the devil and all his works

I dare you to disturb me with Stigmata,
Martyr me to prove your existence.
Shadows, flies, the river of Hades,
Descending on me in purple dreams
Until I awake, choking on broken anti-belief,
A wreath of thorns upon rose red temples
And a stem of struggling distress
Fixing me, writhing, to the bed.

I dare you to do so.
I await the malevolent glow of the
Devil and all His Works -
But He will never show himself
(Living as He does, in us).

sundays stories (number one)

Feeling fresh, I arose,
Kissing morning gladly
And the cool, windswept smoothness
Of stone on Ogden Moor ahead.

And goodbye to those
Remnants of green velveteen,
A plum-dream spleen over hills
From the night before.

I saw

The light-head giddiness
Of song along an open road,
and berry sneaks married timid feet
in autumn leaves.

I remembered

That razzle dazzle rosing
Had left me feeling grim.
Whiled away in the poverty of silence until

Too old for toadstools
And boggarts under bridges,
I resolved to take pictures instead.

Arguing writerly inspiration,
Amongst the twilit sight of tall
Trees slowly shorn from eyes by
Enveloped moon.

Wrap me in the cloak of a
Magical, enchanted wonderland
Like Alice, I begged ...

For there is no room for lazy footfall
Here, and you must stay near, little girl,
In this forest walk world.

chance encounter

Boy in an army jacket
Who lives in a squat in Bradford
Of all places.

His face is causing a racket.
Can you stop it please, if I smile sweetly
Enough?

Ingredients being, one serious smile,
Thick head of buoyant hair atop
And that thing that I bump into everywhere

1. Footnote to a cut throat razor loss.

I observe that which accompanies
But I cannot comprehend
This suffering (having never had to).

A pillar of existence shot down
Leaving half-armed
With tinted windows, the three of them.

He is an opportunist
Who wants to visit India and
I want to go with him.

I've only met him twice, three times
But his fine, quiet featured gentleness
Is already inside,

And when I learn his Pirate name
It all
Falls further into place.

He travelled West Yorkshire
On a day rider for three months once.
This is impressive and an easy trick.

Does his shopping out the back of
Sainsbury's - their throw-aways
Indicative of collective waste.

He understands that possession
Is three-thirds of the law that
Keeps us residing in fear

And he reminds me of Into The Wild.
Listens to Joni Mitchell in the morning
And wants to go walking.

Yet meetings are skewed as afterwards,
Balanced in the tree position, I lean
Towards his sun.

It's tempting to jump headlong into a
Pool of him; spend hours meditating upon
Each other's lips, faces and fingers.

Quickly, redress this!
"Keep control of our own time and basic space -
Be cautious, as always", he suggests.

'Tis a special one though
The spiritual 6 in numerology,
United by words and books and worlds of thought,

By lands of home and lands apart

That time forgot - And I touch

His soul with my palm as we each stand alone.

a home inside my own

place plush cushions on a couch
to soothe and ease The Ouch!
of a lost girl seeking a home.
i lay claim to eccentric comfort
now that i am loverless.

the roaring fire spits flames
silently and blue at the centre
battles windowpanes,
loose at the edge, allowing draft
from the ledge to escape.

scruffy floor-boards sing and shriek
as air envelops freezing feet
and cold toes tingle in the night.
i say i'll get slippers but never do;
do i really need an indoor shoe?

dusty bookshelves floor to ceiling
arranged by colour and expressing the feeling
of a thousand imagined characters,
often distracting me from the task at hand
with their mystical worlds.

i need to zoom in to drop out,
not multiply in the jumble sale brain
i sift through sometimes.
either way/i care not, and love them
individually and unequivocally, like unborn children.

the buddha is still in the corner stock-still
and from the stereo joni mitchell
sings a love song to california -
if i could sing,
i'd write a song like that.

