Elemental and elementary

Sharing, it's simple really.

So as you may (or may not) have noticed, I have not posted anything for the last couple of weeks. I’ll be upfront about why: I just have not felt like writing, mainly due to all of those pressing things in life that make themselves urgently heard and distract from the living that you actually want to be doing. Inspired by this recent post from Ryan Egan, I realised that Substack is actually a place where you don’t have to just offer the finished product. Somewhere between blog and publication, it’s a medium - that still for now at least - reminds communicative and a source of community. With that in mind, I’ve decided to share a couple of old poems I never thought would see the light of day. They’re imperfect, but so is all of my work and probably most of everybody else’s too. I’d really welcome any feedback - so feel free to let out any scathing venom you may have politely held back at previous posts - and it’ll help me know what I’ve been doing right and wrong, going forward with my writing, and with this Substack as a central part of it.

More news on that coming soon - and hopefully some new work, too.

So here is a poem that was first published in the winter 2015 edition of Far-Off Places.

Forty Two Hours

I didn’t move anything
I didn’t wash anything
I refused
To open the windows
Luxuriating
In the lingering
Festering
Perfume of sweat and desperate bodies
Trying to make what words could not

I didn’t make a phone call
Not a single one, nor a text
But finally I dressed myself
I placed foot in front of foot
And walked down the stairs

At the supermarket
Where the checkout girl did not recognise me, nor I her
I bought one bottle of red wine
A banana, sliced bread, milk
I didn’t want any of it

But I had exhausted my options
Less than thirty-six hours later

And now a jet of cold air
And a crisp March light
Enter through the blinds
And I spoon crushed banana and milk
Into my mouth
Like a child
Learning to eat
With so few teeth

*

And here is an untitled draft that I never really knew what to make of, or do with…

Or
You could open the other door
With a quiet shuffle
Masked by the wind in the branches
Swept up in last year’s coat
Internalise a frunt as you hoist a carpet bag
Onto a left shoulder
Borne high
There will be a soft click
Which you will never know
Was not entirely imperceptible
So
Do not sigh as you stride
Into that charmless dusk