash

 

Unsaid, unwritten

 

Unseeing, unthinking

piece words unrelated

flowers in a vase

on the kitchen table

lark, larkspur, lavender

 

When the night calls

answer

in words swallowed

in a past forgotten

eels, egalitarian, eccentric

 

then it is morning

slicing sun through clouds

unopened eyes, sleepy sex

harvest, hyacinth, harbour

 

a month is over

the thought still shattered

ravaged and unformed

the words meant

to disappear in bloodstream

vapid, victory, vilify

 

like Rodin’s thinker

count words on fingers

the tongue struggling still

to form the unformed

the pen curling, curling

to write the unwritten

Three poems for a reluctant love

 

The Exorcist

 

Slowly, slowly, feel my fingers

stroking your forehead

wiping away the five folds moulded firm

Exorcising you

of her with the long hair

sleeping cloud shaking serpents

of her with the anklets

drawing blood pricking memories

of her with the rings, on toes you sucked

dry lips burning mouth

of her with the tattoos

seared into your skin flaming

of her with the dulcet voice

the tongue poisoning you

colouring your throat blue

 

Your mind closes, as I try

Love, they are burning you dry!

Healing you, I try

I am the exorcist, I try.

 

 

The Poet

 

I will write you a poem 

It will twist

into you

like a corkscrew 

into stoppered Cabernet Sauvignon 

 

It will drill itself 

into your heart 

like an augur 

boring hemispheres 

 

It will sit on your eyelids 

until they close 

unseeing the day

It will sift into your ears 

until they can’t hear 

wolves yodelling full moon blues

 

I will write you a poem 

to grow in you

evergreen boughs

suffocating weeds

 

I will write you a poem 

to submerge your words

like rains dissolving earth

to stifle your very voice

so you can’t offer obeisance

to the ones you do; many a muse!

 

 

The birthing

 

What if this is the only time we will ever meet

our paths crossing once over lifetimes

in a room like this, with windows in the right place

and doors set the way doors always are, in a corner

what if this is the only place we will ever chance to be together?

 

You want a breeze, you wish a balcony with creepers

jasmine, lemon, where we can breathe a little;

the walls close in, all day

 

there is smoke, unfurling from a cigarette

 

Then fingers taming what can’t be

fabric that slips off skin like memories

collecting thoughts and acts like keepsakes

Why do the good ones slip away, like silver fish

through fingers, pools of water?

Dark threads rise for days after

There is wine, cold on lips, on the body

more, more, I need more

 

there is silence, the words we didn’t say

 

What is never to be:

Why not the flowers I asked for

Why not the pictures to keep forever

Why not the doodles on palms

Why not a desire to let it linger

Why not a plan to whisper together

the poems which were to be birthed

unconceived now, always

 

there are songs, playing on as if for someone else

 

What then if this is the only time we will ever meet?

If we’d thought this, if we’d known that was it: the walls,

lights glaring on the bed, this,

this the promised eternity

nothing more to look forward to

would we have looked for a clue

glanced a moment at those vast mirrors

to find an answer in our bodies, curled, prostrate?

 

there in this now, a birthing that shall never be

Be that man

 

you know the one who will wake up wake me up with a bit of the night skies a slice of the moon glowing alive in his eyes
and in his arms hold slivers of yesterday and today and tomorrow tied together in iridescent pieces and whisper about the caves we have lived in the life last
the skies we have conquered together and flown past

the rivers we have swum in with dolphins and other fish coloured fish bursting against our limbs
the beaches we have walked sand trickling in toes while you’ve run across and got a tender coconut, water drips from our mouths as we kiss

and be that man who holds me like am a feather light slender gorgeous like I’m a stone heavy with love wonder and experiences

and be that man who wants to love against the walls of the museum Monet’s lilies and Gaugin’s women watching
or on the desk at home or on the grass near a cold gurgling stream

and that man who writes long and deep into the night of poetry of war and peace and knows when to give and when to hold back
and be that man who knows that making love on the windowsill is the best when afternoons are full of drizzling rain if it’s a tropical country
and if not then on the tenth floor watching Christmas lights swarm London city

and knows that the best love is had when you are angry and wanting to rage and bite through the skin and the blackness which is outside
and the way you feel just trapped trapped in your limbs and like in a box and you know despair is solid and growing like dark smoke and all the cries in the world can’t be heard

so be that man who knows how that feels how sound remains in the throat sometimes stuck like a stone lodged in heavy clay
and when you speak there is nothing no voice no whisper
and be that man who knows how to rub the small of my back then speak sing and shout primal screams together to mark the day
my love, be that man, just be that man.

(Won second prize in a competition themed Love by Momaya Press UK and was published in the anthology in 2018. All rights with poet now)

Mona Dash is an award-winning author of Let us Look Elsewhere, A Roll of the Dice, Untamed Heart and two poetry collections. 

Her work has been showcased on BBC Radio 4, included in Best British Short Stories 22, and published in more than thirty-five anthologies. www.monadash.net 

Instagram :@ monadash_ @poetryshowstheday  Twitter : dash2mona