Posts tagged ‘love’

November 21, 2016

Harriet

I found him in a place

with an endless ringing

like the noise of an alarm clock

his body hot as blankets

 

a bad place

with gaps in the walls that let in a light

smoke and I couldn’t see his face

 

skin touched my skin

it changed

I found you in a different place

and now have two names

and two monograms to prove it

two mistakes

 

©Lydia Allison 2015

Foxglove Journal

I found him in a place

with an endless ringing

like the noise of an alarm clock

his body hot as blankets

a bad place

with gaps in the walls that let in a light

smoke and I couldn’t see his face

skin touched my skin

it changed

I found you in a different place

and now have two names

and two monograms to prove it

two mistakes

southerndown-pictureLydia Allison is a Sheffield-born poet whose current writing stems from a love of weddings and wonky romances. She is a member of Writing Squad 8 and has appeared a number of times both online and in print, including two of Pankhearst’s Slim Volumes (This Body I Live In and No Love Lost). She enjoys a range of modern and contemporary writers, particularly female American poets. Her other favourite things in life are the Yorkshire countryside and cake for breakfast…

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October 31, 2016

Diana

I proposed in the pub

with the beer he likes.

 

Tore a strip from my notebook.

It was cheap and to hand

 

when he went to buy a drink. I folded a circle;

the rip was barely visible I made it so neat.

 

He took it off. Thought it was a joke.

The paper wouldn’t stand the rain

 

as we sobered up

waiting for the bus.

 

©Lydia Allison 2016

Foxglove Journal

I proposed in the pub

with the beer he likes.

Tore a strip from my notebook.

It was cheap and to hand

when he went to buy a drink. I folded a circle;

the rip was barely visible I made it so neat.

He took it off. Thought it was a joke.

The paper wouldn’t stand the rain

as we sobered up

waiting for the bus.

southerndown-picture

Lydia Allison is a Sheffield-born poet whose current writing stems from a love of weddings and wonky romances. She is a member of Writing Squad 8 and has appeared a number of times both online and in print, including two of Pankhearst’s Slim Volumes (This Body I Live In and No Love Lost). She enjoys a range of modern and contemporary writers, particularly female American poets. Her other favourite things in life are the Yorkshire countryside and cake for breakfast. Follow her…

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November 9, 2014

Week 0

Annie woke up with a mouth of sour grey and the heaving of something that was nearly forgotten, nearly, then forgotten. It was a worm burrowing in her abdomen and hardening and her head was something apart. Her feet fell out of cold bed and found yesterday’s tights and she followed with right hand, and control-flopped to the floor by the glass of water Reuben left last time he stayed. She took a sip and it tasted like more air and glass than water. She opened her mouth and sighed out, dragged the weight of her body up, up, and flowed the course to the bathroom.

Before she left she took the three days old glass down to the kitchen, placed behind yesterday’s dishes. Mum gently pried, reminded, kissed, byed. The unremembered feeling didn’t leave so in Lit she argued about the bough of cherries in My Last Duchess and avoided the crowd of common room Poker. Reuben told her that he woke like he’d fallen, jolted, and said he’d heard that when you sleep your body is on another plane, so when you wake with a start, it’s your spirit re-jumping you. They sat on the grass both heavy and quiet, and later she went back to his (mum out) and they watched a film she wouldn’t remember.

He kissed her cheek, eyes, lips, and they laid on his single bed and his lips brushed the short hair on the back of her head. Her arms had goosebumps, so he dragged the quilt from underneath and half covered her. She stayed like a figurine to keep under her side of the S-shape cross-cut their embrace made.

An hour and a half of stillness meant that she needed to go home so rose cold and kissed him and tomorrow tomorrow soonsoonsoon Reuby, the feeling fluttered like rain falling in the silhouette she saw of herself as she walked along the flat stones home.

© Lydia Allison 2013

August 13, 2014

mannequin

 

Smooth plastic weight

hard in my arms –

Your formula of curves

demand my hold, and

mark the soft parts

that coat my bones.

 

I call you her not it,

and select thin knitwear

rendering your parts whole –

a still mirror:

math-measured equal,

 

I make you one.

Model-gorgeous

fabric glides

catching smooth peaks

and sliding over seams.

 

My touch rough

as I fit my own arms up your sleeves

to crack your limbs in place –

easy as jigsaw pieces,

as outfits,

as my own dressing.

