Me and my writing friend Vicky did a free poetry course that wasn't very good but at least I wrote some poems. Here's some extracts of me trying to develop a creative practice.
Human history
contained
in skin and dust.
Am I dissolving
us with salt water
waves (in me)
that crash
out?
The gifts you give
will return.
How sad it is to
hold our hands
open for our
own gifts, a
whole
world of us,
reading the letters
and cards we sent
from happy ghosts.
Now we become
the keepers of
them all.
I’m a city girl,
birthed under
bright lights
and the mechanical
dizziness
of wanting more.
In my streets we
push forward (sometimes
blindly)
headlights cutting us
amber beams on
glittering Cat’s Eyes. I
hopscotch over light -
in a city of stone and
glass we are all
made from this glimmer.
The riot police
lined our streets
We
stared them down,
and all the while new
cars
drove past
in solidarity (red) to
the blood in the streets.
I have salt tears on
buses. Cancer on buses.
Friends on buses (and holding
onto their pinkies,
promises
on buses). I have
love on buses,
(into front seats,
bubble gum and dust)
and
I have my childhood in
paper tickets,
holding onto thin air
and
steering into nothingness.
I knew
this will end soon.
All writing is
testament
that it did.
The DJ is crying.
It’s a salt and smoke
room, purple light -
space, space, boundless,
open -
I have the
love of my friends
tonight. It feels
bigger than
we are.
I don’t know what they
remember. I want to know
what they hung on
me.
I was so happy I cried.
I couldn’t heal
from all I had seen - I had
another. I grew
dizzier
and dizzier.
The DJ is crying.
That’s a poem,
I thought. All of
this is a poem.
Can they see the trace of
it on me?
How I tilted
my head
to the sky and waited
for it to run down
on me
My love
returned and not
dead my love
alive and warm
in my palm.
I want the days
back
fresh
on my skin.