Poims and Poitry

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That’s Yorkshire for ‘poems and poetry‘ (or ‘pomes and pohtree’ if you’re from wherever it is they say that). I did warn you so if you’re here, it’s at your own risk and Management takes no responsibility. Of course, now that Health & Safety is being given the elbow (unpadded) by government in order that more of us will suffer Darwinian extinction by changing light bulbs while standing in a bath of water, I may be free to subject you to anything at all here without fear of reprisal.

So, Brave Visitor, welcome to my poetry page. Let’s be clear from the off that I don’t write poetry, I don’t read poetry, and I don’t much like poetry but I’m on a course where exposure to poetry in a reciprocal relationship is a requirement. This means there’s going to be suffering and I’m not going to do that alone so, guess what, you’re here to stick pins in your eyes with me and howl with painful disbelief at the tosh I will turn out in response to prescribed activities.

You can be sure, though, that it won’t last. In due course (at the end of it anyway) we will together heave into place the three feet thick metal seal behind which this agonised verse will stay for eternity. Just don’t any of you fantasy merchants come round here afterwards materialising ancient access codes that, wisp-like, weave themselves around the matrices of unjust imprisonment..

Oh see – now look what’s happening!  Back when I’ve figured out an anti-dote, then we’ll all be safe.

17/10/10

Trivial Frustration

Punch the keys

Mis-hit – crap! Back three spaces

Screen freezes

*

Ctrl Alt Delete, feet tapping

Impatience, password matches

We’re in!

*

Office, clipboard, Internet Explorer

(Version 9)

So very slowly creeping back

*

How many open windows? Don’t you know

That will screw it? Urgent update to send

In 140 characters

©suzanne conboy-hill 2010

Catching threads

Pads like little radiators, sneaking

Snidely over the bed, catching threads

In stinging claws that shred

With innocence, the satinette covers.

©suzanne conboy-hill 2010

Blondie’s Nemesis

Hissing, spitting, wound up, bound up, looped and tied

Into choices, their choices, I lied

To get an operator, a person

*

Someone real to feel my exasperation but instead

I get another endless list of choices

Their choices

*

Press One for Returns, Press Two for Orders

Press what for steaming, fire breathing, excoriating rage bordering on

Murderous intent!

*

All our Operators are busy but we really value your custom so

Please hold

For more

Choices

©suzanne conboy-hill 2010

The Box of Me

The instructions said to open up my soul

To pull aside the clattering shades, the dusty drapes

Of my personal museum

To cast light on fractured mirrors of truth and wishes

*

No!

They didn’t

That’s not it at all

It’s not

That’s not what it meant

*

But the instructions said..

And I draw up my knees to protect my heart from

The thundering minds of curious and dispassionate scrutineers

Bent on clamorous critique

*

Wuss!

Who’s looking?

It means nothing at all

Just do it

Nobody here cares

*

But there is caring, in this new family

Not for the tiny living remnants of loves and losses curated here

Rather for the catacombs in which they are sealed, held safely

Behind my drawn up blanket dark knees

©suzanne conboy-hill 2010

Heavy Metal

His smile was like lead blasted from a stormy sky in winter

His tears were like silver mirrors, cracked and splattered on his taut plastic skin

Because she was as grudging as gold made lead by a malevolent alchemist

©suzanne conboy-hill 2011

The gun metal pound in your pocket

Grubby filigree dropping through time like a brass badge,

We catch

Momentarily, hold, pass on, exchange

For time punctuated

Ephemera.

*

History’s tale, brass braille

In a rounded token.

Currency to be stolen, traded, bitten in a

Hand-spit handshake

Gentleman’s deal.

Makes it real.

*

The economics of

Usury.

©suzanne conboy-hill 2011

Jigsaw

You are Glyndebourne

I am Glastonbury

You are tennis

I am rugby

You are Savile Row

I am rock chick chic

You are dignity, understated

I am – not

*

I am tiptoes

You are ground

I am Virgin

You are BA

I am Karma Chameleon

You are Moon River

I am white water

You are my mooring

*

I am your proxy; you, my shield

Neither one exposed nor concealed, we fit

As perfect pieces

Of our lovers’ jigsaw

©suzanne conboy-hill 2011

 

Philosopher Stoned
He is brazenly, brilliantly, brassed off by the polished politics of the righteous right.
He heats arguments on pupils bright as buttons of molten jet in eyes alive with intellectual trickery.
He rolls concepts and ideas over the strop of his tongue like globules of mercury, loosed from the tedium of measurement.
His love of chase is betrayed by tiny garnet blushes on nose and cheeks; cooing infants to his icy fire of victory.

He scrubs the thoughts of neophytes with the steel wool of Socratic questioning.
Deftly iterating incantations of hegemonies, he hides exquisite diamond cuts in the woollen clouds of distracting verbiage.
He wears iron filings on his chin and calls them his beard; a professorial promulgation of proletarianism.
His wisdom does not come in glossy spheres to be cast before swine, but in the weft and warp of knit-one-purl-one patchwork blankets of the Workers’ Struggle.

Ideas settle like wise moths in the old, gold grail of his ancient and modern mind, to feed on dusty nets of idealism.
Like neglected and slowly rusting scaffolding, his body is there only to house the sapphiric laser of his intellect.
He chisels and chips at the coal face of complexity, mining for perpetuity in the legacy of runes.

©suzanne conboy-hill 2011