May. 14th, 2008 09:10 am
mk_tortie: (who am i)

This (from German postsecret) really scares me sometimes. Not that I'm actually at the stage where it could happen, but just that I find myself thinking in German without intending to, or I only know the German word to describe a particular moment, and half of me is pleased and half of me is afraid. Every time I think about this it reminds me of a poem we had to read when I was at school: (particularly the second part)

Search for My Tongue by Sujata Bhatt )


Feb. 26th, 2007 01:30 am
mk_tortie: (fall with grace)
Just wanted to collect together all the poems I've ever posted on here... it's interesting to see the repetition of themes. Behind cuts so feel free to ignore.

Growing Up )

Life's Small Wonders )

Memorial )

Letter to Chris )

Fear and Elation - two poems on Love )

Life )

Aldwych on Whale Day )

My Flower )

These Four Stone Walls... Lyrics for Life )

Watch Me )

A song on that theme.. Four Stone Walls )

gathering dust )

Three Dreams )

Uprooted )

Wow, that's a lot of poetry!  Heh.
mk_tortie: (fading away)
This isn't good poetry, but it expresses how I feel. It is some relief that I have been able to finally find the words to describe it, pitiful though they may be, because I feel as though I am being eaten. The first line is taken from one of my poems from a while back.



The small grey church is still a home of sorts,
Behind the trees, between the fields.
And I may no longer wander down these leafy lanes
Nor sit in contemplation, nor in celebration
And I am rootless as the old trees that once fell;
That once fell and now are dead and strong inside my small grey church

And what is home when time has fled away?
May I be allowed still to sit and weep, or must
I break
and fall, disjointed, over tumbling rocks in mind and soul and
body -
Until I am once more whole, as such?

And where is God when I am here, away?

For the small grey church is still a home of sorts
A home I may no longer see
O God
Where art thou?
If that is now denied to me?


I feel so cold, inside.
mk_tortie: (dark)
gathering dust

empty and cold
like a hermit crab shell, abandoned
outgrown like an old shoe
grass grows over and i am sucked into the ground

shaken and old
like a wizened old man, blown
in the storm like a torn autumn leaf
the wind tastes my hair and i am ripped by the roots

scolded and told
like a child, like a fool, whipped
with your words like a thief like a slave
the sand bites my toes and my pyramid falls

given and sold
like sorry and please, used
in careless abandon like a scribbling pad
fragments of thought in my head, on my lips

a word, please; a sign
a signal, a note
that i am now yours and no longer
alone in my head with these things with these truths
with these old lives;

for i am empty, and cold.


Apr. 20th, 2006 04:17 pm
mk_tortie: (Default)
I'm thinking of entering a poetry competition that has a £1000 first prize. You can enter as many poems as you like, but you have to pay an entry fee for each poem. So I thought I might enter up to three of my own poems... but I'm not sure if I should do it. I've never shown anyone my stuff (other than posting it on here and on fictionpress, but that's more for myself and I haven't had any feedback other than the average 'I'm only reviewing your stuff so you'll review mine' on fictionpress and a couple of encouraging comments on here. So I wondered... is it worth it? Any one of my poems any of you reading this particularly liked? (Charles, I know you've seen most of them...) This sounds really stupid, but I don't know whether I actually write crap or whether it's good. It's a bit hard to tell with your own stuff!

Anna x


Mar. 18th, 2006 07:14 pm
mk_tortie: (Default)
Four Stone Walls

These four stone walls that hold my past
Are lost behind a shield of grass
And though I hunt a way between
They’re locked away; I have no key

Beneath my feet the winter stirs
Sends out it’s shoots; twists round my toes
So I can neither walk nor run
So my four walls must stand alone

I have no right to see my life
In any other way than how
I’ve always seen it, burnished gold
This view is mine and mine alone

In summer flowers bloom and spread
Around the walls, above my head
A sky of twisting, turning green
With sunlight streaming in between

I have no right to see my life
In any other way than how
I’ve always seen it, burnished gold
This view is mine and mine alone

The dappled shade which paints my path
Is brightening and fading fast
And every day I’m on the earth
There’s something new I find to learn

And whilst I live and whilst I breathe
I won’t stop trying to succeed
Tear down these walls and
See the sun set for the first time.


