A few samples from 'Egg-Timed Lives', Guinevere's new evolving collection with powerful poems on motherhood, relationships, sexuality, set along the West Wales Caost.
Scroll down for samples from 'Fresh Fruit & Screams' - published 2006 by Bluechrome.
Egg-Timed Lives (new poetry collection).
More Poetry is Needed
(Response to public art By Jeremy Deller at The Quadrant Shopping Centre, Swansea)
I’m thumping with locked up muse,
could burn my food to find it.
I want to stop, write,
fall out of the day’s traffic,
sit under this graffiti
in neat bleached jeans,
with my baby, my saucepans
un-cleaned, my one roller,
my chemicals, bank book,
empty notebook, watch my nails grow,
be spoon-fed phrases like raisons,
heaving over each other in the dark,
harden with the bricks of the city,
the flute player’s son,
thinning by the fat shops,
the empty furnace of the church.
I’m craving new pens, for my knives
to etch poetry in the pastry,
my kitchen to magic into a library,
the bath to flip into a stage,
soap to soak me in fresh lines,
for everyone to give me some time.
I plan to shout about everything
in this lonely home of a car park,
where the path shines with urine
and the seagulls turn art into art.
He didn’t take off his boots,
just trod softly - as if the mud wouldn’t loosen.
All he cared about was the sky -
waving at it until it rushed into every room.
He knew every cloud pattern, spire cross
valley slit and fire pit of Swansea.
Nose and finger prints, dog licks, mildew,
drips - he’d massage them off the glass
closing in and in on perfection with his green
and greener eyes each time -
like his windows they could not be more clear.
I don’t even know the colour of his hair,
only see the fractals in his eyes.
I should let the view sink into me too.
Instead I pace, mutter jobs, follow the dog,
as though to share this space,
stand by his clean, silent gaze
would be just two halves too powerful.
All corners saluted to, he leaves
with a few small warnings -
the coming of hail, a leak in the leading.
The air smells cut, a different breeze.
Even the mirrors dream,
calling the tides.
The night drums
with a wind wrapped sea,
road traffic, electricity.
I tie back my curtains, uncover
the moon’s tilt - like a lover
sent back to my side.
All the men that have crossed me,
for their food, love, fear, ego, home
are deep in this bed -
a bit of soul, chromosome, hair, pelt, bone
and blood patches.
If these stains would talk,
I’d be filled with sound,
a cacophony of chats.
Words that elate, stumble, mumble.
Some tongues like missiles -
slaying me slowly,
some that sigh into silence but still
have a frequency; others I want
to travel with, twist into whispers till dawn.
My birth - still sings in these springs,
the flood of it, printed in hearts and stars.
Baby boy’s fate -
sunk into the coils of the world now.
Breast milk, morning tea,
maroon wines from nights of anarchy -
are all tattooed
like emblems in the sweat of the weft.
Would I be judged
if I heaved this mattress, like a carcass
to the trash skip, buttons loosening,
lying in the dust – an open book
Let's spread our toes a while .
'Put Me into Words,' Screams the Cherry Blossom
If only I could.
Let me engulf you
by you engulfing me.
Let down your fresh,
Unearth your seeds,
seat them on my pleated navel.
Loosen your roots,
stick that waxy reach
in my path.
I can trip into your lifted trunk,
with wise old swirls,
spinning in spring's tow,
with my green hair
unfastening its shapes
and my trussed thorax peeling.
Our arms will sift light
through petal nests.
Fingers will buzz
with roused bees
saving our sap
for the sweet retreat.
Words Cherry Blossom!
Give me all of your words.
Or do we need
a bigger gash to fall in?
into the brains of life,
where majesty sits,
all records were writ.
The wires have bred
and spread like ivy.
There's a little machine
It's a digital quest,
a strange test.
You may lose your head,
perhaps you want to.
It's as fascinating
It's space playing hard to get.
It's virtual like asepsis.
It's the sloth of accomplishment,
a fat money pot,
million dollar deals, despot.
like a lizard's tail,a signature.
It's a prime player
under this grainy sky
as the pixels part
and the dreamscapes start.
It is dark-o-clock.
The perimeter is mapped with stars.
your shape sparkles through the sky.
Down here, I am the sea,
the sea that smelts through me.
I am the green hair of mermaids,
that harden to your face.
I am a pearl in the mouth
and I can vomit up a beach,
as the seaweed wraps
her warted arms around me.
I am holy
from the world bath,
from the grazing shark
Like a boat,
I am time-tabled into this space-
a definite vessel.
I guard my eyes with a mirror.
I let the waves create,
find the way by mistake.
I keep myself guessing,
staving off the whispers
from the she who is me.
And now, my daughter,
a cell or two old,
it is light-o-clock
and you can see
from your balcony,
the studs of silver horns,
the eyes of fish,
more than I could ever imagine.
She shall yield.
She shall unfold.
The Onion Girl,
woken by air
and a frightening knife.
She will dry up and be used
in some peculiar dish.
You sleep bedide me
like a baby.
I am the placenta.
I was going to write,
I love you!
I'm so glad my pen ran out.