Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

the space between

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image by gr8effect via pixabay

 

I’m looking for somewhere.

Somewhere between the in and the out breath. The place where a tossed ball hangs in space, suspended, not falling, not rising. The place between thought and action, between seeing and recognition. A pause before the sun slips wholly below the horizon, a moment where the planets align. The lull between one heartbeat and the next, right before the song starts. Or just after it ends.

I’m searching for a place.

Somewhere to press a wildflower and forget it, to tuck a tiny note to my guardian angel, to bury a wish. The seam of a jacket fashioned from dreams, where hopes can be left for safekeeping, in whose pockets nameless shiny seeds jostle with downy feathers. Somewhere insubstantial thoughts are rainbow gossamer in the breeze. Somewhere the clouds come down to break my fall, bearing me aloft, caressing my skin.

I’m searching for somewhere, a place to hide.

Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

Slipped my moorings

sunset-waves_wide
image: manolofranco via pixabay

 

Water whispers, wild and wet

Surrounds securely, stifling

Light, leaching away laughter

Bearing down brittle bones.

Waving, wavering

Tears for trying, taste

Of salt, softly screaming.

 

Deep down, despair

Easing each exhale.

Gasp grab grasping

Futile fingers fumble

Slippery skin shivers

Leaden legs leach

Marrow into murmuring mists.

 

Insistent inky idyll

Silence speaks no safety.

Blinded, bound, bereft

I sink, surrendered.

 

Each bubble bears my breath.

blog, poetry, writing process

The colour purple

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Purple is my favourite colour.

And with the passing of the fabulous Prince (rest in peace), it is popping up all over media currently. It will always resonate with me, in all its shades from palest lilac to deepest imperial. As a writer though, I am told to avoid and remove all purple from my work, if it comes in the form of purple prose.

Purple prose is hard to define and somewhat objective, but it is essentially language that is excessively ornate and overdone. It is verbose, redundant and melodramatic. And usually it is at odds with the writer’s true voice. Arthur Quiller-Couch coined the phrase ‘murder your darlings’ and I try to obey.

But what happens to the vivid image, the phrase that sings through my heart and whispers in my ear when I try to sleep? I don’t murder it, no.

I simply transplant it to a more conducive spot, where it can grow and find full expression.

Much as I would do in my garden, where there are no weeds, just plants out of place. (Sometimes that place is the compost heap, but I digress.)

I take my eye-catching words and make them into poetry.

In poetry the vivid image is encouraged and welcomed. I may not be much of a poet, but writing it exercises different writing muscles. It encourages economy as well as expansive imagery, squeezing a quart of meaning into a pint pot of syllables and stanzas.

John Vorhaus put it well in his recent post Easy no help you where he talked about challenging yourself to do difficult things, in order to grow as a writer.

I agree wholeheartedly, though like any form of exercise, each to their own. I can’t imagine writing detective stories or historical romance for practice. Not my thing at all. But prompts and random words and genre-mashing? Bring it on.

Poetry is difficult to do well but I enjoy the attempt, so that’s where I push and test my writing skills.  I can take my newfound discipline of economy with words back to my novels and short stories. The aim is sharper, leaner description without getting too flowery.

And I don’t miss my brilliant phrases, because they have another place to bloom.

poetry

I should smile

forest-trees-snow
image: pixabay

 

 

You’re warm, I know that much.

A hood snug over your ears, fur framing your face.

I taught you how to stitch the skins,

Keep howling winds at bay.

Trudging through snow, we leave the forest behind us.

 

Remember those dark and desperate nights

Red eyes, hot breath, razor teeth stalking

Fleeing in hope of safety.

But we escaped, we found the path again

Walked on together.

 

Remember those mornings

Dew wet grass and the world silent.

Huffing out a clouded breath, and standing

Empty-bellied, clear-eyed and wondering

At the new dawn.

 

Remember those drowsy golden days

Nectar drunk bees around your head.

Cast down amid ripeness

And laughing at clouds drifting by.

A happiness, a moment.

 

And I remember those purple nights

Star jewelled sky, bright planets and the moon above.

We lay and watched the universe turn.

No three dog nights for us

When we had each other.

 

You’ve learned, I know that much.

A bag of tools, a store of knowledge

A piece of my heart, yet here our story ends.

Is this love’s prize, to stand at this divergence

Tear blind, recalling all our journeys?

 

I should let you go

I should seek new paths

I should remember and forget

I should smile.

 

poetry

Kiss me

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Kiss me with your eyes. Bite your lip,

Close your eyes and kiss me

Softly, gently, sweetly, with a smile.

There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

Now, pull me close. I feel your heartbeat.

Trace lips down my neck, murmur soft against my skin

Breath hot on my collarbone, hands warm on my waist

Where are we? It doesn’t matter. We are here and now.

Pressed against the wall, bathed in light, shrouded by dark

Kiss my body with yours,

Surround me.

Hips dance slow with feeling

Tongues tease back and forth

Just this

Trembling, heating, melting and

Blooming at your touch. Let me stroke you,

Nip your skin, hear you sigh

Let us sway and flow together. We know where we’re going

But enjoy the journey, your scent, your skin, goosebumps

I will map you with my hands.

Your kiss is everything.

Show me your promise of love, and then

Kiss me again