Roz Kaveney's Blog, page 12
June 27, 2015
Oh dear, poems about love. Again
CODA
So out of love we do not even speak
Every few minutes one might steal a glance.
A year no word or touch. And now by chance
Sitting some yards apart. Our stares are bleak
As winter tundra nothing lives but moss
Grey unforgiving. Almost I forget
How once her smile or touch could make me wet.
It's over now not even like a loss
An ache has gone. I'm past a fever's end
So cold I shiver. There is nothing left
My memory of all save songs bereft.
Love ate itself and took away a friend.
Indifference? Can I say it's sincere?
I doubt I'll know until at least next year.
So out of love we do not even speak
Every few minutes one might steal a glance.
A year no word or touch. And now by chance
Sitting some yards apart. Our stares are bleak
As winter tundra nothing lives but moss
Grey unforgiving. Almost I forget
How once her smile or touch could make me wet.
It's over now not even like a loss
An ache has gone. I'm past a fever's end
So cold I shiver. There is nothing left
My memory of all save songs bereft.
Love ate itself and took away a friend.
Indifference? Can I say it's sincere?
I doubt I'll know until at least next year.
June 23, 2015
Another
LAST
Worst agony, dementia, have an end.
They breathe out at the end, a pleasing sigh.
It's right we're glad when friends attended die
that gladness is our duty as their friend.
Not that they've gone to some transcendent place
That sugar comfort's bitter on our tongue
even when hardest, when they died so young
they had no mark of trouble on their face.
Ripeness is all, ripeness the best they get.
Some years of work completed that might last.
A present love holding their weak hand fast
Touch last good sense through agony and sweat -
Sharp severance from pain, a mercy knife,
is death, which is not an event in life.
Worst agony, dementia, have an end.
They breathe out at the end, a pleasing sigh.
It's right we're glad when friends attended die
that gladness is our duty as their friend.
Not that they've gone to some transcendent place
That sugar comfort's bitter on our tongue
even when hardest, when they died so young
they had no mark of trouble on their face.
Ripeness is all, ripeness the best they get.
Some years of work completed that might last.
A present love holding their weak hand fast
Touch last good sense through agony and sweat -
Sharp severance from pain, a mercy knife,
is death, which is not an event in life.
June 21, 2015
Another of this sequence
GOOD DEATH
So very tired of wanting to let go
Not ready yet for there's a final word
voicing some thought that has not yet occurred.
These are the last four walls you'll ever know.
With luck you float beyond the waves of pain
you know are crashing somewhere up your spine.
You move, your arm is tugging on the line
blood drugs flow. And the wave will crash again
but you will sleep a while, perhaps awake
and smile because you're coming to an end.
Whoever's there will be your last best friend
The smile a grace performance for their sake.
Diminuendo senses all as fade.
You are no longer there to be afraid.
So very tired of wanting to let go
Not ready yet for there's a final word
voicing some thought that has not yet occurred.
These are the last four walls you'll ever know.
With luck you float beyond the waves of pain
you know are crashing somewhere up your spine.
You move, your arm is tugging on the line
blood drugs flow. And the wave will crash again
but you will sleep a while, perhaps awake
and smile because you're coming to an end.
Whoever's there will be your last best friend
The smile a grace performance for their sake.
Diminuendo senses all as fade.
You are no longer there to be afraid.
June 20, 2015
My poem for world refugee day
HOMELESS
Home is the place you do not get to stay.
Sea rushes in or harsh men with large knives
take home away and leave you with your lives.
Time robs us all and time can be one day.
You do not get to plan it or to pack.
No tooth-brush and no soap. Your favourite book
left on a shelf. You just have time to look
at all you lose. And run. And not look back.
You trudge for weeks. Road carves feet to the bone
You come to where you're held behind a wire.
Men starve you, beat you, rape without desire.
The price of safe whatever else you own.
Do this to them, we also do to me.
We never know when it's our time to flee.
Home is the place you do not get to stay.
Sea rushes in or harsh men with large knives
take home away and leave you with your lives.
