The Four Corners (a small room of poetry) Read online

br />

  The Four Corners

  David Belgrove

  Copyright 2015 by David Belgrove

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re- sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase for your own use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Dedication

  To my Mum, who always knew best.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The First Corner

  A Scar and Whipped Cream

  Because He Can

  Outdoors (bands play, trumpets sound off key)

  Boom

  Bully Boy

  Cake

  The Known Stranger

  Hearing the Tone

  The Second Corner

  Caught In the Middle of In-Between

  Change

  Chime

  Dive

  Leaving Normal

  Eastward Girl

  Elan

  Tiny Piece Falling

  Falling Short

  Few Do March

  Flower Shaped

  Four Walls

  Hollow True

  Indulge Me

  The Third Corner

  Kestrel

  Invisible

  Moth (Part 1)

  Revisited

  Tick

  Wanting the Return

  You

  The Fourth Corner

  Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Introduction

  What is poetry? A question without a definitive answer to which I’m very glad about.

  Sometimes people seem scared by poetry, like it's an untouchable form of writing. I have heard some people refer to poetry as not a real art form or something that neither has substance or meaning. These are of course opinions and they vary greatly. Poetry is subjective and can be controversial. The subject matters can range drastically, dramatically and can swing in a multitude of directions.

  I have been spilling ink for many years, scribbling thoughts and ideas throughout most of my adult life. It has always been with me, a union of sorts. Poetry is wide spread and prevalent. It is in everything we say and do, forever present. It is there when we are not looking and sometimes blindingly obvious when we are. Its presence is not to be underestimated or its presence denied.

  What we do know is the power of the written word cannot be underestimated. Words have been used to lift of the mood of people we know, soothing words of comfort and support. They have also been used to rally thousands into a course of action that has impacted and changed the history around us.

  A friend of mine once said that a novel was like a long drink, you took your time with it and savoured it over a period of time. The same friend then spoke of poetry as being a shot of your favourite spirit, one minute it's in the glass and then the glass is empty but the power of that spirit stays with you afterwards. Does this mean poetry is a short sharp shock, possibly?

  So, I go back to my original question. What is poetry? I can’t actually tell you because I don’t actually know. Maybe it is a mix of many things, colour and sound. It is full of emotion from imagination and sometimes it is genius and even word trickery. Poetry keeps you questioning and searching, this I feel is as it should be.

  Poetry is a page stained with the inner workings of the writers mind. It takes on many guises and is pulled in from many different places. It is hard to sum up so I won't and this is the greatest justice I can do to poetry, it fits neatly into no box and conforms to no standard.

  This is my first foray into publishing my work. Some of the work is twenty years old and I believe it's no good sitting in a dusty box under the bed. I hope you enjoy The Four Corners as much as I enjoyed writing and compiling it. My recent and best decision was bringing it kicking and screaming into world, onto the page and in to the light.

  The First Corner

  The very first blow, wasn’t a breeze

  or a sneeze from God.

  Who could see it? Not I.

  Invisible, barely felt.

  The impacted matter didn’t matter.

  Sitting there, laughing and making

  dents in history.

  Plotting a course through parchments

  written, inked. Oh you cared ever so much.

  Moving in and moving out,

  winded.

  Skin turning shades of blue

  air knocked away-

  From a grip once had, too far.

  A Scar and Whipped Cream

  You said 8pm

  I said ok, please not be late (storms a coming)

  Tapping fingers past 9, 10, 11

  and so on and so forth

  into revolutions new.

  Waking, a heap in a chair.

  Water ran amok in puddles and

  puddles growing ground like.

  Struggling to unfold like paper trashed.

  It’s a grim sight after a dreamless night, grim indeed.

  The phone rings, wrong number.

  The postman calls, wrong letter.

  The neighbour drives away.

  The song of a bird makes no sense.

  The wind does its best to dance on a tuneless sky, pity-

  I love to fly.

  God damn it, focus man.

  Get your brain in gear.

  Get your frame moving

  and yourself together.

  Get dressed, properly this time.

  Don’t shy yourself away (again)

  Climb aboard the morning express,

  its leaving soon (sooner than you think)

  She did say 8pm. That was last night, right?

  It was I’m sure.

  The beer bottles said it all,

  the wine bottles said more.

  Broken picture frames, a scarf without scent.

  Shoes slain, blame near the steps.

  Floors creak and bend,

  just like sinking ships made from wood.

  Things get blown over and fall.

  Wavering at the bottom of the stairs

  in a fisherman’s net,

  could I be any more unfortunate-

  To be caught.

  You laugh and ask, am I alright?

  Slipping on misadventure, its ok I will survive-

  Did you say one lump or two?

  Because He Can

  Maybe a doubt

  couldn’t quite figure it out.

  The craic, his intentions.

  Slipping on brief paranoia

  flat on the floor

  watching the lampshade spin

  shrugging shoulders

  giving in.

  Why?

  Although different routed

  same conclusion,

  because he wants to

  because he can.

  Outdoors (bands play, trumpets sound off key)

  I’m supposed to, it’s expected

  of my young hours in this world.

  Yes I did say hours, although years

  seem like the same (sometimes)

  It’s out there, beyond the window

  and the clarity.

  Things beckon.

  Yes, there is smoke and yes

  there is calm.

  Yes, there is defiance and there are

  glossy ideas of invasions and

  the people’s reservations.

  You see outdoors the air is arid

  and s
irens scream.

  Gunfire is playfully snapping

  the space above their heads.

  Children fool with triggers

  and being men too soon.

  Outdoors you can be tall if you dare.

  White hot metal,

  It’s single minded purpose.

  Boys and girls and their spinning barrel glories,

  the way things shape themselves

  as full magazines unload.

  So, I’m playing in my room

  as the washing stacks up.

  I don’t recall the breaking of glass

  and the shards of sunlight,

  arms block out the twists like a drowning dog.

  Here to prevail. Outdoors we all play

  and those explosions, the way dust sucks air.

  Deep down I hope they don’t

  get too close,

  too close would mean all our toys broken.

  Boom

  It’s in my bones now,

  in the narrow, strong

  and hollow places.

  It was on my skin

  in my pores

  and swam against the tide

  of blood.

  In my head, my heart,

  my fibre and my thread

  followed invisible on

  every word I heard,

  you said. Every sentence fed

  on the crease of every sheet

  of every bed.

  The vie of control,

  the colour in every eye-

  the loss in every sigh.

  It’s in every dark corner,

  lit by sight

  where the meaning

  takes flight.

  In my ears and the back

  of my eyes.

  I opened them,

  wider than before-

  Oh the things I’ve seen,

  the sound deafens.

  Bully Boy

  Bully boy not a man,

  see you on the street

  remembering well,

  your filth, your large trainer feet

  as you spat and kicked.

  All around

  others jeered

  as you dropped this body

  and leered. You were quick enough then,

  quick to lunge this way,

  to riot a laugh.

  But time has passed

  didn’t you think of time?

  how it moves on

  so fast.

  Your only interest

  blood and spit

  and the teachers who did nothing

  but sit.

  You were warned then

  maybe you didn’t hear above the din.

  Come near me now,

  come on.

  Out will come your throat

  followed by jaw-

  step forward hollow brave

  you'll bully no more.

  Cake

  I'll eat no more of her cake

  it was clearly a mistake,

  little did I know

  the candle

  a fuse

  the room was a mess

  and there was I,

  egg on my face.

  The Known Stranger

  It seemed like centuries

  almost