Monday, 21 February 2011

Before the Tone

Monday 21st February 2011, A. Palmer


Tonight, I wanted to talk
but you were unavailable again.
                            
So rather than store my words in your voicemail
to be mocked out of the moment,
I let them tumble back down my throat,
and wonder where the name I know went.

Trouble is, my stomach’s full of thoughts I failed
to express and feelings I didn’t go vent.
One more mouthful will make me ill, so boat
the rock, sail him away in efforts to foment

a sudden availability,
a call.
Hello?



Sunday, 13 February 2011

Upon First Meeting

Sunday 13th February 2011, A. Palmer


Love-drunk was a coin I had never spent,            
though I could see its meaning clear enough.     
I laughed at fools who begged that I repent       
and sank another shot then cursed the stuff.

I seemed happy to send drinks to their deaths,
‘til a bar of all places staged our meeting.
I spoke best I could between taken breaths;
to crack that smile was simply cheating.

Time skipped by, how it appears to relish
to deny one’s requests for fun to drag.
Nerves kept threatening to throw chips and fish
and trade them with butterflies in a bag.

Love-drunk was a coin I had never spent
for in love I had taken only sips,
but then the room span, and I passed out bent
the very moment you passed my lips.

Saturday, 5 February 2011

Heavy-Handed Confession

Saturday 5th February 2011, A. Palmer



I gave it all I had without reserve or reflection;
I’m not one for cut-and-paste.
Yes, perhaps I tried a little too hard and as such,
ended up pushing you away disengraftedly-
not unlike a sculptor who shaves a shard too much
in his pursuit of perfection,
and is left with a formless, useless waste.

Then, attempting to immortalise you,
he finds he’s crafted me.

Friday, 4 February 2011

Chords of Life

Her Birthday, A. Palmer


Perched in the corner on a stool uneven,
there’s a guy who’s barely listened to;
he’s drunk and he’s drinking
and he’s singing my life.

I came here smiling, laughing in places,
believing I was actually getting better,
but whilst others take carefree for granted,
I thank him for knowing with brimming eyes.

His notes, though perfect,
sound coarse and bitter and out of place.
They whisk me on a whip to memories of you,
and I tell you I did the best I can.

You will probably never know-
there’s no real need for you to-
but I really did have dreams,
and, yes, I really did sketch in your face.

But that’s all in the past-
washed out to sea,
where it’s safe to be forgotten,
safe to drown in silent peace.

For now, I try to work out if
life can truly be enjoyed,
or whether it’s more a journeyman's case
of perfecting the art of bouncing back.

Something tells me I’m close,
but close, by definition, is never quite there,
so I return to the candles
and the soft salt of ale.

Perched in the corner on a stool uneven,
there’s a guy who’s barely listened to.
Later, I’ll come to realise
that I was him, and he was me,
drunk and drinking and singing my life.



Wednesday, 2 February 2011

Sonnet No. 1: February Belle

First sonnet I have ever written. Will always be the most important.
Begun Wednesday 2nd February 2011, ended only in death.


Tough this lark, and not really such a ‘lark’-
to move on and leave early selves behind.
At periods of pain, they stand to mark,
their faces sterner, rougher, finer-lined
with each dead end encountered up to here.
Move on! Keep moving on! But I, no doubt,
have precious few mes left, and so I fear
to live a life filled with laments of without,
or one where I’m found wanting (you and I).
And that’s the problem with this ‘love again’:
How can you now settle for a stone lie
when you once danced true atop a mountain?
So by my self I am, by yours I’m not:
the closest to perfection I e’er got.







(N.B. The lines set indented and emphasised in italics (11-12) are as so to indicate, for they compose the sonnet's question, that the iambics have been reversed; the other 12 lines operate on opposite iambic pentameter to these two).