Category / Poetry

by marleylilith

Parnassus Park

Written by Lost in a Dream

Even stone angels wear away in time...

Even stone angels wear away in time…

A neat row of marble statues either side of the path,
They certainly looked impressive under the street lights.
Symmetrical and complete.
Smooth marble so glossy I could almost see my reflection.

Yet, when I look into their eyes I can feel no story,
Just an empty, soulless stare.
I held their hands and tried to make a connection.
But I found them cold and hard.
Emotionless.

Away from path, hidden among the undergrowth,
Their contemporaries gather:
A collection of stone angels
Sinking in the mud.
Their features rugged and incomplete.

In the knot of shrubbery,
With half-formed wings,
An incomplete angel offers a rugged hand.

Through the angel’s abrasive hands,
The sculptor carves his pain.
I could feel it, experience it.

It spoke more than a volume of polished prose.

If you enjoyed this beautiful poem by Lost in a Dream you’ll be pleased to hear that she has several more published in Inkblots! Here is a link to one of our favourites; “Masquerade“.

by Colette

Residue

Written by Magnificent Mayhem

a_little_princess_emily_doll

Sara Crewe in A Little Princess, clutching Emily.

She is a glass doll.
Stunning in the light,
Brittle lashes and lifeless eyes,
Her slick curves, angles, cold to the touch
Until they’ve been greased with prints.

Familiar hands know every line,
Could trace these planes in darkness
Drawing forth memory
Of each previous encounter,
All dalliances with dust and dirt forgotten,
Loved now by someone’s sticky hands.
Wet with sweetness wiped
From the corners of young lips,
The kind of hands that are never clean,
That plainly show where they’ve been.

They leave trails of new care and old saliva,
Over scars feathered so carefully they were surely placed there on purpose,
Perhaps in anger, or simple carelessness
In their blatant disregard of her worth: you are nothing
These cracks scream
To be so easily abused this way.

But fingers damp from moistened mouths feel none of this.
They search eagerly instead for the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her neck,
Reveling in the reflection of ecstasy on her face, recognising an eye or lip,
Claiming it, for now, knowing later she must be relinquished.

And someone will have to wash her of the stains these filthy hands have left,
Before setting her back on display to be picked up again.
She is a glass doll, slowly shattering.

“Residue” is Magnificent Mayhem’s first published piece in Inkblots Magazine. Often writing free verse poetry in her spare time, her inspiration for this particular piece was taken from the similarities between how roughly a child may play with a doll or toy and our tendencies to treat people as property – succumbing to our selfish desires.

by Doishy

The Humanitarian

Written by Dizzy dazzle

humanitarian_aid

Could you do what this woman does? Image courtesy of wikipedia.

The Humanitarian dreams
Not of mansions or swimming pools or plasma TV’s
But the hungry next door
With bread in their hands
And a baby who’s happy, not crying.

The Humanitarian sees
The good and the bad
The right and the wrong
And the things in between
The things that he’ll change, the people he’ll save.

The Humanitarian leads
He treats the poor soldiers of the blood red war fields
The one armed gun man
And the pilot with no legs
He hopes they’ll never fight again.

The Humanitarian believes
That those that are poor, those that are hungry
Those that are frightened, those that are lonely
Will live to see another day
And the Humanitarian smiles.

Simple and with more than a pinch of truth to it, Dizzy’s poem really conveys quite a deep message within. Dizzy has been submitting wonderful poetry for quite some time and I for one hope it continues to be the case.

by Colette

Sheffield Steel

Written by Elanor Rose

sunset

The sun set, flame red, there was no delay.

We met on the day that the world would end
and clasped fingers in the dark, unafraid.
As the steel sheets of Sheffield tumbled down,
fell beneath our feet, fell into pierced ground,
we stepped amidst the debris side by side.

As the red brick of Birmingham crumbled
we fumbled to find something lasting and new.
We remembered the cities that forged us,
now gone – and struggled to salvage the dust
unnoticed by the ruins around us.

And when then the rain came, we were ready.
The sun set, flame red, there was no delay.
We watched it sear through the thunder-clap clouds,
no longer humbled, no longer content
to allow our origin to be lost,
to admit our time together was spent.

Sheffield Steel marks Elanor Rose’s first poem published in Inkblots. Her inspiration was based on a challenge she set herself: to write romantic poetry without referring to the traditional romance tropes found in poems, such as flowers, forever afters and fairy tales. 

by marleylilith

I Wish

Written by Sparky

We're all wishing for something, after all. Image courtesy of ABA English.

We’re all wishing for something, after all. Image courtesy of ABA English.

I wish I were a bird, living a life carefree.
Flying through the air, no worries to bother me.
No thoughts of life to weigh me down,
No walking around with that hidden frown.

Or to be a cat, now that would be ideal,
My only worry would be the timing of my next meal.
Curled up on a bed I would be,
Warm and comfortable and dreaming of me.

I would even like to be a mouse,
Hiding away in the darkness of your house.
Small and silent, no noise would I make,
Guarding the house when you are not awake.

Maybe living in the past is where I should be,
When times were simpler, can’t you see?
This modern world is full of pain,
A pain I feel again and again.

One thing is true, it’s clear to see
All these things I would rather be,
Because I am not happy, being me.