Time robs us all and time can be one day.
You do not get to plan it or to pack.
No tooth-brush and no soap. Your favourite book
left on a shelf. You just have time to look
at all you lose. And run. And not look back.
You trudge for weeks. Road carves feet to the bone
You come to where you're held behind a wire.
Men starve you, beat you, rape without desire.
The price of safe whatever else you own.
Do this to them, we also do to me.
We never know when it's our time to flee.
This is particular, but also general
FOR A PREGNANT FRIEND MOURNING
White from no sun no blood the wasted hand
lifted from bed and helped to one last touch.
It is so little and it is so much,
We think we hope that he could understand
feeling new life as his began to ebb
in its last tide. Could feel the belly swell
two pulses. There are moments we can't sell
or buy. Our lives are twitches on the web
that ties in love and friendship. You to me,
you to this dying man I'll never meet.
Love is a dance of many running feet
relaying passing batons. And the sea
takes him away and takes us all in time
and all that's left is songs and love and rhyme.
White from no sun no blood the wasted hand
lifted from bed and helped to one last touch.
It is so little and it is so much,
We think we hope that he could understand
feeling new life as his began to ebb
in its last tide. Could feel the belly swell
two pulses. There are moments we can't sell
or buy. Our lives are twitches on the web
that ties in love and friendship. You to me,
you to this dying man I'll never meet.
Love is a dance of many running feet
relaying passing batons. And the sea
takes him away and takes us all in time
and all that's left is songs and love and rhyme.
June 13, 2015
This comes from a slightly louche conversation we're having on Twitter
MISAPPREHENSION
Apparently I smell. Or so they say.
Those women who are always on their guard
against my kind. They walk round, sniffing hard.
The scent might get lost on a rainy day.
It's life or death. Imagine their disgrace
if perfume or a smoking cigarette
confuse them. And maybe, worse thing yet
scent-lost, they see a smile upon my face
and smile right back. It happens, and I flirt.
Some people say I have a deal of charm
What if they ran a finger up my arm?
And someone saw? Their name dragged in the dirt.
Their sisters unforgiving of such slips.
Pus and hibiscus on three finger-tips.
Apparently I smell. Or so they say.
Those women who are always on their guard
against my kind. They walk round, sniffing hard.
The scent might get lost on a rainy day.
It's life or death. Imagine their disgrace
if perfume or a smoking cigarette
confuse them. And maybe, worse thing yet
scent-lost, they see a smile upon my face
and smile right back. It happens, and I flirt.
Some people say I have a deal of charm
What if they ran a finger up my arm?
And someone saw? Their name dragged in the dirt.
Their sisters unforgiving of such slips.
Pus and hibiscus on three finger-tips.
June 12, 2015
Didn't get a chance to post this yesterday
FOR SIR CHRISTOPHER LEE
The Prince of Darkness was a gentleman.
Well-read and suave and handsome as a lord
Who kills with charm shapes poems with a sword
Never did harm but played. Best actors can
People the worlds that haunt collective mind
As dreams and nightmares authors leave as cloud
Of wisps and hints. We see clear. Shriek aloud
What's now embodied. Also, he was kind
By all accounts. He worked hard at his craft.
In pain made no concession to old age
His last best home blue screen set sounding stage
Getting applause. He'd think our weeping daft.
Though weakness age and death all took their toll
He only leaves us as the credits roll.
The Prince of Darkness was a gentleman.
Well-read and suave and handsome as a lord
Who kills with charm shapes poems with a sword
Never did harm but played. Best actors can
People the worlds that haunt collective mind
As dreams and nightmares authors leave as cloud
Of wisps and hints. We see clear. Shriek aloud
What's now embodied. Also, he was kind
By all accounts. He worked hard at his craft.
In pain made no concession to old age
His last best home blue screen set sounding stage
Getting applause. He'd think our weeping daft.
Though weakness age and death all took their toll
He only leaves us as the credits roll.
May 29, 2015
My poem for Neil and Amanda's issue of the New Statesman
ON TRANSNESS
I knew when I was four. Girls were my team.
