The Poet Who Fell in Love
A collection of love poems.
1.) Do you dream about me? 2.) When I found my diary open on my bed was it you who read it? 3.) When you hear my name in conversation do your insides flutter?
It's true that a poem can come from a single word. In this case it is 'fragments' which I actually picked up on in my physics revision guide! I can now no longer say I don't owe physics anything.
I find myself cradling the pillows; they are pale with grief. They miss the caress of his hair, the brush of his stubble, and the way his snores sent waves across their welcoming bellies.
I read John Le Carré below the beams of a converted farmhouse, under the arm of rural France. Light filtered in through the slats of painted wooden shutters,
My trail of footprints sinks into the sand like a long, rambling confession; the ins and outs of two years of extreme loneliness.
Cool fingers tread carefully on my skin, circling the black hole of my navel. And those eyes are suspended above me like two strange stars in the murky galaxy of my bedroom.
I wander into my father's tool shed. My fingers twitch for a hammer To smash at my temples so that the memories May drip from my ear that witnessed His whispers, his promises.
In the attic She lies beneath A blue square of sky Clinging to the bed clothes She can still smell The cake he baked for her
My fingers making spirals on your upturned palm - your spine, a shivering river, wading between the valley of your shoulder blades. My hand, floating downstream.
I am proud to say that I am a curvy girl but I have been bullied because of my shape. These experiences inspired 'Cursed'.
A poem about young love. And how we may think that a person is perfect they can turn out to be no different than any other.
A poem about someone trapped in an abusive relationship with their partner that they are desperate to escape.
Sometimes in a relationship it doesn't just have to be the woman that feels vulnerable. Men have ghosts too.
This poem explores the difficulty of letting go of one relationship and embracing another. Ghosts of past lovers can be haunting sometimes.
This poem is similar to 'Moving On', it purveys the same emotions but in fewer words.
This poem is based on a real experience and explores the irony of people who bullied each other at school ending up together in later life.
This poem works on two levels. It's up to the reader to decide if the events are all in the character's head or if they are real.
Recently my family suffered a loss. It was those intense emotions that prompted me to write 'Harvey'.
Front door snap. Head phones in To block out her mother Howling her threats of banishment. But it didn’t matter. This wasn’t her home anymore.
A flash in the dark and I hear The ostinato tone of my mobile phone. Groggily I reach out to where it Demands attention from the Bedside table.
Toes curling over the edge of the roof Of his office in Wall Street. Just a simple brush stroke on the Mountains of the New York skyline.
I wake to a blue and yellow pastel dawn Chalked with white clouds And I know I dreamt about you again.
And you were the north - everything pointed to you. All my heart had to do was follow the signs.
At fourteen you made me Believe in true love. A chance meeting, Bodies brush like the tide.
It’s taken us a long time to get here. And I’m scared it will take me longer to get back. Your arm sways at my side like a rusty swing. Our fingers touch but can’t seem to attach.
You always tried to hide Your thick red hair with a hat. But your cheeks were A permanent blush From school taunting.
The letters that spell out ‘I love you’ Pitch their tents In the heart-shaped hole Of his chest And sting like a cold shower.
And it’s just us. Locked in a turbulent tango Across an eclipsing ballroom To the giddy pipes of fate.
The green line makes Mountains on the monitor And that steady Beeping Pulses a lullaby. I grasp your hand like An anchor. Although I know your Wings ache to Spread Beneath dusty sheets.
The summer was heralded By a chorus of ice cream vans Humming Green sleeves As they flowed through The tributaries of the suburb.
I was a moth with pale wings patterned with coffee rings, thinking that one flutter could make your heart skip a beat.
I am a mirage born into a cradle of opium dreams. At night you sit in your concave room, basking in the violet artificial glow
Late again. I pick holes in your story like a moth. I know you were with her. Your fingers recoil guiltily to your pockets.
The mourners come like bedraggled crows to swarm the casket. I find I have cried for her too many times; my tears are dry, they fall like confetti
I despise this bleached Eden. This cold and clinical forest where clear, vine-like tubes twist around metal trees.
Never the proud, protective lover; I was too fragile to break. We rowed, so I clawed at your face like a rake, slicing you to smother and smooth my ache.
You ask for the moon. I trek down into the indigo sky-mine, pickaxe in hand. Hack away at the blue rock, until I find a lump of ore - glowing like a pupil-less eye - lost its stare.
For Tom. Each beat he hits - an electric charge like lightning carving a path through the atmosphere.
My clothes curled from my skin. Buttons, rebelled, stitches unpicked themselves, thread by thread
In the beginning we were like county borders – the divide only manmade; our geography the same. Like landscapes we lay entwined -
An old muse whispers on with a bit of Wilfred Owen thrown in! It is my poisonous poppy that out-bleeds all of those roses that you gave the others.
Just the three of us; the sharp geometry of tangled love. Arrow tip, spear head,
A sister piece to 'Remainders'. What is a touch but a simple collision of atoms? Never meant much - until your realisation
Sequel to 'Untouchable'. I am a walking supernova, collapsing in on myself - slowly, slowly imploding under the weight of your indifference to my existence.
Off to university this October, unfortunately this means I'll be leaving a few people behind this summer. 'Nothing is captive - times spins so fast the colours are blurred.'
Spring is late this year. April is born into a cold, grey hole and the seasons are so out of sync. Perhaps it is time slowing down, for our sakes.
It wasn't that I didn't like Paris; the colours lazily reclining on their canvasses at Montmartre. Gargoyles crawling up the outstretched fingers of Notre Dame.
I slip away from everyone at the B&B and sneak down the beach road, bare-foot with sandals in hand, to the sand dunes for a sly cigarette.
The archaeologist, her hands red with earth, finds our words buried deep within dust and dirt. They have slipped so far into the soil; they are almost archaic.
I remind myself that our love is better, softer, purer than others. Yes, our love's bed sheets are bright and white and clean and flat.
We lie, entwined, in a cocoon of steamed glass. Here, held captive in one slice of an alternate reality, protected from the cold world of sluicing rain.