Seasons

Written by Loulou


I watch the window, where the rain has dew drop races.
Out on the street, I see umbrella-sheltered faces.
My mind begins to wander to other rainy days,
You and I, no longer chasing the clouds away.

We’d be bareheaded and dancing in the downpour,
Singing tunelessly to make it rain some more.
Puddles as stepping stones, with squelching toes on lawns.
And later dripping wet, but not at all forlorn.

And then the bright-eyed, breathless removal of damp cotton.
Shivering though not cold, the weather now forgotten.
Wrapped up together listening to the drumming on the tiles,
And sleepily agreeing, that storms are best by miles.

Now, stood at the window and lost in recollection,
I fondly glimpse your face in the reflection.
I picture you there, tongue poised to catch the drops,
Face upturned, eyes screwed shut, puddles splashing into socks.

I ruefully suppress a smile, sigh and shake my head,
Thankful for your quiet company and a cup of tea instead.
But the rain was not enough to keep us both in check,
So now I’ll take the memories, and not the dripping down my neck.


Reflection comes in all forms within new contributor Loulou’s poetry. Windows, rain and thoughts of previous lovers all make for interesting reading in her work. But we’re most interested in how she loops back to her memory of the rainy day, and how the narrative voice would much prefer to drink a cup of tea than catch a cold in the bitter rain. And we certainly don’t blame her. Kissing in the rain may not be for everyone. If you enjoyed Loulou’s work why not leave a like or a comment below? It’s very much appreciated!

Featured Image CC // Daniel Stark

 

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Video

Written by Elanor Rose

future_cityscape

What will the future bring? Image // Telegraph

And there, in the midst of it all,

in the palm of my hand,

in among the creases and folds,

(where once I had my fortune told)

was a video. And it flashed red, green.

And it showed me a world,

it showed me a place I had not yet seen

(both unfamiliar and exotic it seemed)

but before long it faded to black

and showed me myself.

 

But I seemed so still and pale.

I thought of turning and twisting,

of staying silent, burning all bridges,

until there were no known fords.

That was not my way.

 

I set the video down dead

and gazed closer at the

head – heart – life

and embraced the fears

once forged by fair hand

and traced them all round until

my index became still

and I had found an end.

 Elanor’s wonderful poem, Video, was written as a reflection on our society’s relationship with technology, with an intense obsession of the future and what we will find, develop and create. Oddly, her inspiration for this particular piece was sitting down to trace the lines of her hand – this was such a simple pleasure, we couldn’t help but choose it in our selection for this month. If you liked Elanor’s writing, make sure you check out her lovely poem, Sheffield Steel

Thoughts On Forever

Written by Topaz

forest_sunshine

Beautiful golden afternoons…
Image Courtesy of Irene Suchocki

if you ask me,
forever seems like an awfully long time.

forever consists of so many countless
slow lazy sunbeams stretching out
and bringing in new-born mornings
with tiny crocuses poking heads up wondering
if it is time to wake up and greet the world
so many countless
beautiful golden afternoons with dappled leaves
casting shadows on forest floors
and booming laughter bubbling out of shaking shivering bellies
until waterfalls of tears are streaming down red rosy cheeks
so many countless
inky midnight blacks when the shadows awaken
and the stars remembers what it means to fly
when the moon serves as a cradle for angels
and it is mandatory to spend the night dreaming
instead of living

so many countless little things
that add up to such big beautiful things

forever seems like just about the longest time there is, I think –
and yet somehow, even though all I know
is a hasty smudged green-inked name
scrawled on the soft skin of my hand
even though all I know
is an electrified first glance and a
soft sweet conversation
even though all I know
is that I can still feel your fiery eyes
burning into mine, still hear your
quiet voice echoing in my mind, still taste your
unvoiced fears and dreams and promises on my tongue –

even though I do not know anything at all
about you or me or us,

well,

somehow I think the sun’s rays and crocuses
might bloom a little lovelier;
the laughter and tears
might bubble a little happier;
the stars and moon
might fly a little higher;
and everything that makes up forever –
well, I think it might not be so long
if it were to be spent
with you.

New contributor Topaz has written us a sumptuous poem on the intricacy of nature and the innocence of love in her poem, ‘Thoughts on Forever’. Her stream of consciousness writing is reflected in the poem’s form and style, which she says was inspired by initial thoughts on the complex nature of the word ‘forever’. The free form allows her to explore the theme and provide us with a deeper connection to the piece – we think it works wonderfully.  

Rain

Written by Dizzle Dazzle

An image all too familiar to the British…

Rain in the morning
I can hear it from my bed
Walking along the roof with nimble feet
Reminding me of sadness

Rain at midday
Where the sun should be
I’m watching T.V, and the curtains are up
Outside the puddles are forming on the dark road

Rain in the evening
Those grey clouds covering the sunset
Peaceful and quiet
Painting streaks of water on the window
The sun shines and it seems beautiful

Rain at night
When everybody’s sleeping
Except me
Watching the car headlight beams on my ceiling
As I drift off
The rain talks to me in my dreams

While still a young writer, Dizzy has already developed her own style and a beautiful way of putting things. If you want to read more of her lovely wordsmithing, why not take a look at her poem “The Humanitarian”, also published on Inkblots.

Here Where The Sea Stands

Written by Arwa

sea_waves

The crash of sea waves at La Jolla Cove in California.
Image Courtesy of dreamlajolla.com

Here where the sea stands,
alone,
calmly.
I wish there was a wind,
a heated wind,
to crash the silence.

This wind,
a life savior,
will turn this sea to a raging monster
to defeat every living
with its infinite might.
It will change the course of being,
the seasons of love,
and the roles of passion.

This sea,
when it moves
It will demolish the islands,
and bring a new millennium,
a new society,
and a new age.

Yet,
the sea is still calm
and alone.

‘Here Where The Sea Stands’ is Arwa’s first poem published in Inkblots. As the English language is not Arwa’s mother-tongue, she was inspired to write poetry as a way of understanding our language, and also feels more comfortable expressing herself with it. We love the simplicity depicted throughout the poem, and hope to see many more poems from Arwa in the future.

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.