the speckled bodies of venetian glass
obscure the key i have lost inside myself.
i don't want to make do with the
conditional arms of someone else:
though obviously it's a pleasure to lean/

i would cry to be a vile, blood-sucking creature,
strange deceiver at the door seeking warmth.
i yearn for the home inside my own -
the antithesis of pandora's box or i being odysseus
but better! no one-eyed monsters or kalypso
tar very much.

page closed, book shut
on a happy end would be satisfying.
but words aren't days and there is no close,
solely the onwards march, lonely soldiers in our lives,
battling ourselves most often.

there is a dark night or Hark!
a glorious day outside,
but if i remain here long enough
i'll forget to feel the sun shine
or the rain pouring long and fine.

paintings depict romantic destinations -
paris, prague, integrated into our own walls
of antique white. it's all mine by extension
and they are here intermittently;
between walks, too much work and worrying about us.

seasonal affective disorder

Your family dropped like leaves
From an evergreen tree,
Slipping through long fingers
Into homelessness
Within your child-soul.

A patchwork square of you
Then flew away that day
In an origami dove,
With a message of peace inside
Written by the child.

Tinged at the edge with cold
Colour and inglorious
Knowingness, lips loaded,
Turned up at corners,
Folded down with mourning.

And a picture warns

Of the beloved, the beautiful deceased
As a twinkle breaks your eye -
Thick, loaded, brimming now,
Swimming with promises of patchy rain
Interspersed with sunshine, sporadically.

A storm brings gale force winds
In from the West,
And there is no time for sweet sleep
Or even a blissful rest
Amongst this.

little brother

You own;
The entire collection of Radiohead albums,
A big arse! And generous arms.

"Surrounded by people
But I'm all alone",
Declared you once at 5am

And on the phone to me
In my then boyfriend's bed, in France -
Scared me witless, little Sam!

Manchester, not Melbourne,
Fool. (N.B. Please try to be sure
Of where you are in future).

Gulping goon surrounded by the swoons
Of girls my age (bleurgh)
Little brother got big
In the blink of an absent eye

And it's a great discovery of my time to find
That we siblings live in a pod of
Death-thinking and
Adventure seeking.

It's good to know that wherever we roam
We're two predictable peas set free,
(How strangely you know me).

And as you regard life with Student eyes
I curiously observe
The floppy locked little brother in them.

Yes YOU
Who I read like a book.
You are the second in a dynasty
After all,
Though it should've been a Trilogy.

And what other character could have been?
But that's another story
And there's no words anywhere
Which can tell it entirely.

So I won't try, just silently watch
You two love-birds,
Slit-eye to wide-eye and
Play-fighting like children
In the back of the car.

blue

Lost and found all at the same time
With sounds of past
And winters future
On repeat inside,
(Please can you Delete (me), you sigh.

Pleasure elicited from thought
Brought suffering as loss and longing
Painted firm brush-strokes across
Your down-turned face,
Until Blue described your mood, aptly.

Distractedly stranded in Norweigan Wood,
Isolated, and questioning
Your own effectiveness
As a human being;
Were magical dreams made to be broken
Before you'd even spoken them?

But please don't moan!
A tear is formed for shedding and
Leaving a clear eye behind,
It's silver trails like slugs
In a tracked race down your neck, and
Away from the remnants of your bleak distress.

And a blue you chugs onwards
Slowly, towards the light at the end
And still later (stationary) on a train
You tug at your Blue, struggling
With a wayward brain:

It's a hard and vicious fight
On the commute home from work
Each anger-fuelled night.

There was a ring and it was Blue baby,
One day I asked if it was a mood
Ring - 'Sarcastic Fucker' was your reply.

to be queen

I want to live in a Den of Iniquity,
All scarlet drapes
And sexual dissidents,
Intriguing strangers
With beguiling faces;
Gathered Together in My Name
From exotic, faraway places.

What girl has not dreamed
This scene? To be queen
Of all she surveys,
The Femme Fatale of a heart
Which is shrivelled, black
And gleams – from amongst her
hand-picked harem.

