Submissions by professoryackle
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Cycling with no lights as a rat runs: gutterwise. Back streets, cartoon-fast.
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
14th Apr 2015 10:58pm
14th Apr 2015 10:58pm
Libraries
Lines of lips and legs
like to lurk in libraries,
lure lonely lads in.
Declan, lingering.
Lusty, dusty libraries.
Dextrous Lynne, lending.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All Rights Reserved
like to lurk in libraries,
lure lonely lads in.
Declan, lingering.
Lusty, dusty libraries.
Dextrous Lynne, lending.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All Rights Reserved
681 reads
2 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
14th Apr 2015 8:47pm
14th Apr 2015 8:47pm
Burnley
It started small, a thing I never planned.
This house, which you expect - rather, demand -
I polish every minute, neat as a shell
has become my cell.
It's tough, not going outside, making no sound
as your schoolmaster cane inflects each wound,
accepts the count of every bright switch I take.
Afterwards, I ache.
So, I've begun acting out my dissatisfaction;
I don't deny I'm wanting your reaction.
I tilt this picture of your beloved Burnley.
You're bound to punish me.
And so, each day I say what I am feeling,
your Burnley's...
This house, which you expect - rather, demand -
I polish every minute, neat as a shell
has become my cell.
It's tough, not going outside, making no sound
as your schoolmaster cane inflects each wound,
accepts the count of every bright switch I take.
Afterwards, I ache.
So, I've begun acting out my dissatisfaction;
I don't deny I'm wanting your reaction.
I tilt this picture of your beloved Burnley.
You're bound to punish me.
And so, each day I say what I am feeling,
your Burnley's...
734 reads
3 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
14th Apr 2015 10:04am
14th Apr 2015 10:04am
Elephant in the Room
Profoundly quiet, Blind Nell sits down,
clad in her daggle-tail nightgown.
From far away, her great renown
has led us to this unquiet town.
Clad in her daggle-tail nightgown,
infamy, and a thunderstorm
have led us to this unquiet town.
The Power Corner starts to swarm.
Infamy and a thunderstorm:
conjured by Blind Nell's aged Storm Tray.
The Power Corner starts to swarm.
Piano discords ricochet.
Conjured by Blind Nell's aged Storm Tray,
blind spirits gather for her quest.
Piano discords ricochet
around the walls at her...
clad in her daggle-tail nightgown.
From far away, her great renown
has led us to this unquiet town.
Clad in her daggle-tail nightgown,
infamy, and a thunderstorm
have led us to this unquiet town.
The Power Corner starts to swarm.
Infamy and a thunderstorm:
conjured by Blind Nell's aged Storm Tray.
The Power Corner starts to swarm.
Piano discords ricochet.
Conjured by Blind Nell's aged Storm Tray,
blind spirits gather for her quest.
Piano discords ricochet
around the walls at her...
724 reads
1 Comment
DARK POEM
Published
14th Apr 2015 9:49am
14th Apr 2015 9:49am
Spider in the Crypt
(for Neil Gaiman’s he Sandman)
This iron key tongues a door in the dark:
thread-legs stretched, skin fluttering, web-waifs in ragged
fragments. Night is heavy as treacle. Never
is a sound stone makes, feeds to the sepia sleeping
dead, whose eyes spin like saucers out of the fire,
pinned to walls with a bone-on-bone kiss.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All rights reserved
This iron key tongues a door in the dark:
thread-legs stretched, skin fluttering, web-waifs in ragged
fragments. Night is heavy as treacle. Never
is a sound stone makes, feeds to the sepia sleeping
dead, whose eyes spin like saucers out of the fire,
pinned to walls with a bone-on-bone kiss.
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All rights reserved
622 reads
0 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
14th Apr 2015 1:28am
14th Apr 2015 1:28am
Lemon Paper
For writing poetry in the bath
use yellow paper in lieu of ducks.
Add ink to running water, swoosh
with hands to fix the blue. Get wet.
You can't expect the words to work
Unless you're in. Are you? Or not?
There will be biting. Things will get hot.
Was he someone? Or just a jerk?
Met
Whoosh, wash
Ucks
Laugh (or bath)
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt)
use yellow paper in lieu of ducks.
Add ink to running water, swoosh
with hands to fix the blue. Get wet.
You can't expect the words to work
Unless you're in. Are you? Or not?
There will be biting. Things will get hot.
Was he someone? Or just a jerk?
Met
Whoosh, wash
Ucks
Laugh (or bath)
© professoryackle (Sara Pitt)
558 reads
1 Comment
LOVE POEM
Published
14th Apr 2015 1:17am
14th Apr 2015 1:17am
Drying Up
Once, there was a statue of a man.
In the next moment, there he was again.
Pretending not to move me, maybe.
I tried not to look at you, Man,
but I had no protection against myself.
My eyes, spooning in your direction.
My ears, cups swiveling to capture
your unexpected laughter at my dickishness:
that thing I just said, whatever it was.
It's not important, oh no, because words
are just packets of sand, moon units,
measures of impossibility. And anyway
you're perfect rapture without me, my input.
So just stop me, will...
In the next moment, there he was again.
Pretending not to move me, maybe.
I tried not to look at you, Man,
but I had no protection against myself.
My eyes, spooning in your direction.
My ears, cups swiveling to capture
your unexpected laughter at my dickishness:
that thing I just said, whatever it was.
It's not important, oh no, because words
are just packets of sand, moon units,
measures of impossibility. And anyway
you're perfect rapture without me, my input.
So just stop me, will...
649 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
13th Apr 2015 5:25pm
13th Apr 2015 5:25pm
Bolt from the Blue
This is the poem that knows what will happen,
but doesn’t tell. Instead, blurry pictures come,
half-forgotten pasts, mine or yours, I can’t be sure.
