Log in

[icon] Oh, how beautiful youth is...
View:Recent Entries.
You're looking at the latest 10 entries.
Missed some entries? Then simply jump back 10 entries

Time:11:13 pm
by Don Paterson
MAY 26, 2008
I love all films that start with rain:
rain, braiding a windowpane
or darkening a hung-out dress
or streaming down her upturned face;

one long thundering downpour
right through the empty script and score
before the act, before the blame,
before the lens pulls through the frame

to where the woman sits alone
beside a silent telephone
or the dress lies ruined on the grass
or the girl walks off the overpass,

and all things flow out from that source
along their fatal watercourse.
However bad or overlong
such a film can do no wrong,

so when his native twang shows through
or when the boom dips into view
or when her speech starts to betray
its adaptation from the play,

I think to when we opened cold
on a rain-dark gutter, running gold
with the neon of a drugstore sign,
and I’d read into its blazing line:

forget the ink, the milk, the blood—
all was washed clean with the flood
we rose up from the falling waters
the fallen rain’s own sons and daughters

and none of this, none of this matters.

Love Poem by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment Share

Time:10:50 am
Walking through the estate after dark
The path winds round the blocks and trees
Seemingly scattered by air-plane bombers,
and the gate in tatters stops the sheer drop
To the main road.

Squares of light linger from stairwells
And bedrooms and midnight snacks,
Hot dates going well, and switched
As the night shift begins or the baby
Finally falls asleep.

The spring air whistles about my ears,
Candy wrap and dog crap gather
About my feet, biked hoodlums correct
Graffiti grammar. The many floors that
Hang over my head

produce in me a reminder of the many
that hang under one moon.
comments: Leave a comment Share

Time:10:32 am
The window is opened from below
Lifting outwards and catching the rain
As we lie watching it gather and drip
On the terraces linked by crumbling garden walls.

A single duvet stretches over us;
We huddle in silence, the greyed light
Inking the walls, scattered clothes
On the floor, linked by crumbling inhibitions.

I would've turned over, but you
Seem so insignificant beneath the thunder
And when I see the houses stretch out under us
For miles, you're just another, crumbling,

And I will soon have to let my umbrella fall without me
As the wind picks up and I go flying.
comments: Leave a comment Share

Subject:Poem Concrete Horizon Work in Progress
Time:01:36 pm
from image.

Tattered triangles are spread in lines
Round the caving rectangle of a car dealership -
Dulled in colour under the looming belly of the sky.

Tiger printed clouds fall beneath the weight,
Pressing on the structure. The make-shift flat-pack vessel
Is drowning in it's own insignificance, Zeus' thunderbolts

Hammering, kneading, crushing.

Floodlamps flicker towards sunset, and as the light bleeds
Through the sky, cars fold and compress, shimmering blood-like
Bonnets, body work, boots. Windshield rainbows crumble

A metallic graveyard, seeping into the earth beneath
The concrete horizon. And all of us, all there, standing at the checkout
Folding and collapsing into cardboard and bubble wrap

Surrendering, shrivelling, shrinking
In to shopping bags for the moon.
comments: Leave a comment Share

Subject:Platform 2
Time:03:11 pm
Pigeons hang beneath the underpass
Like hoodlums -
Eyes flickering at each other.
Above, a man holds golden ringletts
On his lap, jumping on his knees.
Her pink anorack is dulled by the granite stripes of the bridge
The colour flashes through the gaps with every childlike pirouette.
In a gust of wind the birds become a cacophony of wings
Feet bent forward, feathers falling onto passers by
And over the man they scatter and reform, the undersides of their bodies
White against billboards.
An extended index finger returns to daddy's face
As they circle and then return
Pulling up their nike trainer socks
And re-scouring the street
For the crumbs of onlookers
Waiting for the 2.15.
comments: Leave a comment Share

Time:05:26 pm
She hung her lanterns on the horizon -
Fixed the strings with some sticky tape,
And wrapped the ends on driftwood by the shore.

The night would be lit up by the flicker
Of her candlelight, keeping the stars in a yellow hum
And turning the end of the earth into a cityscape.