Can there be such thing as
Animalistic caress?
Agressively loving, possessive sex?
When sweat beads like
Blood diamonds on chest,
A chest undressed, disarmed even,
Like Samson by Delilah.

on waitressing

I like the ritualistic restaurant;
The oddballs and miserable bastards
Whose order remains forever the same,
Week on week.

But to distribute
A basket full of steak knives
Still breaks my serving heart,
And plate upon plate of lasagne, seems cruel to the crab.

Drab life, they disregard, skimming specials vaguely,
But for me a certain satisfaction is found
In making round, circular movements
To polish glass -

Sticky and no longer see through
With over-fed fingers,
Betraying the greasy film of dining
And wining, week on week.

And I like to see those thick swirls
On the top
Of a good cup of coffee,
Served with a biscuit, a smile and drunk in unhurried time.

I love the lessons learned like selfish pearls,
The tiny, beautiful moments
Of altruism(?) and
The happiness of others:

Heavenly monkfish
In a huge and deep-set dish,
With chorizo, basil and cherry tomatoes,
Followed by
A hot, strong Irish coffee
And a cake, devilishly sweet and
Doused in cream.

winter approaching

Soundscapes of a snowy landscape
Tinkling, rankling my mountain-less soul
As I long for the white, blank freedom
Of a blizzard, lost in this I imagine I'd feel
At home.

Yet this is no longer reality,
And I know there'll be future landscapes
I adore equally.

But discreetly I imagine;
Zee pain au chocolat,
Zee chair le poule,
Zee grumpy old men stood at the bar
Downing espressos and (when they could)
Chain smoking Marlboro Reds.

to my 16 year old self

skinny limbed chicken
i find my former self,
scowling from the inside
out, scornful of the
fistfuls of joy and wanting 'only'
a pair of miss 60 jeans!

reading sophie's world cross-legged,
unfurling antelope limbs with
crushed grapes of pain
at the shins,
dimly aware of the world
outside my windowpane.

a rush of blood to the head
and crushing pain
in a motionless chest,
remnants of rebellion -
the night before and my
glorious escape, intoxication.

poems by my mum

Numbed Limbs

Beside myself, sit I,
Numbed limbs,
There is a green hill far away,
A child's favourite hymn,
Back to front, Inside out,
A myth invisible,
Intransient,
Rooted/buried, heavy soil,
Forgive me/excuse me
Taunt and bemuse me,
Meaning/shining
Screaming unheard -
Certain sounds,
If I were a dog (polarity),
I might be dead,
Painless, quiet,
Memory,
Yours:

Bowled Over

Giant of a man - my stars predicted,
Giant of a man,
Do I have to be on another plane
To feel those arms enveloping, holding,
That tenderness, that trust,
So long, it's been so long,
So strong - those arms,
My face is wet
I can't express,
Cradled in a storm
By a giant of a man.

Movement

It touches me like a beam in Plato's Cave,
I don't mean my bowels
Or my house
When I say 'moved' ...
It moves me - you move me.

Distinguish

The general of our particulars
Only reflects our particular mood,
Thought, feeling - being
At one particular time - in general.

Is Vs Ought

I feel therefore I am,
I feel I should end on a happy note
Therefore, I will.

little girl lost

She's got holes in the soul of her,
motion-ful but no eventual goal
forever and ever amen -
she's fatigued and yet,
drives onwards (brave little solider!)
prising moments of clarity and
a hard-won parity
from the fingertips of confusion.

Fighting long-held delusions daily,
and determinedly forging a path as she treads
cobbled crossroads, rutted dips and
mile after mile where she inelegantly trips
once in a while.

And it is then she sheds her second, third and fourth skins,
Her tallest, warmest skins, and smiles ...
Smiles skinless over the peaks and troughs of
all the possible, stony lanes that she could take
towards yonder, over the hill and far away
one day to the curious next.