Hoped-for futures which may, or may not, arrive.
It depends on how I behave now.
This is the poem that shows a scene on my screen.
Someone who looks like me starts,
runs across cobbles, towards uncertainty.
A fellow I’ve never met grips a blade, mustard yellow
in the streetlight. He doesn’t see me. He wants you.
I've never met you before tonight. But you’re it.
Whatever it is, he...
but doesn’t tell. Instead, blurry pictures come,
half-forgotten pasts, mine or yours, I can’t be sure.
Hoped-for futures which may, or may not, arrive.
It depends on how I behave now.
This is the poem that shows a scene on my screen.
Someone who looks like me starts,
runs across cobbles, towards uncertainty.
A fellow I’ve never met grips a blade, mustard yellow
in the streetlight. He doesn’t see me. He wants you.
I've never met you before tonight. But you’re it.
Whatever it is, he...
780 reads
3 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
13th Apr 2015 5:04pm
13th Apr 2015 5:04pm
Dwyfor River Song
The song the Dwyfor boulders sing
is a drumbeat hum, long and low,
press your ear to the rock, you’ll know.
But Baba, you’ll wait till you grow old
for the boulder story to unfold,
for the lullaby they sing.
The song the Dwyfor sunlight sings
is the unlocked yellow note of fire,
seeds sky-holes as the leaves reach higher.
But Baba, you’ll wait till you grow old
for the sunlight story to turn to gold
the rings of birches either side,
to lean-link arms,...
is a drumbeat hum, long and low,
press your ear to the rock, you’ll know.
But Baba, you’ll wait till you grow old
for the boulder story to unfold,
for the lullaby they sing.
The song the Dwyfor sunlight sings
is the unlocked yellow note of fire,
seeds sky-holes as the leaves reach higher.
But Baba, you’ll wait till you grow old
for the sunlight story to turn to gold
the rings of birches either side,
to lean-link arms,...
773 reads
5 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
13th Apr 2015 7:53am
13th Apr 2015 7:53am
First of the Fallen
Apple apparitions shivering in their skins.
Larvae cackle - it could be so much worse for us - but
shall we dine tonight? There is time tomorrow
for apple-whispered sad-sap words. How it is:
last evening's grub-gruel wanting the ground.
Crystal of sap-whisper in our veins:
celluloid crepitant titanium.
Early stench of decay when the wind twists which-way,
larvae gorge on breaths of berries getting fat:
sweet-sweat, their widening corridors, paper thin
like those walls we saw in Japan's love hotels,
now distraught, must halt.
Is it finished?...
Larvae cackle - it could be so much worse for us - but
shall we dine tonight? There is time tomorrow
for apple-whispered sad-sap words. How it is:
last evening's grub-gruel wanting the ground.
Crystal of sap-whisper in our veins:
celluloid crepitant titanium.
Early stench of decay when the wind twists which-way,
larvae gorge on breaths of berries getting fat:
sweet-sweat, their widening corridors, paper thin
like those walls we saw in Japan's love hotels,
now distraught, must halt.
Is it finished?...
653 reads
0 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
13th Apr 2015 7:32am
13th Apr 2015 7:32am
7
Seven
battered white gusts:
bleachers nearer the blackness
Minna
small but not afear'd
Cow
massive with twin horns
and that moon, backwards:
have no doubt
t'was on account of that cat
Seven
foamy white swans did swim
around the eye
nearer 'n darkness
Stardust
holes in a knitted coverlet:
seven ragged swans
the gold and the blue
Swans
carved in stone
by the millpond
those twins sired an army
Minna, he calls her
her name, small protector
for the druid light as saved them...
battered white gusts:
bleachers nearer the blackness
Minna
small but not afear'd
Cow
massive with twin horns
and that moon, backwards:
have no doubt
t'was on account of that cat
Seven
foamy white swans did swim
around the eye
nearer 'n darkness
Stardust
holes in a knitted coverlet:
seven ragged swans
the gold and the blue
Swans
carved in stone
by the millpond
those twins sired an army
Minna, he calls her
her name, small protector
for the druid light as saved them...
760 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
12th Apr 2015 10:59pm
12th Apr 2015 10:59pm
Daffodils
If Spring is a hat, I’m standing on my head today.
I can pogo around this room, bounce
through my door, down the street. At first,
my eyes tried to swivel to where they used to be,
resisting change. But knew they’d better get used to it.
You don’t want to change, not even a little bit.
You don’t want anyone to move your cheese,
but there it goes. Water flows upwards
from the bathroom taps. The light’s on the floor,
a disco-mushroom. My cat catapults through the window,
a furry food-ball. Man and drift-dog...
697 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
12th Apr 2015 10:47pm
12th Apr 2015 10:47pm
The Galaxy of Lost Things
N.B. There is a map of the Galaxy attached]
See, when it comes to Space and shit,
those physics boffins got it wrong.
Einstein’s dead, Cox is a twit,
and poor old Hawking’s not got long.
They say it’s mostly empty space.
But hold on tight - I know a place!
Fire up your imagination,
out beyond the atmosphere-y
universe, a destination:
Hyperspace is not a theory!
Planet Earth is so last year:
It isn’t far, it isn’t near...
If you have ever wondered where
you left your keys, then wondered more;
you’ve Googled them...
See, when it comes to Space and shit,
those physics boffins got it wrong.
Einstein’s dead, Cox is a twit,
and poor old Hawking’s not got long.
They say it’s mostly empty space.
But hold on tight - I know a place!
Fire up your imagination,
out beyond the atmosphere-y
universe, a destination:
Hyperspace is not a theory!
Planet Earth is so last year:
It isn’t far, it isn’t near...
If you have ever wondered where
you left your keys, then wondered more;
you’ve Googled them...
876 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by professoryackle
