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Discharged memories

  • Posted on May 27, 2013 at 9:03 am

Tangle of wires, these threads of lives,
disconnects between phones with
histories now lost in silence in a drawer
in a box of decisions, of memories

electrical elements, complex, elementary
useful without understanding, currency
with potential to make happen, happy,
sad, lose, lost times, lost friends. Lives

lost in a box of decisions, to keep, rejoin
find phones, find friends, find family, or
finally forget and forgive and forsake. Spread
on a carpet of decisions, coiled, laid out

in a mortician’s pattern of cold preparation
of the inevitable under silent eyes
of the accepting bereaved. Nothing flows
in the untangling, connections draw nothing

together again. In the box. In the drawer. In this
burial of so many conversations.

 

2013 © Andie Davidson

And for the joy of poetry and the page, try this (read it how you like):

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Not rising

  • Posted on May 25, 2013 at 9:54 pm

Rainstorm of fingers and palms
surging, dwindling—a last burst
dissembling to spits and spots as stage lights
fade and die.

Unpeopled, the set becomes
pretence and flimsy and flat,
performers are unperforming, becoming
you and I.

Arms unfurl their sleeves
fill wide as wings and fall
as a restless flock preparing to turn
rise and fly.

But I am still, lost in thought
memories flood my mind
of last time, of that time, we were here
you and I.

Every dry feather departs,
the last sweep falls quiet,
seats become velvet walls again, muffle my
final sigh.

 

2012 © Andie Davidson

(at a Suzanne Vega concert, Brighton 2012)

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Amour

  • Posted on May 25, 2013 at 9:29 pm

This is love in armour, no
fluffy pink besotted
falling apart in haze, no
magic dust scattered in hair
the sparkle is the polish, on
our armour.

This is love played safe, no
flung-wide doors and hearts
ablaze and calling freely, no
wonder in the whirlwind here
our walls are what we touch, in
playing safe.

This is love defended, no
arms laid around forsaken
by empty hands made open, no
abandoned space for playing here
we stand alert and ready, in
our defence.

This is love spoken in dialect, no
easy understanding, natural
learned-from-the-child phrase, no
instant recognition from ear to heart
but defended, safe, strong, in
love with an r.

 

2013 ©&#nbsp;Andie Davidson

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A poem from the edge

  • Posted on May 6, 2013 at 10:38 am

Drink Brink

a glass its water still its smooth
round mouth speaks my refreshment
but I see an edge its hard
straight line will take the glass
and in one slight move will break
shards will fall an instant blade
and with it in a warm basin
a water colour red will paint
I know this and its obvious no
debate of alternatives just release
please give me time to slip aside
with this glass this incision in time

 

2013 © Andie Davidson

 

Reading this poem can be multi-dimensional. Read across; you know what it is about. Feel it. Now read bits (or all) of it down; then across, or up or at random. This poem reflects the fragmentation of the experience and (as did I) still retains integrity.

Now look for ‘inner’, ‘icy’, ‘fallen’. Ask what is happening to my will? In what sense was I in time?

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A and E

  • Posted on May 6, 2013 at 9:51 am

Unnoticeable as the air, as out of sight,
as filling every space,
the in-betweens where nothing goes,
it was there.

The slight touch on the shoulder saying
you’re in this conversation
when all the world is behind you except
the space of yet to know.

The smile, the question, the not-assuming,
that isn’t there at work
or at home, or the checkout where your
worlds slide quietly past.

Wheels, when you might stand, removal
of one effort you know would
stretch these unexpected minutes, hours,
leave breath spare.

There, in the gap between black square plate,
the huge x-ray room and you,
precision arms and tracks, embracing metal
with reassuring smile.

The kneeling, to explain from not-above
accepting understanding,
taking blood, listening for crackles, telling
what to expect.

And not a moment’s go-away, you’re done,
leaving with connection
though each had done just what they do
day and again.

In each look, listen, touch, that which makes us
what we are at best
that connects and makes, affirms—that life
is not just this.

 

2013 © Andie Davidson

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