There are multiple dimensions
to this flighty dissension,
causing holes in the soles
of her scruffy, worn shoes;
painter pumps, over-worked, much used
and then dumped in a dustbin
flecked with sauce, like blood,
but not quite as exciting.

Her voice hoarse, weary
with those dreary words,
oft-repeated and wished deleted
from her vocabulary,
and the servitude of days which are
waitressed away (but not really, please?)

Thoughts drop like pennies
in the expanse of a mind wide
with the throw of offbeat thoughts as dice,
She always has a notebook in her pocket
to document this with variable precision.
It's to you she writes
Mysterious animal, her own indecision.

poetry (on being here, now)

From:	Isabel Brittain (@hotmail.com)
Sent:	11 November 2009 10:25:32
To:	Sian Lucas (@yahoo.co.uk)

Good Morning Siany! How are you on this fine November day? It's a drizzly one but I'm feeling good...! Think my feet are returning to the ground after recently losing my perspective a little.

You asked me on Friday night what I think makes a good poem and it really got me thinking. Not only about that particular question, but also contemplating why I discovered an appreciation for poetry at this particular point in my life. I've always loved literature, and the occasional poem, but I never really went out of my way for it - and I only rarely attempted to write it. Now I can't get enough of the stuff! And I think I've worked out why.

Poetry is a metaphor for the outlook on life that I now aspire to. Poetry teaches us to appreciate the smallest details in life; be they conventionally beautiful, tragic or simply somewhat innocuous on first sight. There is actually poetry in each day of our life, in everything we see and do - if only we pay attention and engage with it in a way that allows us to fully appreciate it. It's all part of an over-arching process that is an ongoing journey through life. Each tiny patch of the quilt is worthwhile. This is how I'm trying to live, and poetry is a great reminder of this truth.

The best of poems express this universal truth, whilst also being extremely personal. Poetry is therefore a written reminder of the search for 'the middle way', as I keep rabbiting on about. A balance between the universal and the personal - living with your own importance and unimportance simultaneously. Living 'in the moment' and making plans simutaneously. Remaining flexible and inquisitive, with a child-like appreciation for the world. Finding a way to live your life in harmony with your surroundings (whether people, places, things, your own messy mind...) By extension and by virtue of it's personal nature, poetry also comments upon the way in which we inwardly paint the world around us according to our subjective viewpoint.

The complexity of poetry teaches delayed pleasure as opposed to instant gratification, something which I'm struggling to internalise and absorb into my own life day by day. Poetry is like plodding onwards, through highs and lows, just soaking it all in and appreciating everything. Realising how lucky we are for each and every moment, and always remembering how little we actually 'know' about anything. That poetry is so personal, allows the reader to embrace this unknowing - we know enough when we are aware of this.

So a good poem teaches all of this. It's a shame that due to language barriers poetry cannot be entirely universal, though when translated it should still be, regardless of era, subject or how personal it is simultaneously. The rhyme and rhythm of poetry is essential, adds a certain beauty and imprints the words upon your mind. How much easier it is to learn lines of poetry or song than standard sentences? Therefore the rolling rhythm of poetry is a huge factor in what I take to be a good poem, and I prefer poems packed full of this, rather than the abstract verse of some contemporary poetry. To me, poetry is supposed to be read out loud wherever possible.

My favourite poets at the moment seem to be Tony Harrison, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson and Blake. Personally, I like a bit of narrative to my poem and sparse, uncluttered language. I can't quite work out why this is, but there is something quite satisfyingly round about a good poem, you are left with the sense of having gone full circle - despite not always completely understanding the circle's mysteries.

I value a bit of black humour or the juxtaposition of beauty with disgust in a poem quite highly! For example V by Tony Harrison, Blue by John Siddique, Mirror by Sylvia Plath ... These are two factors which are intrinsic to the human condition; laughter and appreciation of beauty in the most unexpected of places. What brilliant abilities! It restores your faith in the human race.

