Friday 29 April 2011

Rape, Hard to Spell

Sacred disembowelment
You thief!
I wanted to be your goddess.
How sad that I still stand now, alone as strong women often
Doze, lightly.
I find myself torn from the manly breast of
The papery folds of origami society
Delicately bound
By idle chitchat and soft vibrant sunlight flickering
Swarmed in the blue velvet seat covers.
I wanted greatness.
I am unable.
We wished once that our skinned hides were tanned like animals.
We dreamed that our safety was not in dependency of another.
I imagined myself to be invulnerable.
Not within
Vulnerable.
After all, this is this year, what silly worries you carry my dear.
That sort of thing won’t happen anymore.
Not to this common place whore.
Safe. Clearly.  From those whom otherwise found pale to medium or dark skin delighting.
In-discriminatory taste;
You shant be picky when you pray upon the weak.
Weak?
What a lie!
There is no victim in a crime kept shushed.
I’ve swept, like mother dearest, these dirty stains
Like table tops,
Wiped twice with damp wet sponge cakes.
Lifted the carpet, like some snickery deviant
And hidden this welt of flustering dust beneath the rouge folds of insecurity.
Not once have I found the mirror a safe place.
She teases, finger-paints her makeup smear and cackles.
How cruel, how ugly.
We only have each other! Yet still alone.
I doze, safe, as always.
Because these kinds of things don’t happen anymore.
Not to me, anyways.
And I haven’t the time to care about the rest.
                                                            RH Carew

Actually, don't know how i feel about this one. it needs editing. PLEASE input input.

Thursday 28 April 2011

I Wish I Could Absorb

I wish I could absorb all this paper
Take it somewhere within
Where the lines blur
Where art is word
And damnation is holy being
And all the tiny thousands in the beaches
All the people on the shore
Holding their kite strings
Let their failings slip
From fingers clasped
Somewhere between these papers
Somewhere in the ink
Is meaning at its finest
Truth, wearing decorative lies,
Fanciful wishes and all the rest
Buried in one word.

                            RH Carew

Wednesday 27 April 2011

Nightingales

Nightingales are the birds of poets
Moonbeams bleeding from their beaks
Tasteless harmony, sung sweet and hollow
Casting shadows in my mind.
The quiet song
From bushes and brambles,
Illuminating the endless evenings and sunrises
With their lovely calls.

Their wings spread like ivy,
Blotting women’s bosoms
And piercing men’s hearts
With thorn-like claws
And snowy black eyed puddles.
And the poets drown in them,
Consumed by their own dark innards,
Which once summered so sweetly,
But is now an echoed call from the past,
That only dreamer’s chase.

Monday 25 April 2011

Untitled

 WARNING: Language

Untitled
Good dead innards,
Gather, gather, sinners,
Smokers, sniffers lighters,
Awful neon fighters,
Shallow dreamers and hopers,
Midnight, firelight tokers,
Hairy palmed caressers,
Late night body dressers,
Gather, gather, sinner
Our moments, she grows thinner,
Moonbeam breakers,
Dirty money makers,
Movers and shakers,
Givers and takers,                                
Gather, gather sinner,
Our moment’s growing thinner,
Harsh beats upon the drum,
While on guitar we strum,
Gather slut, villain, whore,
Gather thieves and many more,
Made up off our tummy tucks,
Money cash, and birthday fucks
Lustful dark sinning eyes,
Pig glutton, king of lies
Gather gather sinners,
Like teddies to their picnic dinners,
Gather round unholy, not-virgin,
While the knives fly from our not-surgeon
Welcome hero, welcome maybe,
Welcome innocence, welcome baby
Into a world of wolves.
                                             RH Carew

