Silence Exile and Crumpets|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
Roz Kaveney's LiveJournal:
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[ << Previous 20 ]
|Wednesday, March 19th, 2014|
I sometimes think that I am done with lust
or lust is done with me. If she should tweak
my nipple, I would bruise there for a week.
My cunt is old, tight scarred and full of dust
that once would flow. And there's a small red sore
recurs and itches in my stomach fold.
I use a cream on it. I am so old
that I need help when rising from the floor
and when I dance, I crumple at one knee,
But have the poet's privilege. I get
teasing from muses for a decade yet.
I am not done with them, nor they with me.
I see sweet mischief settled in her eyes
Dashes in bars, wraps legs around my thighs.
|Monday, March 17th, 2014|
|My statement to Sarah Ditum about No Platforming and Censorship
You would, I trust, accept that such places as universities are supposed to be safe spaces that have a duty of care to their students. Hate speech is, almost by definition, something which cannot be allowed in a safe space. Many other places wish to define themselves as safe spaces for various groups - the Royal Vauxhall Tavern has generally aimed at being a safe space for all LGBT people. Denying people particular platforms is not censoring them, because they are free to find other places from which they can speak, unless their speech has been declared illegal.
There is thus no contradiction whatever between support for no-platforming people and opposition to censorship, especially when the person no-platformed has endless other platforms from which to express their views. Most hate speech aims to silence either directly or by denying access - hate speech censors.
I have no reason to hold you personally responsible for anything that has happened in the past, but protest against no-plaforming by groups that have regularly done their best actually to silence other groups when they have had the power to do so are hypocritical at best.
|Friday, March 14th, 2014|
Muse is my croupier. Who deals no card
sets no wheel spinning. Yet I stake my heart
each moment she is there. When we're apart
I feel the gambler's hunger. It is hard
to keep my tells from showing in my face.
We play. I can't foresee which move she'll make
but it's her board, her table. One mistake
could lose the game. It's only by her grace
we are still playing. Poem against smile
we wager precious things that have no cost.
She cannot lose. I win, not having lost
we are still here at table all this while
From other games, this is the one we choose
where time itself is all that we can lose
|Thursday, March 13th, 2014|
|And a poem for my younger self
Like snake that sloughs off skin against a stone
we feel it loosen, tear a little. Scratch.
There is a thought that we must sometimes catch
and hold a little pressed against the bone
that cages head or heart. It is not true
we won't get free. The tatters that we wear
will fray away. Disposable as hair
we wind round finger, drop into the loo
and flush away. The itching drives you mad
the tatters pull away like scab from knee
when you were five – and this was true for me
will be for you. Night terrors you have had
bound trapped disgusting never free – scales, dust.
Raw pink beneath. Believe this, love – you must.
|New sort of love poem
Love's fever has burned through: I convalesce.
Drink the thin broth of heart-ease, that was ache,
Boiled from my bones and blood. Somehow we make
something from feelings as they evanesce
as steam. We scrape the scum off with a spoon.
discard, add salt to wounds. The sting's the cure,
the pain's the healing. Full of doubt be sure
that in love turns to love, perhaps quite soon.
You peck my pale no longer burning face,
visit with grapes. Suggest I breathe fresh air.
Take me from sickroom. Drive me fast to where
Your small light shows my way to some high place
I see picked out in gold and near-black grays
some promised city glimmers in the haze.
|Friday, February 14th, 2014|
|And for Valentine's day
THE SCEPTIC ON LOVE
'You say there is a pounding in your brain,
an aching hunger; it's not in your charts
when we examine you. And broken hearts
are physically quite sound. You say there's pain
and yet you function perfectly – in flame
you burn – there is no fever and your tongue
is moist that Would be dry. I know you're young
and adolescence makes you prone. The same
is true of other madnesses. We'll talk
next week of medication that will cure
this sickness. In the meantime I am sure
you would be better for a good long walk.'
She speaks and then stares in her patients eyes,
feels heartache she cannot pathologize.
|Wednesday, February 5th, 2014|
|Not the last, but a closure poem
These poems are the contract with my Muse
Both goddess and the one for whom I yearn -
in tousled sheets unfaithfully I burn.
I am the suitor whom she will not choose
Nor will pursue her. I know how this goes.