 

I lift the v of your legs

to a level over my fruit-bruise

of flesh, waves of hair, and sweat,

and look up to your face:

chin tilted and

nothing else.

 

© Lydia Allison 2014

September 1, 2013

waiting

 

I see you and you look

like you, minus

something;

stretched white framework

with part subtracted:

a fraction

 

every second you lose

more. I want

to gather it all

every memory split in half

every thought

 

glancing down I see

a wire mannequin

of what you used to be

unable to hold yourself

all bones

 

and I, all flesh

too weak to reach

to catch

every breath you free

 

©Lydia Allison

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August 2, 2013

Dressing up

ArtiPeeps

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 artist/painter/poet/writer, letting their work speak for itself.

 

Lydia Allison

_____

Dressing up.

by Lydia Allison

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The day our boy friend said yes – what a thrill! Not red, we said together, scarlet! His straight angular life inside soft silk, structured for someone other. The skirt hanging crooked with his awkwardness, concave chest wrong and beautiful in her mum’s old sewing room.

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She leads him through to a bedroom she says is hers. I know it’s her parents’, though I don’t say. She touches his back in the place where shivers start on a girl. The part that squirts sparks all the way down to your heels, and up to the back of your head. And the front too. She thinks I don’t see.

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We leave and make him wait, still wearing that skirt (oh!) to find our ribbons – rouge not red – to criss cross around the straight chest…

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August 1, 2013

The Dream:

A cloud of smoke. A cliche, she would say, but he never liked French, or art, or reading. She was always reading. He had thought she had those long black eyelashes to shadow her eyes from the glare of the page. It made him smile on the occasions he could sneak a glance at her, reading. Somehow, though, this was rare – the being able to secretly glance. Somehow she could tell, could see him through the fine fibres that provided a canopy to the shiny bulb of her eye. Not that they were buggy, although he once said that during an argument – that when she put on mascara like that her eyes looked buggy. Then they had really bulged, and he didn’t regret it. Not at first. Then he did. But she said that once you say something like that, that’s it. Even if you apologise and say you only said it because you were mad. She said that he still meant it when he said it, whether he regretted saying it or not. He said that it wasn’t true though and she said, What? So you just said it to hurt me, because you know I’m conscious about how I look? Because I know I’ll never look like small featured white Fucking Paris Fucking Hilton? Because when people say I’m striking what they mean is that I stand out because it looks like God highlighted the plan and selected bold when he made me? He had laughed but had to stop it and push it down and it made him feel sick because she wasn’t joking.

He remembers too much. The smoke – he likes science, and, looking at the curling particles, would once have liked to speculate what reaction could produce such effect, but, as I said, this is a dream. As such, he doesn’t have to be him. It doesn’t have to be chemical. This is a machine. The smoke is the machine. He steps into it and lets the steel grey diffuse intrusively through his thick cotton t-shirt, his boxer shorts, and the bobbled wool of his old socks. It stiffens and he lets go. He feels like he is being held at the peak of a park swing for too long, he starts to go dizzy, he feels his guts shift up (or down) to his chest. Even though his eyes are closed the black screen seems to be spinning.

When he opens them he still feels he’s spinning. Like he’s woken too soon and his body is having a tantrum; forcing his consciousness to roll around on another plane while he lies paralysed. He is comforted that it will pass. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, his thoughts flash to her probably at the toilet. A pause. A scream. Silence and a dry throat. The he on the other plane still calling in terror. The smallest thought, wish, dream.

© Lydia Allison 2012

August 1, 2013

Chalk

I want to coat you in patchwork

layers of heat,

too warm to burn

with knees bent sideways

and a small mouse head. Cradled,

to feed you milky tea.

Blue eyes open,

like an angel, you said.

No,

angels are red faced,

ethereal and dead:

you’re a present;

I’ll decorate you with bows,

and let daisy chains embrace

your head, chest, waist and toes.

 

I can put a hand on your swaddled shoulder

Let the fabric weight tighten and hold you

sleeping, you pout,

your lashes dust your cheeks like soot

on pepper-freckled skin;

one elf-ear peeks

hair spirals in.

 

I was afraid,

going with you to the nursery,
washing the cups with the grey dishcloth;

scared of who you might be.

I didn’t want to know.

I went though.

Those times lost

in your child’s memory

 

You want your hands,

so when I leave for more white tea

you shuffle loose the coloured squares,

escape the you-shape;

reach for me.

 

© Lydia Allison 2012