People would wave to her from their windows in the sea
And blacken the rooms when they dived into bed
And solitary in her sleep, she knew she wasn't alone
For there were friends over there hanging in her head.
comments: Leave a comment Share

Time:11:23 pm
A lantern hangs
In your modern vestibulum -
Moroccan green cut glass
Throws your splintered gaze
Across the slate tiled path.
A tabby perches
In this intersection.
It's ovaled eyes capture the
Street lamps
whilst fingers wreathe around
Tangled metal rolling
Over and under.
And our hedge, recently cut,
Lies in scattered tatters
forcing a damp redolence to flirt
with the air.
I patter back to
The pavement;
to the familiar terraced row.

I thought I saw your face at the window.

The caress of curtains against the glass showed me
I was no longer home.
comments: Leave a comment Share

Time:04:30 pm
"I sat in the crowded traffic lanes of the flyover, the alluminium walls of the airline coaches shutting off the sky. As I watched the packed concrete decks of the motorway while Catherine prepared our first evening drinks, I was convinced that the key to this immense metallised landscape lay somewhere within these constant and unchanging traffic patterns."

"Above us, along the motorway embankment, the head lamps of the waiting traffic illuminated the evening sky like lanterns hung on the horizon".
comments: Leave a comment Share

Time:04:11 pm
The sunset resembles
A Hitchcock backdrop -
Sillouetted cardboard oblongs
Lit from behind and propped
On an imaginary horizon
Where imaginary people
Live out their pretence
In scripts and camera angles
That don't exist.
comments: Leave a comment Share

Subject:Skunk Anansie - Weak - Freewrite
Time:12:21 am
Current Mood:lonelylonely
Skunk Anansie - Weak (inspiration).
Lost in time I cant count the words
I said when I thought they went unheard
All of those harsh thoughts so unkind
cos I wanted you

And now I sit here Im all alone
So here sits a bloody mess, tears fly home
A circle of angels, deep in war
cos I wanted you

Weak as I am, no tears for you
Weak as I am, no tears for you
Deep as I am, Im no ones fool
Weak as I am

So what am I now - Im love last home
Im all of the soft words I once owned
If I opened my heart, thered be no space for air
cos I wanted you

Weak as I am, no tears for you
Weak as I am, no tears for you
Deep as I am, Im no ones fool
Weak as I am

In this tainted soul
In this weak young heart
Am I too much for you

In this tainted soul
In this weak young heart
Am I too much for you

In this tainted soul
In this weak young heart
Am I too much for you

Weak as I am
Weak as I am
Weak as I am
Weak as I am, am, am

Weak as I am
Am I to much for you
Weak as I am
Am I to much for you
Weak as I am
Am I to much for you
Weak as I am
Am I to much for you
Weak as I am

A Masochistic Tendency

I don't think about it anymore.
It's within the stale confines of matter of fact descriptions;
Within the stifled small smiles;
The rolling of words over my tongue
Until they've lost meaning.

I don't feel anymore.
I think in adjectives
I think in rhymes that I've woken with at midnight
And scribble in to the silence.
I think in syntax and composed constructed illustrations
And twisted echoes manipulated in to prose.
You are my muse.


This evening, we discussed ourselves in depth, me and her.
I reiterated countless occasions,
Picked lines from poems and spoke in written word.

he really messed you up" she said.

Everything curls and creeps over my body again
When I think of the love I've known compared to her
And "If I opened my heart, there'd be no space for air".

I think of talking to you again and my jaw stiffens and perceives
The soured cheek bones, the pursed cruelty, the tight sickened blackness hanging in swelling globules beneath your sockets.
I think of the skin stretched over your ribcage
Rubbing against your bones
And your scrawny body gyrating over mine
And how much I want it.

Often now, alone, I imagine loving again
And I see this saturating darkness -
A brawl in my brain, the beat of my bosom,
Like shagging in front of a gory horror flick.
An insatiable appetite for extremities
Running tender fingers over bruises.

'Just not the face'.

Terrified, I have engulfed myself in pantomime
Exercising a personality larger and more courageous than my own.
I can leave my weaknesses in pustules under my pores
Until another squeezes them out.
And, in a way, that's what I'm waiting for.
comments: Leave a comment Share

[icon] Oh, how beautiful youth is...
View:Recent Entries.
You're looking at the latest 10 entries.
Missed some entries? Then simply jump back 10 entries