Less wise, when young, less kind and far less just
I broke an older lover's heart. We must
pay in full measure bitterness and woes
that we inflicted. Rather be aware
of prudence, stay at least as far away
as lets me write. It is with words I pay
for past unkindness. And sometimes I dare
to touch my Muse's hand in crowded bars
and ask permission to show you my scars.
And kiss her cheek perhaps, but not her lips.
Protect my heart from passion, heal the rips
that other loves have clawed there. Words assuage
bad memories. Restraint's the priest whose oil
will calm love's cauldron when it's at a boil -
lead heart to death perhaps. Don Cupid's rage
kills the heart faster, hardens it. I kneel
pray Mother Venus mercy. Muse protects
me and I pay her wage in texts
of love controlled. The Muse has stamped her seal
on this the contract. Never hope. The worse
Thing is to haggle. Kissed cheek,touch of hand
is all I need. Before the Muse I stand
praise her and love. Immortal in my verse.
|Tuesday, February 4th, 2014|
My poems are not what at first was meant.
The stubborn words and rhymes pull me away
from what at first I thought I wished to say.
What's said is almost that, but curved and bent
pulled firm and taut. The arrow from the bow
of words flies clear and hits a target, not
the one intended but a lovely shot
that ends precisely where it needs to go.
And love's the same; it hurts to be pulled tense
by rules, your other loves, days we don't speak
because of colds or jealousy. I'm weak
but somehow manage turn pain into sense.
Get past the lust you see burn in my eyes.
No love or poems without sacrifice.
|A quicky before going out
Anticipation is love's better part
that never disappoints, can never fade
because unclimaxed. It remains afraid
that fear adds urgency to beating heart
to shuddering cunt. I know the taste of skin
your hand or cheek or neck, but not your thigh
against mine, or the blinking of your eye
on the next pillow; know the mischief grin
you tease your lovers with. Have stroked your hair.
There may be nothing more. This is enough
for poetry is made of flimsy stuff,
of hints and promises. It may not bear
wet heat, fingers inside, sweat pooled on small
of back, dark harmonies that peak then fall.
|Monday, February 3rd, 2014|
|This took ages to write - had to tear it down over and over
I love in you selves that I was, might be,
or might have been if things were otherwise,
that are so you, since sometimes in your eyes
I see a mirror. To infinity
it stretches, features morphing into mine
and back again. Oh love, we're not the same.
I never, holding you, scream my own name
in ecstasy, confused, but as we twine
around each other's lives, we reminisce.
I say 'you did that too? Of course you did.'
Already sharing secrets we both hid.
Skin dust that we exhange each time we kiss
is not more intimate. Love, sister, friend.
The faces in the mirror have no end.
|A third and then bed
I watch the night. Can see, not tell, the stars
like nameless beads. And now the moon is set.
All nights are nights without her. I forget
as hours pass in rain the splash of cars
marks that I do not weep and yet that sound
so lachrymose so long as they recede
like tides and years. There's something that I need
more than her lips, more than her legs around
my aching waist. Some way of stretching joy
each moment that I touch her hand or tease
HER with these songs. Oh gentle goddess please
assure me I am something more than toy
to her , make each kiss, every lonely tear
eternal truth all lovers will revere
|Sunday, February 2nd, 2014|
|I should have written this a couple of weeks ago..
We lie so much, pretending to be chaste.
No quiver and no blush. We keep our face
poker chip cold, sat in the sticky place
our heart's become. And then we come unlaced.
Something undoes us. It might be a cake
a cookie. Tristan standing on the deck
sipped knowing at the drink that meant his wreck
and she drank too. So that a heart can break
a clit can sob, we eat or drink small death
in memory of love. Something that's true.
It stops me lying when I'm holding you
for moments I am blushing short of breath
as limits break and promises go dumb
I tell the silent truth and gasping come.
|Evening's first poem - more on the way
Minutes and decades on their mayfly wings
I do not notice them until the sand
runs out. Another red bill in my hand
that I must pay. Each nightingale that sings
a different generation. Memory
says there were more birds once but still I hear
those notes, that hold me, still. A different year
a different lover. Or perhaps it's me.
How could I tell if it is I that change?
