Added this poem to the site as have just been reading about the latest must-wear fashion item this seaon. This poem takes it to extremes and is from my collection, Garibaldi's Legs.

 

 

Anna C

 

Too much to drink, too tired to undress

I lie with my belt buckled, dreaming

of emerald eyes, sleek muscles in a waterfall;

wake with Yanos on my lips.

 

Trevor says my tongue’s like fire

darting round his teeth. He bought me

the shoes, yellow and brown. They fit

like a second skin; I glide through puddles.

 

I like the matching bag, stroke its scales

on the bus and think of palm swamps.

Now I’ve stopped eating, I pull the belt tighter.

It patterns my skin, mottling nicely now.

 

In this rain I long for Amazon shores.

Thinking like this makes me hungry. I sidle

up to Trev, give him such a hug he yells.

I can hear my stomach gurgling.

 

 

 

This is the title poem from the Sand chapbook.

 

Angus Palette

 

I know the colour of Thrums,

that the wind is granite grey

softening to a well-washed school jersey,

that dreiled fields are double-knit,

brown skeins from the Scotch Wool Shop,

that geese match the inside sheen of razor shells

and buckies are bigger versions of their eyes.

 

I dream in the new green of April parklands

that doesn’t travel well to Fife, the Mearns

or beyond the Glens without losing its youth.

 

Open this bottle of pale Usan sand

that I carry with me, let it run

through your fingers, picture mid-summer

light on dunes, smooth as sun-kissed skin,

the ruins of Red Castle above us,

Angus sandstone crumbling on lips,

dissolving in blood, seeping into bones.

 

Count to ten. Open your eyes.

Tell me in your new-found language

the colours that you see.

 

 

 

 

Sunday Night, South Shields

 

She doesn’t care about calories or carbohydrates,

what she wants is chips.

Not gangly fries or wedges in a Southern coating,

not chips that have lain in the tray until they’re soggy.

She wants crisp chips, so hot

her tongue will carry the burn for days, so crunchy

that each bite will earthquake in her ears.

She needs the right sprinkle of salt,

a perfect splash of vinegar,

the smell of warm newspaper on her fingers

and a thin layer of grease on her nails,

with a sea wind to blow in her hair while she’s eating,

and a boy – that boy – to buy them for her,

offer to add fish to her order,

although she’ll refuse, because after all that’s happened

since she woke this morning,

all that will comfort her,

all that she really longs for

is chips.

 

How to Make Your Own Compass

Stand on high ground and turn in a circle.

Be surprised by trees and ponds,

those greens ribboning the city skyline.

Look above Northumberland Street shoppers,

find the stained glass ladies

selling fine stationery and pens.

Travel a lot by bus. Listen to the voices,

their warm lozenge vowels,

all those elasticated eehs.

Wear noisy heels and tap along

in time to your own voice, saying

Blaydon to Two Ball Lonnen.

Drink sarsaparilla, eat stottie,

swallow the stories of marras and hinnies

until their history is yours.

Travel north and south exploring distant places.

Let your return ticket follow the curve of the Tyne.

With your eyes closed, trace the swing of its bridges.

Written for New Writing North's NewcastleGateshead poetry project.

Collision Theory

If an atom has a chemical attraction

for another’s elementary particles

If a kitten runs on a polished floor

and cannot stop

If one wide-eyed president dislikes

another leader’s eyebrows

and the way he says negotiations

or a man driving north argues on the phone

while the woman applying smudge-free mascara

is accelerating south

then the sphere of abstract knowledge

sets into play.

I want to put into practise the dictionary definition:

a violent impact of two moving bodies,

the action of our particles striking.

I want to orbit your office

as you key in the code

and the automatic doors sweep open

revealing you, looking up,

checking for precipitation

so you collide with my state of motion

causing us to unite,

forming a compound of fixed proportions.

At least, that is my theory.

Written for the Lit and Phil's Science Experiment, National Poetry Day 2005