Wednesday 20 April 2011

To All English Teachers, From We

This fool is teaching new form
As if youth never left old bones.
He sputters
Points
And emphasizes gold rings.
A fool for young beauty
A Wilde fan of classic thoughts.
But true youth sits before him.
Much uglier,
Squat like toads
“we was sittin’ fat and wet and damp and we was droolin’ on the floor and we stretch skin and fill brains and leak out our sides and our voices don’t speak no more’
We write no more
We speak no more
We are no more digi-tal,
We are soul and we let all meaning go.
We breathe out poems like cigarette smoke.
And what guide is he?
What woman or man can guide her way through our words?
Our failing punctuation?
Who convinces herself to understand the depths of our obscure feelings?
Our mystery and vagueness?
This fool who guides you fools through secret society,
Through our homes and nests and hideaways
And explains us?
Chalk explanation on the boards,
Erased before the ringing bells
To be explained by ‘guides’
To be simplified for fools.
A fool cannot understand us. They cannot define us.
They may educate, but not define.
They cannot sort us,
Cannot label us.
We are not poets.
We are not writers.
We are the ill-defined.
We are the meaningless
We speak small truths
We speak black lies,
We are the ground shakers
We are the breath takes
We are the uninspired
We are the word speakers and murmurs
That is all.
Humbled fools are we who whisper tonight.

Tuesday 19 April 2011

The Unknown Soldier

Oh, that he have a name, a name,
Even skull bore Yorick's crown
Even Hodge found home in Hardy's harem.
That he have a name, a name.
As if such manned moorings bound celestial to the earth.
The name. The Name.
Like so many predecessors buried without
Became fertilizer, sawdust instead of
Stardust.
That he should have a name,
Should save him from the waste.
And lay him last beneath a tree
With romantic interest
In a name,
Soon to be forgotten,
Lines on stone curvatures.
No more, no name, no one.

                                    R.H. Carew

Inspired by History Boys. good film/play, check it out if you can

Monday 18 April 2011

The Dreamers Poem

Am I trapped or suffering
In this eternal dream?
As I burn in midnight,
As I toss and scream?

On the cold cement
As the daylight burns
As my life goes by
As I take my turns

I drift out of now,
Trapped in my dreams
Ensnared in silence
In the icy betweens

A whole world out there
Yet here I sit
Folded in unreality
In the sins I commit

All the good is lost
All the faults burn bright
Times are hard for dreamers
In this awful neon light

Oh, folded dreamer,
Creased in a book
Slipping through pages
In the reading nook

Fingering ink stains
Drinking up story
Rolling and lolling
In wonderments glory

Happily lost in the other
Far, far, away
Twisting up in fiction
Drowning in cliché

Oh folded dreamer,
Free and soaring,
Creased in a book
While my tears are pouring.

Sunday 17 April 2011

Poetic Idiocy

The sun touched my knee caps
Bold as cows in the grass
Waiting for the grasp
Of cold handed pain
Settling for rain

And I thought
I could be a poet

I lit my first cigarette-tasted like dirt,
Wet and spongy, made my drugged brain hurt
Like mint rolls; ice cold,
She curled up in my throat
Snuggled in my folds and slept her log life long
Whispering her lying so long
Exhaling on a hilltop and swinging
My imaginary golf club
Soaring swift across the grass
Ssss wish

And I thought
I could be a poet

I bought the write hat, you know.
Grey newspaper caps that smudge finger tips
And paint stained men’s dressed lips
Bear bottoms
No shoes.
Lied once or twice
Broke a few no commitment required laws
Graffiti on public property.

Took up gee-tar.
Or key-tar
Or whatever’s cooler
Or more ironically uncool
Because irony is always in fashion.
And if you can ironize or ionize
Infuse iron ions into fashion
You may as well buy the leather bound journal
And the bold leather
Waiting for rainy writing
Says loveless lines without real heart
And it’s all just false aptitude
Definitive language is more rude.
And the F-word for shock value is overused
New vile language required for future parental denial.

And I thought I could be a poet.

But not once did I think
I am a poet
And therefore couldn’t be.    
                                         R.H. Carew            

I Am a Poet

Hello,
I will be writing poetry on this Blog. I hope to gain a little insight on to whether I'm actually any good at writing. I also write short stories. I will try to publish poetry daily, but life is hectic so at the very least, i will update weekly. Wish me luck!

R.H. Carew