Was a poem... now a song.


Mar. 6th, 2006 12:19 am
mk_tortie: (Default)
I love this. I love sitting in my room late at night, writing poetry and listening to music. It's so relaxing, so cathartic... Words are amazing things, seriously. I enjoy this so much.

I've started a photoblog because I want to take arty photos when I get my camera. It's here if anyone's interested:

This is x-posted to there, and there is a photo that goes with it.

Watch Me

Watch me
I am no ordinary image
I am no flitting in the dark shadow
Sunbeam through slit windows am I
Last light filtered dust in shade and tone
Seeping like water drops through the air of the room

Watch me
I am yours for the taking
I am the answer in whole and nothing but
Nothing other than what I appear to be
And unchanging; life in waking and dreaming
Quelled not by fallen tree or flooded path

Watch me
Listen to the music of water
Listen to the music of living beating breathing hearts
In blood rush am I whole and live in you
Take me hesitating only in gentleness
I do not want you to leave me

Watch me, for I cannot take my eyes away from you.


Written whilst listening to Marion, my Dad's song for my Mum. I think the music that goes with poetry is very important. Something like Wagner and his Gesamtkunstwerk.
mk_tortie: (Default)
I got all... poetic last night, I guess, but in a weird way. I was listening to Arvo Paert's 'Cantus in memory of Benjamin Britten' - oh, so beautiful. And the words just started flowing. So, here's the results:

A Song of Life, and What May Be

I have not grieved, nor breathed my last
The coldest stone is yet the coldest
And past, and time, and war, and blood
Are concepts still not grey with age

I've seen mist hang heavy in the glen
A watercolour blur, damp on my cheek
So I am spared deepest despair
And desolation, and fear, and hunger and thirst

And the small grey church is still a home of sorts
And the open fields are bleak and free
The wind snaps at my cold-appled cheeks
I close my book, climb down the wall, and walk the long hard road and leave.


Answers to Questions - a poem in four parts

And the glass of the house is open and empty
And the eyes on the ceiling are staring and wild
And the lover's embrace is of ashes and embers
And the stones of the path are the teeth of a child

And my mother is often alone in the daytime
And the answer is given and gladly received
And the scream in the woods does not break when you squeeze it
Although you may squeeze it as hard as you please

And the nightmare of blood is not over when waking
And the sun is in bloom from the dawn to the dusk
And the sweet scented swift seeking stream in the garden
Ambles over the gate like a bird with a crust

And my father is right that I'm glad to be lazy
And the fox on the grass is a stranger in flight
And the chances they took on the heath after sunset
Are the only escape for the bewildered tonight.


mk_tortie: (Default)
Keep my flower safe, my love
Let it not lose its bloom and fade.
Now in your hands I leave it safe
To flourish;
It is mine no more.

Give me your hand and make me yours
Once more
When darkness falls each night
I will not leave as morning's light
Steals shadows from the night's embrace.

Oh, do not let the petals fall
Do not, in quiet moment, leave
And let its fertile blossom droop
(I cannot stand to see you hurt)
Please do not let it blow away?

Be still, my love, be still and calm
And storms will not steal stem or leaf
My flower, safe, lies in your arms
And I am here; let us just be.


Meh. Lit. is a good class for writing pretentious poetry.


Feb. 2nd, 2006 01:20 am
mk_tortie: (Default)
Life is like looking through the bottom of a glass
It depends which one you look through

The world is full of angles and curves
Distorted through our experiences

When a perspective changes
Sight is a whole new thing
More whole than before, perhaps, or just through a different cup

I feel now like I am on a glass-bottomed boat
And my perspective twists and shifts daily in the storms of the ocean of life
And all I can do is gaze at the new images I am exposed to

I can't do anything, a lot of the time
But I'm still here
I'll always be here

I just wanted you to know.


mk_tortie: (Default)

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