Some things are constant in me, but my heart
falls for each beauty, tender at the start
then bittersweet then doomed. I must arrange
these things thus. Die for love, and am reborn,
pressing my heart blood from each passing thorn.
|I may have done myself a mischief
The metaphors of which our life is made
shift underfoot like boats that pull from shore.
My hand that broke once bangs against a floor
and aches again like heart. Pain is delayed
until we know what's break, and what is bruise.
Hopes can be lies, but so are many fears.
You strap up, wear the brace, keep it for years.
It's when loss is accepted that I lose.
Smashed bone is simple true, but love is mist
that swirls and changes. Breath your passion deep.
It will not choke you. Sometimes, half-asleep,
you trust and smile. But then an aching wrist
wakes you a little. There's a nagging pain
sweet goddess have I broken it again?
|Saturday, February 1st, 2014|
|A metaphor I think works
I nearly lost my sight, and now it's clear.
The lines and blurs are gone. Laser and knife
lens changed for plastic. Never in my life
had I seen birds in trees. There is a fear
that I had to this moment, cut away
to clarity. Your head touches my skin
a little pressure. You lean further in
no random touch. It's not the words you say
a little mocking, softly, but the trust
more than soft hair on bare arm as you lean.
Catch breath a little. This could always mean
less than I think or hope, but hope I must.
You tease the fear away. I am not wrong.
I see as well as hear sharp joyous song.
|Thursday, January 30th, 2014|
|This one based on conversations
Love is the fastest car, in which I ride,
your passenger. Your hands are on the wheel.
Gear shifting. And the pressure that I feel
pushes me backwards. On the left hand side
you signal, and then turn. We pick up speed
exhilarating and the hip-hop beat
blares from your speakers. Lever pulls my seat
back and I stretch and yawn. No more we need
than this. 365 horsepower,rear wheel drive,
traction control off, open window air
buffets my face, plays havoc with your hair.
Not quite like sex, yet near it, we contrive
auto-eroticism. Click my belt
around me. Will controlling what I've felt.
|Wednesday, January 29th, 2014|
Love in the right way. Love her, watching her
that she loves more than you, loves you as well.
Let fools compare sweet jealousy to hell.
A perfect love, though hard, will still prefer
her happiness to yours, find yours in theirs.
And do not be pretentious – their love's hot
to watch, and makes her kind to you. It's not
some saintly and unselfish love, compares
its options, is pragmatic. Slowly, weigh
your chances, your desires, and what is right.
Then kiss them both, and wish them a good night.
This love for theirs will last more than a day
and be loved back. And if this is a sin
it's one you share with Strauss's Marschallin...
We do not think of lips nearly enough.
Of how a kiss comes close to break your heart
when loving ends, yet also at its start.
Kiss fingertip, kiss down almost to cuff
and round the wrist, tell fortunes on the palm,
and gently bruise the lips against her rings.
This is just one of all the many things
kissing can be. It is the gentlest harm
that we can do. - And yet the Judas kiss
betray one love perhaps, or maybe five
will watch and worry. Memory will survive
not just of touch and smell. Thought during this
cold yet in love. Fuck's frenzy once complete
leaves blanks. In twenty years, my kiss still sweet.
|Tuesday, January 28th, 2014|
We walk a boundary. Friendship and lust
and love are different things, sometimes the same
perhaps a fourth thing with as yet no name.
We talk and we consent and start to trust.
Kissing your cheek, your neck. There's something sweet
flavour or scent. The texture of your hair
reminds me of things lost, things never there
before but needed. As it is, complete
not steps along some way. A finger's touch -
I shudder and you twine into my waist
look up and smile, amused. This is quite chaste
in many ways. And more would be too much.
Time takes so much that it will not replace
The years have brought me here, to kiss your face.
|Monday, January 27th, 2014|
|A new poem
There are no rules. There must be rules. Our dance
hand touches hand withdraws. Eyelash on cheek
Diffident. I once knew, forgot, my Greek
Have to relearn this language of romance
Archaic yet new-minted. Dreams that fade
in halflight scrawl graffiti in tired eyes
deciphered dusty subtext of your sighs
and whispers. We negotiate a trade
in glances slyness charm, in words that slink
like urban foxes, seen a second, gone
nervous proud flirting. Both of us will run
from sight, and then be there, next time we blink.
I step you weave around. Turn pirouette
These gestures mean themselves, no more. And yet...