Banksy

I think poetry's going to become a regular little feature on this blog, especially at this time where I'm giving myself about another two hours to finish writing one last poem for my assignment due in tomorrow, so that I can watch Desperate Housewives in peace. I saw the episode on Sunday, but I've got the boyfriend hooked and he missed it and it was a good episode, but anyway...

Banksy is the inspiration for the poem I'm about to attempt to write, and not for his artwork. I found this little poem in his book Walls and Piece. Hope you like x

Love Poem

Beyond watching eyes

With sweet and tender kisses

Our souls reached out to each other

In breathless wonder

And when I awoke

From a vast and smiling peace

I found you bathed in morning light

Quietly studying

All the messages on my phone

Poetry

I'm currently doing a 21st century poetry module at uni, and I'm in the process of completing five contemporary poems for my next assignment. I've just come across the work of Emma McGordon. I don't know what the poem is called that she reads in the video, but I thought it was so thought provoking, sensitive and inspirational. Had to share it with you guys, because it can't all be about fashion. Let me know what you think!

Poetry

I'm studying English and Creative Writing at uni in Manchester, and today we looked a poem by Julia Copus. I've not come across her work before, but I loved the form of this poem 'The Back Seat of My Mother's Car'. We've got to invent our own form of poetry for our next assignment, and I can't imagine how difficult it must have been to write a poem, that reads the same forwards as it does with the lines reversed! Genius.

The Back Seat of My Mother's Car by Julia Copus

We left before I had time
to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched
hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted
to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny
rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out
for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in,
cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping
the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass;
I was calling to you--Daddy!--as we screeched away into
the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.
You were mouthing something I still remember, the noiseless words
piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset
pouring itself out against the sky. The ensuing silence
was the one clear thing I could decipher--
the roar of the engine drowning your voice,
with the cool slick glass between us.

With the cool slick glass between us,
the roar of the engine drowning, your voice
was the one clear thing I could decipher--
pouring itself out against the sky, the ensuing slience
piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset.
You were mouthing something: I still remember the noiseless words,
the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.
I was calling to you, Daddy, as we screeched away into
the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass,
cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping
for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in
rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out
to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny
hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted
to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched.
We left before I had time.