Sorry to go on. Are you going to Leeds Film fest tonight? Drop me a text if so.

Love xxx

house on a hill

the whispering swish of the wind in trees
sounds like the sea to me,
for I live land-locked and dropped
in the centre of God's own country.

it's to the hills i turn
to feel free; inviting mounds of
mossy green with blobs of autumn mustard,
scattered over lumps and bumps

that cry out to be discovered,
covered in boot-clad feet
made for walking in peat-bogs.
i want to know these here hills like
the back of my hand.

i stride out above
to escape this strandedness,
feet moving, regardless
of my twitching head.

instead i see the run-down mill,
the field upon field and farmyards,
the friendly sight of future hills rising
and the manure which fills

my nostrils with beautiful disgust.
i meditate upon the rust of
a broken-down tractor,
there's an aged house just here on the hill;

overrun with spiders and the
creaks of anscestral toes and feet.
how many toes can a person love in a lifetime? there's an aged house here on the hill,
and one day i might
live here please.

wanderlust and romanticism

i want to go travelling. i want to experience different cultures, landscapes, people. all the different sights and sounds of a 'full' life. i want to sit in a rocking chair when i am old and grey - regaling my grandchildren with fantastical stories of my experiences. the things i have seen and done, the crazy situations i have found myself in, the vast kaleidoscopic multitude of variety within my long and chequered history. i would like to have such a life story to tell.

i want to know that i have given life everything i can. that my interests have been varied, because only boring people say 'i'm bored'. how right my mum was on that one. i'd like to have at least one great love. despite two four year relationships, i don't think i have experienced this yet, though the second one was a hell of a lot more on the right track! i would like it to be somebody who shares my love for the arts and for nature. somebody with their head in the clouds and their feet in the earth, like me. someone who wants to walk over ogden moor, travel the world, but most of all, somebody with whom i can simply be me. does this kind of relationship exist, or is it a fairy tale?

my mum reckons she's had one such relationship. but that he was too unstable so she knew it would never last, because she wanted a stable family for her children. (ha, she didn't get that either!) how strange it is how life turns out. you really can't plan it. but it would be nice to experience something like that i think. i never knew i was such a romantic.

anyway, for now i am enjoying being on my own too much. i'm learning lots every day. this single time really was way overdue. i find that i can think more clearly about what i want. it's such a relief after so long of living under a haze. it's also nice being home, enjoying the yorkshire-ness and spending some quality time with the family and old friends. i feel that i need to be fully at home here again, and also at home in my independence again, before i even consider the alternative. so that's where i'm at right now.

the comfort zone

i like to be inside in a safe place when i require warmth and comfort. but sometimes, i require danger. the confusing and scary world outside and forays into unknown territory. it's a worry to step outside of my comfort zone, but necessary. we all have to face the truth sometimes, and we all have to do it alone in the end. much as a childish part of me would like to stay huddled in my cosy home forever, surrounded by familiar things - there is also a larger part that yearns for big adventures, new and exciting landscapes, and the growth that ensues as a result of this. this tension can be called fear, anxiety or apprehension - it is inseparable from what we call the unknown. it also relates closely to excitement, which is the other side of this particular coin.

a picture-perfect protest

I am at a protest,
Smiling, happy and free,
Filled with the joys of freedom of speech,
And simultaneously aware that a conclusion
Will probably never be reached,
But allowing myself the pleasant delusion
That I can make a small change
In this deranged world.

