Saturday, 5 November 2011


As we seem to be on a poetry kick as of late, I thought you might like to read the poem I wrote for our latest meeting of the Doncaster Writers' Group. Each session we go down the letters of the alphabet and this one happened to be D. So we each wrote a poem or a vignette or something about the devil. Bear in mind I don't write a lot of poetry so this might be awful. You've been warned.

"Homeless man on Pearl Street Mall, Boulder, Colorado." Image from Julie Harris Photography


Some imagine twelve-year-old Regan MacNeil, or Emily Rose, twisted
tight on a bed, sheets hot, body mangled.
Some see the homeless man staring at you over a five-year beard, his
children lost, upturned hat empty.
Some pity the teenager crow-hopping to a fast beat at the nightclub, the
ecstacy in his blood making the world mistakenly new.

But I don't.

Here: in bed, a girl who speaks languages she doesn't know. Risking everything
for her own sacrifice.
There: the man who chose nothing, gave up the highrise job that hurt
his soul. Now he has all the time in the world to watch you.
Here: Along the throbbing nightclub wall, a boy in a fleeting lovely
heartspin, who will live long, because ecstacy helps prevent cancer.

And here, me, in a mirror:
Hair a nest (I woke up late).
My man next to me, a few more minutes of idle Saturday morning
dripping away.
Sloth in shadow in this (deadly, sinful) room.
Seeing the devil, I see myself --
         plain as day,
         tempting as skin on skin,
         beautiful as untapped regret.

(If anyone wants to comment on the faults or merits of this poem please feel free! I adore astute whispers from the peanut gallery.)

Happy Saturday!

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