One of the oldest members of the Inkwell community, Sparky has always been willing to offer words of guidance to new members while working steadily away on his own projects, which vary from the profound to the absurd. Check out his short story “The Lonely Hamster” on Inkblots today!

by marleylilith

Masquerade

Written by Lost in a Dream

A beautiful image for a beautiful poem. Courtesy of Bourbon Theatre.

A beautiful image for a beautiful poem. Courtesy of Bourbon Theatre.

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” – Oscar Wilde

Under an inky sky,
We danced by the river.
Our glasses brimming with wine
And the night unwritten.

Saving our faces,
Our masks were our poetic license.
We re-wrote our roles
While we danced in and out of convention.

Or were our masks our muzzles?
Each one of us a servetta muta
Biting our tongues
To maintain an ill-fitting mask?

It didn’t matter.
Beneath the glitter, gilt and gestures,
It was just a guessing game.
Our masks just heightened the mystery.

If you discover me,
Let it not be by the wagging of my head,
or the touch of a dry hand.
But, know me by a soul coloured feather,
A signature star.

While writing this poem Lost in a Dream was inspired by two plays: “The Rover” and “Much Ado About Nothing”.  This is her fifth entry on Inkblots – here is her first, “October“.

by Colette

Fudge

Written by Silver

Creamy, smooth and oh so sweet –fudge_in_a_box
the temptation to eat is all but a treat.
Bending and stooping he hands me just one,
and taking the chunk, I nibble for fun.

Dun in colour but delightful in flavour,
I gobble the piece with nought left to savour.
When I ask for another he chuckles and smiles,
“There’s one left for later,
but we can’t ruin your dinner.”

I sulk and pout all the way home,
but Daddy is driving, taking me to Mum.
He drops me off at the door, waving goodbye,
placing the final piece in my hand with a sigh.

“I love you sweetheart, but it’s time for me to go.
You should give the last piece to Mummy you know.”
Shaking my head I plead, “Daddy don’t leave,
here’s my last piece ‘til I see you Christmas Eve.”

Bending and stooping he gives me a hug;
I don’t want to let go and start tearing up.
He ruffles my hair and gets up once more
as I traipse through the house, mucking up the floor.

Mummy shouts but I don’t really care
as I find the perfect place to put my share
of half-eaten fudge, split with the Daddy I love.

Fudge was written on behalf of The Inkwell’s Summer Writing Open Review Day (SWORD) and was inspired by Silver’s love and adoration of fudge when she was a child. She would often be given fudge if she’d been particularly good, or received a great result in school, and sometimes her dad would say that she could pick a couple of pieces of fudge in the cinema, even though it was expensive!

by Colette

Calling Fiction Writers and Poets: The Bill Overton Memorial Fund

loughborough_university_signAs our readers know, Inkblots is dedicated to finding new talent, often searching through pools of content in order to pick out the best, but tonight’s post isn’t about our content, it’s about something a little more special.

In September 2012, I was hit by not one but two deaths that affected me in different ways. One was a family death, of which I loved him dearly – a great Uncle masquerading as my Grandad in many ways – and the other was a former lecturer at Loughborough University who both taught and guided me in the form of poetry and Shakespeare. Bill Overton was a large part of the English Department at the university and gave us a real kick up the bums if we were not reaching our full potential! Sadly, he passed away after suffering from a period of illness. Hearing this news from my former students, lecturers and friends was a real shock. It was something that none of us could even process, so I can’t imagine how hard it would have been for his family and friends.

But since Bill loved both teaching and reading Poetry, Loughborough University has set up a memorial fund, which will support an annual poetry prize, giving the opportunity for new talent to pave their career in writing. It’s a fantastic opportunity for emerging poets but the university, in combination with the Loughborough University Charity Trust, needs your help. They are looking to raise £6,000 for the prize and are already on their way to achieving that goal. Currently, they’ve raised £480 and, though that may seem small at present, every little bit helps. You may not have known Bill Overton personally, you may even be on the other side of the world, but even if you can’t donate we’d love for you to help spread the word. So if you can take two minutes to either reblog this post, tweet about it, or even share it on Facebook, it would be a wonderful gesture.

To donate to the Bill Overton Memorial Fund, you can visit the page at: http://www.justgiving.com/BillOverton

To all those in advance, thank-you.

– Silver, Inkblots Editor

by marleylilith

You’re Home

Cold and alone… Can this really be home?

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

No home for you there, little boy.
Just keep on walking by.
No point looking in, little boy,
Just avert your eyes.

The day is dark and cold, little boy.
But ’tis warmer still
Than the warmth of a lie, little boy,
And no lie hides the chill.

Truth will sell you short, little boy.
Leave you sad and alone.
You may shiver and cry, little boy,
But the truth is, you’re home.

by Colette

Harplands

Written by Bobartles

Image Courtesy of Royal Berkshire NHS website.

Image Courtesy of Royal Berkshire NHS website.

Just down the street, at the edge of the town,
there’s a jumble of buildings, old and run-down.
Behind steel-plated doors a full three inches thick,
lies Ward Number One,
where the sick heal the sick.

There’s a man dressed in white with a comforting stance,
whose father disowned him for being a nurse,
and a sister in blue with a phone in her hand,
and twenty-five packets of pills in her purse.

The man with the clipboard and half-hearted smile,
whose girlfriend bled out after something he said;
the cleaner who sweeps down the halls all day long
to drown out the sound of the voice in his head.

The day’s rounds are done, but still it is known
that only the patients will truly go home.
For this huddle of boxes of slate and red brick
is Ward Number One,
where the sick heal the sick.