I was an idealistic child,
Kind, big dreams
And nurtured always,
Picked up when I was falling,
Cuddled when I was ill,
For these reasons, I still
Possess ideals, and I am smiling
Here, happy and free.

my indian blanket

my blanket is made from a coarse, thick, scratchy material. not classic blanket material, by any stretch of the imagination. it is roughly a small single bed size, and mainly consists of a light beige background covered in a mossy green checked pattern. the edges however, are much more detailed; bringing in blues, lime green and hot pink in a mish mash of patterning which appears aztec in influence.

at tip and tail of the blanket are the requisite tassels and further detail. the edging is pillarbox red, and if my memory serves me correctly, there's also a sunshine yellow somewhere in there. it shouldn't all work together, but it does. the effect is interesting and unusual, but not classically beautiful, and the blanket is warm, but not remotely comfortable!

so why do i love this oddity of a blanket so much? oh, one complex father/daughter relationship is to bame. when i was about 10, my parents split up. it was the biggest drama of my young life, and afterwards, i was distraught to realise i could no longer count on my dad. visits to his house would be cancelled, when we arrived to find the door locked and dad absent (probably in the pub).

i gave up on him, i came to almost hate him, in that strange, vicious teenage way we reserve only for our parents. he was never there, and he can be a frsutrating character at the best of times. around this time, the poor sod got made redundant. and what did he do but bugger off to india to relive his youth in a mountain village in the himalayas.

he had lived there previously in his 20's. in six months all i got was the odd postcard featuring a religious festival and a huge description on the back that didn't remotely interest my 14 year old self. when he returned, the blanket was amongst my presents. woven by the women of that himalayan village, i was distinctly unimpressed! it bore no relation to my life or experiences, and i thought my dad was an arse, quite frankly.

time and distance have softened the blow of all this, but until very recently, i still associated this blanket with these feelings of abandonment. now that i accept my dad for what he is, we have our own semblance of a unique father/daughter relationship. i have let go of the bitterness, deep down in my soul. i find it interesting to note that it was around the same time i let go of my relationship at the time, that i also found that these feelings towards my dad had dissolved. perhaps i was holding on to something that was over as a result of these unresolved emotions? writing as therapy, who knows?!

i now realise that my dad has also taught me many positive things; tolerance, independence and peacefulness amongst them. my interest in travel, books, music, yoga (and all things indian!) has come in part, from him. the blanket, and my love for it, represents my love for him; all this and more.

having a word with myself

yesterday, i acted like a brat. lost all positivity and everything i've mentally worked for in the past six months in a haze of wants and desires. didn't care that other people had bigger fish to fry and i was being extremely selfish. just wanted to whine like a child about me, my problems and what i was doing with my little life. my poor mum, every ready with a shoulder to cry on, despite the fact her father has just died. oh dear. i apologised this morning, when i woke aware of how ridiculous i'd been. she brought me here today in the car, just before she drove to manchester to visit my brother. my old student stomping ground. setting of a time when life was simpler and i knew i was doing something worthwhile. or did i? who knows. at the time i'm sure i had other stuff to moan about. then when i finished, the world suddenly stopped looking like it was my oyster and started looking pretty damn confusing. where to start with all these decisions?! life is long and full of struggles, but the moments of happiness and beauty make it all worthwhile.

a yorkshire penny

A Yorkshire man of northern grit
And sharp-tongued wit
Yet slow to speak with
An arm-on-raised knee stance.
On bar stool he's no-one's fool,
Rarely takes an outside chance,
But far softer than apparent
On this first pub-wards glance.

Tight as a badger's arse
But up 'ere where we are, apparently we all are!
For them of few words and few spare pounds
We have a saying:

"Hear all,
See all,
Say nowt.
Drink all,
Eat all,
Pay nowt!"

This stereotype has clout amongst
Air-kissing arseholes
Of 'keeping up with the Jones' ''
Territory. But Up 'ere where we are
We tend more
To compete with moans and groans of illness;
Of brittle bones and perhaps
The odd old motor-home.

"hull, hell and halifax"

... So the saying goes;
A miserable elegy for my Home, sweet home,
A place of pebble dash - and pubs,
Few diamonds - lots of rough,
But who can hate a place, I ask,
Where everyone's called 'love'?