poems.

This a diary entry and a return to form.

I do not want to live a toothless life. A life where I lose my teeth but never really bite into anything. I brush my teeth religiously, three times at least. My mum always told me how important teeth are, how expensive they are to fix and how much they reflect your overall health. An ex of mine recounted that this is a form of OCD, ‘I just want something I can control’ I replied, fully aware of the irony here. For the record I do not have OCD but I am obsessive. I am what I would describe as domestically obsessive. I cannot sleep unless all the dishes are done and the kitchen is clean. I like my food separated on my plate and I like my morning coffee in my clear orange mug. This week I have decided to stop rotting around in my brick house, obsessing about the sink and the bathroom mirror. I am going to be happy! Even if that means dying trying. Gosh sorry that sounds dramatic but you get the idea.

I have been unable to write an essay for about a month now. Already breaking my essay a week New Years resolution it would seem my recent academic disappointment has affected my self esteem more than I initially thought. I am angry with myself. Why do I spend so much time writing into the void? I thought this year I would write a thesis and find a sense of purpose in the world of academia. Instead I am only partially employed and unable to find a second job. I should be using my free time to write and try and fulfil my dream of having a published poetry collection but instead I am writing essays? No one wants another cultural critique. I deep clean my house and apply for jobs I never hear from. I am a loser losing the race that I set for myself. I need to find my love for writing again.

In primary school we were instructed to write short stories. I have a vague memory of writing about Autumn leaves and their colour changing coinciding with the feelings of two female friends. As their friendship fell apart and winter came, rotted autumn leaves were their only reminder of brighter times. My favourite teacher was a little concerned with the story, citing its ‘maturity’, My child self was confused, thinking this should have been a good thing. Despite her initial reservation she ended up reading the story to the class. I was embarrassed. I never thought of myself as particularly bright and was scared that the other kids would think my story was stupid. Honestly I don’t actually remember the reaction to the story, I doubt there was probably any. It made me realise that I had something powerful, that I could write for my own satisfaction. I was too young to realise that to actually make money you needed an audience but it was wholesome, pure. While I enjoyed writing stories I never felt like I had anything interesting enough to say. Even as a child I knew my life was mundane. I do not mean that in a derogatory sense, but I was your typical middle class girl who loved Taylor Swift and Barbie dolls. I soon learnt that my skill was small fragments of description and image so poetry was the logical next step.

A poem from when I was 8 or 9. I apparently could not spell or draw very well. However I could always spell beautiful and raspberry as my mum lost them in a spelling bee when she was young so she drilled them into me.

At the the end of this post you will find poems. The first two I wrote over the past two weeks as I have returned to my main art practise. Following you will find other poems I have written. I want my substack to reflect who I am as a writer so now you can get to know me as a poet first, and everything else second.

CBF xx

You shaved your head in a non-white supremacist way!

I let 6am come,

I have living to do.

I let 12am leave,

I have sleeping to do.

Falling asleep in a bed of nettle -

First thing I do in the morning is turn on the kettle.

I am adding veggies into random meals & making conversations with strangers.

I am turning into my mother,

It’s nice.

The great thing about watching old movies over and over again

Is that the actors never age!

Characters never evolve past the credits & bad decisions are submerged in beautiful lighting.

Apologies are useless when they are behind the times.

I feel like my bones are burning,

My legs are turning into antlers.

Dragging out these endings -

We only get one chance to properly say goodbye.

I cry to Oscar speeches/ perfectly cut peaches

Foggy mirrors & faded memories-

I am stranded in the what ifs.

February rain, cherries off from December.

Do I dance in your head ?

I listened to Red when I was 12 and I learnt more than I did in school.

I have never seen the last episode of Sex and the City or Succession or Hannibal or really any of my other favourite TV shows. I don’t like endings. They overwhelm me. It's not just that they make me sad, it is like they eat me whole. My head feels heavy yet airy. I feel like running as much as I feel like rolling up into a ball, whispering to myself that everything will stay the same.

I think what I actually find upsetting is the idea that things could happen and then then don’t; mourning the question and never getting the answer. Roads not taken, mistaken stumblings down different paths. I hate this idea but I am obsessed with it.

The Way I Played with Barbies.


 My Barbies had a wooden house my mother found at a church fate. The rooms & the doorways were too small for dolls

So, I had to imagine them there. 

They had handmade clothes,

Made with notes of endearment. My mother & were attached to those dresses,

I fear in my dolls closet was the closest we will ever be. 

Yes, they would kiss,

Yes, they would scissor

but they had a safe homeIt was quiet and impartial.

My mother called me a harlot for wanting to be blonde. Why would she do that?She let me play with Barbie dolls.

The Nail Salon. 

I am at the nail salon and the woman asks

'what colour?'

I am at the nail salon and woman asks

'shorter?'

I am at the nail salon and the woman

shaves away past hues.

I am at the nail salon thinking about

Ted Hughes.

I am leaving the nail salon dreaming

about you.

I am leaving the nail salon attempting

to not feel blue.

I am leaving the nail salon admiring the view.

The sun is shining and my hair looks golden.

The sun is shining and I spot an ex lover's holden.

The sun is shining and will take my bones out with

somebody new.

Every few weeks I am back at the nail salon.

Cataloging colours with lovers,

Looking at my hands and thinking about my mother.

Today feels like yesterday & tomorrow feels like today.

It is what it is until it isn’t

Until it isn’t anything at all.

The dust on the windowpanes doesn’t bother me anymore,

It pains me to say I am too tired to open the front door.

Where there once was a home -

Is now just echoes & long sighs

Stretching across dry grass.

A modern

American Gothic

Under yesterday’s sun.

The bare treetops melt into the dwindling blue-

Left over grass &

Week old bras.

Swedish Crochet on Important Holidays.

caresses

blessing

blissing

missing.

Everything is so subtle yet so bold.

I sit in the kitchen & I feel so old.

No more coming of age, I am of age -

The age where I can longer blame ancestors.

I am quite alright again...

I am going to start crocheting fig trees.

The autumn leaves

They are wet & black.

I crave to get myself back.

Is it real? Is it fake? Is it fiction?

I guess I don’t care, as long as I fit in.

Mother Dearest.

Mother!

What do you dream about when the sky goes dark?

Do you dream of larks delivering better versions of me?

Do you have nightmares about the deep blue sea?

Mother!

You are the superior ghost.

Not one of staircases & hallways

But one that haunts me always!

In

My

Head

&

In

My

Heart.

Mother!

I must tell what I see, when I roll up like a bean & dream.

I dream of the stars going out,

Falling into my hands like diamonds.

I dream of the end of all things -

The seams on the pale body ripping into a million little pieces for the world to see.

I feel haunted by the dead women on my family tree,

Their roots burrowed so far down my throat -

Gone too soon I am not allowed to choke.

They flourish twice a year, birthdays & death days -

Flowers picked from the garden & placed in vases.

It's all so morbid,

There is no forward in the foliage.

I wish there were more photographs, more stories -

We are so poor at nostalgic lament.

I love to wear lockets to feel close to you,

I love to wear turtlenecks to feel close to you

I bathe in the blue to feel close to you

I suck up the blackness to feel close to you.

Back in a Swedish apartment, the bathtub is filled to the brim.

Memories are no blessing but an etching to your name.

These afflictions!

I balance these thrills by writing fiction.

Sick as I am,

I am God,

My worshippers, my flesh wounds.

On this night -

Wake in fright!

The moon is greater than the stars.

A hopeless dawn -

A poet’s farewell.

There is no heaven, just pieces of it.