Train lines

train lines poem -

The earth of the Fens
more purple than brown
raped yellow in April
with blizzards of blackthorn
and silver birch woods
scarred to the bone

Across flat lands
the gaze is free to wander
topped by skies
reaching in for a closer look

ii

stirring the once dormant landscape
like colour mixing paint, fleet visions
of Spring and monochrome the lexicon
that nets elusive first impressions

lines seen from a train window
rattled to a plain and honest rhythm
jottings in a purple book of prose
dormant; revisited now without revision

only the poet knows to shoot in colour
without surfeit of sincerity
© Laura Granby 2015

Jottings from an April train journey, re-discovered in time for Poetry Pantry  .

the snag

scarred snag of tree in woodland

marked by cloven clamouring
insatiable satyrs and the pursuer, Pan
resistance etched in your scarring
dyed-in-the-wood maiden

hand-in-hand with nemesis goes
the worm through fleshy underside
stripping bark, sickening the rose, *
dryad choice of bride or suicide

masked foresters and their careless hands
armoured in dismembering chains
shall scatter to the meadowlands
sawdust and firewood remains

yet cloaked in woodland the snag persists
keeping solitary naked trysts
© Laura Granby 2015

With a bow and a nod to William Blake* , am joining in with Poetry Pantry on Sunday.

Paranoid poem

We see faces everywhere, literally and figuratively – it can be fun but I recall as a very small child being shy of a stranger’s gaze. to the point of having to hide. Taken from the Wellcome exhibition I constructed this diptych and the following lines ensued, in alliterative form:

paranoid_poem
Pity the poor paranoid
packaged up with people
part mask, part humanoid
prying through the pineal

Seeing the personified
pareidolia emoticon
til psychosis predisposed
puberty’s phenomenon

Peering, peeking, open eyes
panic stricken after birth
persecution in the gaze
purgatory is hell on earth

see. pareidolia (par-i-DOH-lee-a)

The image summoned the existential catchphrase of Sartre’s ‘L’enfer, c’est les autres’ (Hell is other people). Not a pretty sight but still am joining in with Poetry Pantry on Sunday.