Boys were the other side. Not as distress.
Something I knew. Not yearning for the dress
my best friend wore at parties. In a dream
we danced and flew. Flesh silk in every twirl
Feet stars. And no one followed, no one led.
For many years they told me she was dead.
She found me when she looked for me as girl.
Mourning was lead. But these things were all true.
Things I knew not to say. Silence my friend
I feared that they would catch me in the end
Nailed to unchanging skin. Be just like you.
Which I was not. Nor am. I represent
this chosen model of embodiment.
Mingle my elements alchemic gold
Quicksilver flows even when sick or old.
Some things I choose. And some things are my fate.
Stories a web of both. Spun spider time.
Sparkle by chance, by choice smear waste dust grime.
Early I knew, transitioned slightly late.
And paid the ferrygirl my toll in full
the blessing of pus blood months weak in pain
if free would chose it over all again.
We all have weight to shoulder or to pull.
Perhaps you'll hear me if I say it clear.
You live a body set and formed and grown
I change my flesh and mind and not alone.
We come among you dancing, year by year.
I knew when I was four. Girls were my team.
Boys were the other side. Not as distress.
Something I knew. Not yearning for the dress
my best friend wore at parties. In a dream
we danced and flew. Flesh silk in every twirl
Feet stars. And no one followed, no one led.
For many years they told me she was dead.
She found me when she looked for me as girl.
Mourning was lead. But these things were all true.
Things I knew not to say. Silence my friend
I feared that they would catch me in the end
Nailed to unchanging skin. Be just like you.
Which I was not. Nor am. I represent
this chosen model of embodiment.
Mingle my elements alchemic gold
Quicksilver flows even when sick or old.
Some things I choose. And some things are my fate.
Stories a web of both. Spun spider time.
Sparkle by chance, by choice smear waste dust grime.
Early I knew, transitioned slightly late.
And paid the ferrygirl my toll in full
the blessing of pus blood months weak in pain
if free would chose it over all again.
We all have weight to shoulder or to pull.
Perhaps you'll hear me if I say it clear.
You live a body set and formed and grown
I change my flesh and mind and not alone.
We come among you dancing, year by year.
May 26, 2015
World Fantasy Award
31st May is the closing date for nominations for the World Fantasy Award, If you are attending Saratoga Springs or were at Washington or Brighton, you are entitled to nominate.
The more people nominate, the less chance there is of shenanigans. Just saying.
Also, if you feel like giving one of those nominations to RESURRECTIONS Book Three of Rhapsody of Blood, well, I won't win, but if people notice the book they are more likely to read it.
The more people nominate, the less chance there is of shenanigans. Just saying.
Also, if you feel like giving one of those nominations to RESURRECTIONS Book Three of Rhapsody of Blood, well, I won't win, but if people notice the book they are more likely to read it.
Sad news
FOR TANITH
Eyes blue as lapis, bright as chrysophase.
Its flame-red feathers flicker as if flame
bird keens high-flying, straining to proclaim.
Mourning of course, but also passion praise.
Black satin pillows for the Lord of Night
that do not show the bloodstain of his tears.
Who brooks no rule. This news a whiplash sears.
if pain submission brought her back he might.
And now his tale is done. And hers as well.
So many books, dark, wry and with a twist
Start to reread, go organize a list
The titles blur. Her words like petals fell
or snow. Made new and strange what lies below
transforming every story that we know
Eyes blue as lapis, bright as chrysophase.
Its flame-red feathers flicker as if flame
bird keens high-flying, straining to proclaim.
Mourning of course, but also passion praise.
Black satin pillows for the Lord of Night
that do not show the bloodstain of his tears.
Who brooks no rule. This news a whiplash sears.
if pain submission brought her back he might.
And now his tale is done. And hers as well.
So many books, dark, wry and with a twist
Start to reread, go organize a list
The titles blur. Her words like petals fell
or snow. Made new and strange what lies below
transforming every story that we know
Roz Kaveney's Blog
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