Cushions: Mum's response to my response

I just read the cushions poems to mum, and before I knew it, she was off making up her own poem, without even realising.

Cushions: Mum's response

Some of my cushions
Are decorative,
Like on my bed.

And I've always got one
On my rocking chair.
I think it's because
It would look lonely
Without one.

Some of my cushions
Are silky and slippy,
Which can be quite
Annoying.

But I wouldn't be without them.

They're just always there,
Aren't they?
I can't sit without one,
Have you noticed,
I've always got one?
Not on my tummy,
But here,
By my side.

20/12/10.
By the way, what mum actually said is, 'Some of my poems are decorative.' I assumed she meant cushions, but it's quite nice to think she was talking about poems the whole way through.

Cushions: a response

This is a response to Phil's cushions poem. Because we are SO hip and happening that we spend our time discussing our experiences of cushions and then writing them down.

Cushions

Even though you are lumpy,
Old and ugly,
I still hug you.

You are not really mine
But I've grown
Used to you,

Can't quite settle down
Without you
Tucked up on my knees,
Hugging my tummy.

You don't care
If I'm tired,
Grumpy,
Feeling dumpy
Or low
When I slump
On the sofa.

You just absorb
Some of my warmth
And give a little bit back.

20/12/10.
And yes, yes I have spent the whole day indoors, on my own.

My new hero

Travelled up to Manchester from London yesterday. Took a bit longer than expected, but I discovered (and fell a bit in love with) JANE.

Jane

'Good morning,
This is Jane,'
Her voice came,
Warm, reassuring,
Mancunian,
Through the tanoy.

'I'm your train
Manager today
And I'd just like to say
I'm very sorry for the delayed
Departure of this service.'

Which was caused,
She explained,
By iced-up
Tracks at Clapham.

'Tickets please!
Though I do feel skanky
Asking for these
When we're running so late.'

We'd not long got going
When frozen points
Caused further congestion
At Wapping Junction.

Jane tried her best
To outline the situation,
Her voice full of empathy
For her passengers' frustration.

She sympathised,
In Northern tones,
With those
Who'd mistaken
The train's destination,
Providing information
On the best routes
To Glasgow Central.

And she condoled with passengers
Who should by now have been on cruises,
If only BA had bought enough de-icer
For their flights.

'I do hope you'll all end up
Happy this Christmas,
And I can only apologise.
This weather really does
Mess up
The train lines.'

We slowly
Approached Rugeley,
Where engineering works
Had overrun,
Then took a diversion
Past Northhampton
To avoid icicles in
The Shugborough Tunnel.
('I promise,
Jane said,
'This can't get any worse.')

She was right.
And at last
We passed
Stoke-on-Trent,
Macclesfield,
Stockport,

The last of which Jane announced
A few minutes in advance,
Keeping us updated
(As ever)
On her status:
'There are two passengers here
Who are rather drunk,
And they do want Stockport,
So I've just got
To go and rouse them.'

Thanks Jane.
You were amazing.

20/12/10.

One good thing about the tube...

Escalator kissing

She seemed
(Almost)
Perfect.

She was pretty,
Witty,
Sweet,
She got him
And

She fitted easily
Into his life.
(Their respective heights
Were just right
For kissing on escalators.)

But then
He realised
She was one of those people
Who borrow things
And never give them back.*

5/12/10

*This is a joke. I do give things back.

Hello! Who are you then?

It's the Christmas holidays : ) Off to Saddleworth tomorrow. Won't see Phil for a bit so here is a poem featuring him. But mostly it's about ME.



Hello! Who are you then?

You know how
When you meet someone new
You can tell you
Really like them
When you keep bringing them
Up in all your conversations?

(At The National Gallery,
Looking at Renaissance masterpieces,
I said,
'Phil draws...')

Well
You can also tell
Because you do the same thing
When you're with them
But about yourself.

Trying to fill in
As much as possible
As fast as possible
By spilling out
Random anecdotes
From your past
Regardless
Of immediate relevance.

'We used to always
Go to France...'
'When my grandparents
First met...'
'That's so
Romantic.
My grandma
Lives in Coventry...'
'At my friend's
Stag party...'
'I'd love to go there...'
'When I was last in Tanzania...'
And so on.

So really
You get to
Meet two new people
(One of them is you).
Oh! You can say
So that's
Who I am,
That's the way
I talk
And laugh
And these
Are my formative
Memories.

How interesting.
Hello me
Who are you then?

14/12/10

Tonsils!

I've been feeling like I've got tonsillitis. Or possibly laryngitis. I don't have any poems about my larynx. However, I do have one that features my tonsils.* (I've been waiting for a way to crowbar this in... Almost makes up for having SUCH a sore throat.)

Just a check-up

I could sense 

Your shape:

The unmistakable white shape of you,

As you prepared 

And then approached

While I lay,

Wordless, waiting.

You came closer

Then slowly

Bent over

To check for cavities

In my lower molars.

Your moustache twitched

As you chipped

Away at the plaque

Encrusted on the base of my incisors

You were chipping away at my heart.

My tonsils flirted with you

Slightly swollen red harlots

Inflamed and 

Unashamedly pulsating

In glistening nakedness.

‘Any problems?’ you said.

‘Ungh ungh ungh,’ I replied.

As saliva dripped

From my loose, impotent lips.

(You didn’t

Wipe it off.)

‘Take a rinse,’ you whispered.

But the taste of you

Stayed behind.

*While the tonsils in this poem are based on real-life tonsils, the context is entirely fictional; my tonsils have never, as far as I'm aware, flirted with any dentist, moustached or otherwise.

The mess...

I wasn't going to post anything today but Sally's just emailed to say she's enjoying my poems, hurrah! So, this is for Sally.* And also for me.

The Mess

Don't let the mess

Depress you,

I said.

And don't think you need to impress

Me (or anyone)

With a tidy room

Or a tidy life.

It's OK

To be messy.

And if you have the time

To clear everything away

That's not

Necessarily

A good sign.

The mess is benign.

15/11/10.
I've just done that thing where you look too closely at a familiar word and it becomes absurd. Messy, mess, mess, mess, messy mess, messiness. Gahhh!
*Not because I think she's messy! I just like her and I also, separately, like this poem.