[March/April time in the series, after the characters break up.]
Under a fold of clouds
weeping
you tear apart a part of me
hands unfold to show my heart.
Five words, five syllables,
the consonants the stuck out mocking tongue.
You’re still beautiful
when you destroy.
Smile empties into tarmac.
Collects in the gutter where it used to belong.
Dribbles away, a blank faced fool.
‘I do not love you,’ over and over again
turning through the thudding thrum.
The city’s a beast that snarls.
Concrete maze, my labyrinth.
A cacophony silent but the four plus one.
I am whispering that I will forever love this man.
- M. R. Wallis
I hope the broken structure helps to realise how the character must feel.
I’m reviewing Laura Marling at The Lowry tonight. Two press tickets courtesy of a very kind friend.
[Set in August, after they meet in ‘For Fortune’ accidentally in the street.]
Mugged tea in your hand,
coffee in mine I
brush my fingers through wet hair
rain-slacked and dripping.
Blush strokes across my cheeks.
I cannot help but look at you,
at your jaw, mouth,
your eyes.
You sip, and when you sip
I imagine pressing my lips
against you, with you.
I worry about my coffee breath.
‘My hair’s a mess,’ I say
you laugh, ‘I like them wet,’
and wink.
- M. R. Wallis
Everywhere I see you
feel you
this wine glass, your lips
the spittle-sip, your kiss.
I can hear you breathing
when the wind sighs.
When I turn off the lights
you are here, beside me
with your arms around my waist.
I cannot sleep.
Hands lingered on these bannisters
across pillows;
in the dawn
there splayed an angel on these sheets.
I can hear you breathing
when the wind sighs.
In this trough you slept, snoring
unwashed bedding
I can smell you, still
laughing.
A pair of your underpants
I wear them
to be close to you, to brush against you.
You’re in the laundry basket, now.
I can hear you breathing
when the wind sighs.
On the floor you exercise,
push and press and sit
you are at the foot of the bed
reading.
You are walking through the door
with a cup of tea, three biscuits
a grin on your face.
My hand is in your pocket, fiddling.
I can hear you breathing
when the wind sighs.
Your fist hits me three times
blood specked on wall.
I can feel your pulse, here.
I can feel your anger, here.
The bruises on my body are you
the two on my arm, kisses
planted firm with a knuckle
not quite as soft as lips.
I can hear you breathing
when the wind sighs
when the wind sighs
I can hear you breathing
when the wind sighs.
-M. R. Wallis
We met again, in the rain this time
on bikes, in a road
with my tongue knotting, hands shaking,
the bird in my mouth, fluttering—
my knees were weak
wobbled, toppled,
fell off to the pavement
the bike wrapped around me like an exhausted
lover,
rain pooled in my clenched lids.
I opened my eyes, you there leaning,
breath tasted like kindness,
irises broke a melody in two
beat through me.
You asked,
(I was stunned by your beauty)
whether I wanted to go for tea
and whether I was okay
I smiled before I spoke
my voice guttered, quivered, choked
the cars made a line behind
horns wailed
we didn’t care.
- M. R. Wallis
I see your name in contrails in the sky
in the pattern of lines on my hands.
In friends eyes I see your eyes
glassed and sad.
I feel your lips in strangers lips
in gaps between utterances I can sense them.
In the shadows of nolight I hear your footsteps
irregular and dancing.
I see your face in the branches of trees
in the gravel and dirt and leaves.
In words I focus on the letters that comprise your syllables
in conversation they are yours and yours alone
just as specific as your laugh.
-M. R. Wallis
I’ve almost finished writing the poetry collection.
This poem is likely to be the opener, set in the month of August. The rest of the collection will drag us through the months, through their love, their desperation, their conflicts. Through abuse, through loss, through heartache. In some ways I hope that the readers will identify with the protagonist, and care for the characters. In some ways it isn’t quite a collection of poems … but, I hope, a complete story in its own right.
For Under a Vowel Sounded Sky
We met under a vowel sounded sky
of ohs and yous and ees and iis
nothing to go by but our hopes
our lusts
two indiscriminates
lost
our hands touched and joined.
Boxers round ankles, making murmurs I held you. Kissed you.
A radiator clung to, I heated the bed.
You grabbed my thighs. Eyes undressed me though I was bare.
A smile upturned my mouth.
I memorised every angle, shadow of your face.
Washed my mind of everything except how you’re made.
My finger followed the bones down and lingered there.
Hand in hair you leant to me eyes closed.
Nooked neck I breathed a beat of wind against skin, tongued round lobes,
hands massaged the back of your neck. I was home, there.
I pecked a sweaty row of caramel. Stick after stick after stick a list of verbs,
no nouns, just doing words curled up in your collar bone.
Two bodies bound, bow-tied
by jigsaw hands.
Could have lain there forever but Time’s a thrifty whore.
- M. R. Wallis
p.s. - from a field on a mountain in the lake district.
One,
I will not ask your name
in case it becomes my new lullaby
turned over and over again.
Two,
I will not kiss you first
in case pecked it remains with me
a silent signature of your lips.
Three,
I will not dance with you
in case the drink blurs your face into my dreams,
watching between Love and Like.
Four,
I will not tell you my hopes
in case you fall for those
and not for me.
Five,
I will not touch you
in case you become that which I hold onto
dark, groping, unable to see.
Six,
I will not speak to you
in case your voice begins to merge
with the heartdrum in my chest.
Seven,
I will not text you quickly,
or leave you kisses
in case I begin to fall
and fall and fall and fall
for you.
For Help - M. R. Wallis
For Help - M. R. Wallis
It’s probably important for me to note that this is for the harsher sections of the collection, about the aspects of devotion and love which are negative rather than positive. Recital to follow.
