Grey

Happy Thursday everyone! We’ve nearly reached that elusive weekend… Today’s throwback pick is “Grey”, originally posted in March, in homage to today’s dull grey skies. I’m usually a sun-worshipper, so this weather is making me long for the crisp, bright, wintry days ahead! Hope you enjoy the poem 🙂

In Emma World

Grey 2.png

My life is grey.

As grey as the swollen rainclouds and their curtain of drizzle,

As grey as a pigeon’s wing slicing through the dense, sluggish smog,

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Haunted – Double Tanka

I am plagued by ghosts.

Phantom memories haunting,

Teasing and taunting;

Eerie unending onslaught

Of past polluting present.

 

Wraithlike reflections,

Ethereal nostalgia,

Draw a spectral smile –

Soon banished by the thought that

Now cannot compare to Then.

Emma H, age 26, 12/10/2017


A double tanka especially for Colleen’s Weekly Poetry Challenge Week 54 – “Ghost” & “Haunt”. To find out how to take part in the challenge, you can follow the link here:

Colleen’s Weekly Poetry Tuesday Challenge No. 54: GHOST & HAUNT

I think my first stanza is better, but didn’t fully convey that the haunting memories were happy ones rather than regrets – hence the addition of the second stanza. I find that happy memories can be horribly bittersweet, especially when going through rough times in life or mental health. Thanks to Colleen for the prompt!

 

First Fallen

 

Costume jewellery spider webs,

Strung with dewy diamond beads,

Grassy fields sequin-scattered,

Festooning even lowly weeds.

 

Kamikaze helicopters,

Sycamore skydivers,

Twist and twirl and flit and swirl:

First fallen survivors.

 

Velveteen fog descends,

Smothering the world in grey,

Casting thick and syrupy gloom

To obfuscate the break of day.

 

Luscious canopies transform,

Speckled with season’s rust;

Flame-tipped or foliage brushed

With ruddy blush or gilt gold-dust.

 

Branch by branch neatly disrobed,

These russet-tasseled trees,

Each leaflet floats and drifts to ground,

Plucked clean by bitter breeze.

 

Spiky shells cracked on the ground

Reveal their chestnut jewels,

The gleaming treasure gathered up

For playtime fun in schools.

 

Slick September showers

Fill the air with earthy scent;

Roads and pavements puddle-riddled

Soaked by autumn skies’ lament.

 

Once crisp leaves are moulded

Into multicoloured mulch;

Muddied borders line the streets

In roadside gutter gulch.

 

Shivering and sodden,

Breath curling into vapour,

Fraught commuters brace the winds

With faces white as paper.

 

Indigo-hued twilight falls

And lengthy shadows creep,

To duly warn the waiting world

Of winter’s coming sleep.

 

Emma H, age 26, 27/09/2017

My Muse

 

Why is it that I find my muse

In heartbreak, grief and sadder news?

In melancholic reflection,

In festering fears and rejection?

Perhaps because I’ve naught to lose

In poems that reveal my blues,

And at my deepest, darkest lows

I find relief in rhyme and prose;

Cathartic creativity

Releases pain and sets me free.

 

Emma Hyde, age 26, 04/01/2017


I wrote this one after my boyfriend remarked that many of my poems have a similar sad or “depressing” theme… But I think that poetry is a great outlet for those kinds of emotions! And if they encourage emotional responses or empathy in the reader, then I feel I have succeeded as a poet 🙂

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A Love Letter to Sevilla

Happy Throwback Thursday, and more importantly, National Poetry Day! I am soon to go off on my first proper holiday in over a year, so I thought I would get in the sun-chasing mood by reposting my poem dedicated to the gorgeous Andalusian city of Seville. Enjoy!

In Emma World

Beneath blazing sunshine

In a city half-boiling,

I wander the scalding, scintillating streets,

Devouring the Moorish architecture of

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Childhood

bully

Childhood.

The pocket of innocence in a person’s life,

When creepy crawlies and slimy, slurpy slugs

Lurk in the depths of dark

Beneath the bed,

And unimaginable horrors capture

Impressionable minds.

My tale begins

Before the flickering aura of the TV.

My innocent eyes

Drink in the confusing scenes before me.

A figure looms,

And my eyes hide themselves

Behind the soft, pink flesh of children’s fingers,

Yet still peeping through curiously.

His voice penetrates my very soul,

Filling me with fear,

The noises like blatant war cries

Of half-human warriors.

Slowly blackness steals away the light of day,

And quivering with nerves,

I troop, a frightened soldier,

To the confines of my bedroom.

The door is left ajar,

And whispers of well-wishing drift me off to the velvet fold of sleep,

To a parallel world

That I can’t control.

It begins.

There is no way to escape it,

The next episode in a long-running series,

The next chapter in a never-ending book.

A rush of colour fills

My midnight vision.

He’s there again.

Invading every second

Of my conscious and unconscious life.

I can hear him approaching,

His deep snorts,

Loud as sirens in my black, silent garden.

Panic!

A sensation of panic,

Striking my dream’s self.

Panic-stricken, I flee from my own brain’s creation,

As a gentle click announces his arrival at the back door.

Coldness fills me,

And though I try to run,

My horror restricts me,

And the monster causes a fear-filled sleep.

In the morning,

When the last shreds of nightmare

Have faded away,

Remnants of the ghoul remain,

Painting his picture

On all that I rest eyes upon.

That building, an effigy of his fright-inducing face,

That cloud, his laughing, evil eyes,

That tree,

A prickly reminder of his garish features.

Yet irresistibly I am drawn, every weekend,

To the haunting cartoon creature

Of my impressionable childhood.

Emma H, age ?

 


This poem may require some modicum of explanation… When I was very young, perhaps about 3 or 4 years old, I used to have recurring nightmares in which I was terrorised by Bully, the mascot of the classic British darts-based gameshow, Bullseye. Despite these nightmares, I would still watch and enjoy the show every week, but he was an enduring and frightening figure in my dreams, who would bully myself and my family. My subconscious fears then manifested in real life, as I became convinced that I could see his face hidden in the tree in my back garden. The bizarre thing is that, even now, seeing his cartoon image still gives me the heebie-jeebies.

I wrote this poem at some point in my mid-teens, but I rediscovered it and typed it up unedited when I was 22.

Did anyone else have strange fears or nightmares that plagued them in their younger years? I’d love to hear about them!

Picture taken from Logopedia.