Home Arts & Lit Jam/Journal Man/Evening – Creative Fridays

Jam/Journal Man/Evening – Creative Fridays

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAFor this weeks instalment we have a wonderful collection of poetry from Clare Holloway exploring themes of satisfaction and observation…

 

Jam

Dust covers my legs and arms

as I crawl into bushes for the reddest fruit,

but it doesn’t climb over Dad’s boots.

 

Dad’s fingers are knobbly and fat

but when he holds the strawberries

they don’t squish.

I am red and sticky.

 

He gives me the brightest to taste

and shushes.

Only the shiny red eyes see,

winking for miles.

 

At home, I stand on a chair to stir the pan,

the oven is covered with bubbles of frothy jam,

not quite set but not running away.

 

A splash drops.

I watch it glisten for a second, then go dull.

 

The first jar explodes.

We blink, glimmering with tiny sparkles

that stick to the fruit on our shirts.

Dad brushes some off his arm but it bites,

leaving a new red.

 

He spends so long blowing

the flickers from my skin

that all the jam sets in the pan.

 

 

Journal Man

He wafts into the shop with the cigarette butts

and strikes children dumb with his smell.

He buys himself cream cakes from M&S

where the clean people linger as well.

 

A little fat man with a pinched in face,

hunched and bald and doesn’t speak sense.

Jumper gold egg yolk and yolked in egg too,

Coins moist in his grip, his wormy veins blue.

 

He brings sheets from his diary, from ’55.

To change them to colour, make them more alive.

They’re spat out warm; magenta, yellow, cyan blue.

I make extras in black so I can read them too.

 

Maybe his room is plastered with tales

of an unhunched youth, striding tall,

and the colours delight him when he wakes at night

and the moonlight caresses his wall.

 

3265491522_b42898521e_oEvening

Your duvet is thoroughly crumpled,

discarded on the floor.

Your man has fled to the bathroom

to scrape his slimed body raw.

 

You sit up and try not to think of

the hot dribble that creeps to the bed

as he washes your scent off his body

and savours his quietened head.

 

Your heart beats on its ribbed prison,

your toes and your knee muscles flex.

Every synapse and nerve is aquiver

with the jitter of incomplete sex.

 

A wild bird broken and caught in a sheet,

folded, with wings crumpled in.

He returns and sleeps on the dry side.

Your eyes glisten in the dark room.

 

Clare Holloway 

 

Visit us again on Valentines Day for more of Clare’s Poetry!

 

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