It is worth remembering that I cannot remember.

At the start of the year, it rained for weeks; abingdon road was flooded- halting traffic and I was nearly late for work.
Every bus ride into Oxford city centre became more of a frustration. What do I do when I'm angry? Vent by writing!




The rain became the puddles that grew into  floods.
The allotments were soaked;
Vegetables awash, cultivated by wheelbarrows
As the gardeners rushed to save their stock.
The sandbags provided were useless
But will be mentioned in the paper that they were used.

Let me introduce myself (again)

I am a month late to begin my New Years resolution of starting to write again. After university, real life had taken over my ability to multitask; no longer can I watch television and begin a first draft of a poem. No longer can I eat a pot noodle without feeling guilty (the less said about that, the better!)

My twin sister got me a new notebook last week. This was my attempt of starting to write again.


Words mumble out of that mouth
-unclear, unresponsive. I shrug them off.
Our room is bare, except for the dying magnolias
Put in a chipped glass for a vase. The petals curve
Inwards, cradling each other. Their colours bruise the room,
A present from your mother. Our suitcase stays alert
By the front door ,where the lock doesn't work,
As if we will have a change of mind,
leave before Christmas
But the room was paid for in pennies,
Found in pockets and piggy banks.

Breathe

I have  been experimenting with "snapshots" of moments in a poem where i give ten minutes to free write without editing, then i grab a colourful pen to cross out parts that seem to over detail the poem and what i'm trying to say.  The outcome is hopefully one sentence which attempts to create an image, a moment and a place.

The original (Terrible blackberry quality photo and typed):

Holding hands as tight
as cement between pavement slabs;
dragging themselves for another drag
on menthol cigarettes out of
parted mouths. They sat
on the tops of cities, bare feet hanging
down, half awake eyes
scrutinizing the sunrise
while blowing the smoke out of their lungs.



What was left after the green editing pen got crossing out happy. (Again terrible picture quality, My apologies)

Menthol cigarettes out of
parted mouths. They sat
on the tops of cities
scrutinizing the sunrise
blowing the smoke.




Finally, I swapped some of the words around to create a more linear structure to the snapshot. However, it could be argued that the original order made it more fragmentary and as if it is a memory snapshot! This was the finished poem, even if it is a little one.


They sat on the tops of cities,
scrutinizing the sunrise, blowing the smoke
of menthol cigarettes out of parted mouths.

A Grandma's Idea

I watched with despair as my Grandmother picked up a pen and began to draw over the newspaper.She   took a sheet of the newspaper and ripped a section off, forcing it into my hand.

"Poets could win £1000 for writing moving verses about their home town. United press is holding  a free poetry competition for all ages. Poems must be no longer than 25 lines, counting blank lines with a maximum of 160 words. Send your local poem by email or post. the closing date is December 31."

This is why I have been so quiet. Writing a poem about your home town is a lot harder than you would think. So when writer's block says hello, I usually try to tell him I'm busy by going for a walk.



However, a walk had proved to be a bigger barrier to finding the words. Now I had the choice to write about the river and how the canal boats rest on the side of the bank when the sun goes down. There was the Long alley almshouse's to describe, how they face St Helen's church with slitted wooden window panes.Or I could write about the lock, how the water level rushes and gurgles to rise. There was the Abbey, the flowerbeds and ducks that nest in the ground. There was the weather stained memorial to Prince Albert to bring to life. There was so much choice. I never knew how much history Abingdon within the streets i've been walking on for years.


I am still working on the poem. The deadline is 31st of December so I think having a few more walks won't hurt. Who knows what I will discover around a corner?

The time of a memory

Curious fingertips of a raindrop touched

The Pink shaded blossom which curved around

 Each petal on the branches of the old tree.

She watched from the window,

Remembering the kiss that was planted

Just after the cherry tree by enthusiastic lips

On her mouth that had mocked the idea of it.

Wrinkled fingertips were pushed against the glass

Washed clean by the water droplets

On the window pane. The rain

Of the world held time while she looked out

With memory, not aging at all.

Towards the light

A shade of ebony shadow drapes itself

Over the fireworks that explode into the sky;

As the colours burst with their flight

The small crowd applauds in the back garden

That became a display for the night.

A child steps out, a sparkler in a tiny hand-

Towards the bonfire, unaware of his red stripe scarf

Tucked out of the coat. Fascinated by the sparks,

His wellington boots leaving a foot print path behind

As he walks towards the flames.

A woman rushes after,

Panicking like a mother. She picks

The boy up to carry inside the house, past the throng

Of people that on look and did not move.

He peers over her shoulder wondering what he did wrong.

A touch of an impression

They have forgotten how to kiss other people,

As well as each other, Megan thought,

Sitting across the living room from them

 With crossed legs in a short dress

To be ladylike for her boyfriend’s parents.

She smiled awkwardly when they looked over,

Thankful to the television for avoiding conversation.

Their two bodies had empty space between,

No gentle touches or linked fingertips;

They watched the screen, small talking

With false enthusiasm about the programme

Like they could think of nothing else to say to each other.

The room was immaculate and she pitied the sex life

If a house was this clean. Her boyfriend came

Carrying a tray of biscuits, a tea pot,

 Sat down next to her after asking how many sugars.

She put a hand on his thigh,

Enjoying the way he tried to avoid her eye.