Daphne

(Listen to Reading of Daphne Here)

Babe.

As you break in the arms

Of an auntie to be tethered to

With cottonwool thoughts

In no language that can be taught

So rocking that ‘just out of womb’ hair.

Stretching like a cat without claws

Surfacing from hibernation.

Into our world of autumnal flakiness.

Darling

They put the clocks back a whole hour

Just to give us more time

To hold your head and mumbling heart.

Child.

Sleeping in the warm

Your eventual exiting lacking elegancy.

Rocking from abstract to realism

In the blink of an eye.

Girl.

You see in black and white and blur

But in the taking of a breath

Your legs set into hips

Daddy builds a turret to tuck you in,

To keep you safe

At night.

Ball games,

Bus lanes,

Veins.

Adding pages to the map

As skin grows to cover a woman’s frame.

Melting Mummy’s heart every day.

Latched into the world with love.

Lovely little lady.

Daphne.

But Freedom Beat The Fear

Freedom is cold air,

Long nights,

And rain on the clothesline.

It’s swimming in the pool:

Pretending I think I’m cool.

It’s sore throats and a berocca.

Going to the sales,

Even though it’s chocka.

Strange places,

With ex strangers.

And coffee,

And kissing,

And drinking,

And singing,

And chatting,

And thinking.

Becoming bolder.

Shrugging a shoulder.

It’s:

This. Is. Me.

I. Will. Be.

You. Will. See.

I never found my lifeguard.

But tomorrow is my bankcard.

Yesterday was time well killed.

Forever is a notebook to be filled-

Meanwhile I’ll just scoff pick and mix,

And smile at the world…

Which is quite significantly full of dicks…

But:

DONT STOP ME NOW

I sit.

I laugh.

I dance.

Because once upon a chance.

I didn’t think I would get here.

But it looks like freedom beat the fear.

 

Open Mic Performing

Recently I’ve been able to start doing more events. This makes me very happy. This week I went to The Speakers’ Corner in York and performed at their open mic. I was shaking like a leaf but extremely comforted that I couldn’t see the faces looking at me. Blindness does have some benefits! I’ve even made some poetry writing friends and I’ve had some great feedback.


Anyway- this was just a quick post to say hello, I know it’s been a while. I will be posting some new material really soon (including what I read at this open mic) so please do stick around!

Love and Lemonade,

Imi

An Ashtray in Pompeii

You are tentative with your words
As if I am made of butterscotch and bite.
Like you are building
Straw houses in Haiti,
And you aren’t quite sure
If time repeats itself to me.

So I will try not to smile because I know
that my history with the past is recurrent.
I try everyday to sneak and creep,
hoping it won’t spot my silver linings,
But the monster never seems to sleep.

But one day we will try and forget.
Sit and bask in the light.
And play Bach in our bus shelters
And build those houses,
In this heritage site I paid the price for.
And we will see the irony
When we can simply be
As we place an ash tray in Pompeii.
Because we’d buried the past that day.

Those words were my ashtray in Pompeii.

So Called Safe.

Times like this I shouldn’t be here
Its not stopping my stress it’s stemming it
I’ve been helped
alongside the girls who eat tape measures
and the boys who breathe fire.

But as I lie in bed
I’m whispering to my pillow
“The door’s locked.
The door’s locked.
The door’s locked.”
And it’s not OCD talking.

I’m scared because they’ve been kicking the doors in for hours
and we are two members of staff down
and as patients storm the siren screaming doors
the agency blokes don’t know their names
to phone for the police.

We’ve lost three members of staff 
and gained an army of impermanence.
We are 16 beds of vulnerable young people
Yet for nurses balancing the staff ratio has become a craft
The budget cuts are getting deeper
And there’s no one to stop us when we are bleeding.

But what are parents supposed to do?
When Seb is sixteen and suicidal so sent to be safe.
The psychiatrist is supposedly stalling their son’s surge for suicide.
But in a moment Finn throws a fist and Seb’s got stitches.
Seb’s mind must be bad for six stitches to be the safest.
How scary is that?

The ceiling screams when we do,
Staff scatter.
Skin splits.
And sewn on the skin of my teeth
Are slideshows of scenarios
Seen in children’s psychiatric settings.

But we’re safe here. Right?