Thursday, 25 August 2016

poetry 2016 / 094

The Vanity of Belief

A good Catholic even
after my mother died, walking
to the tiny church in a converted school
every Sunday morning. I believed
in God, and therefore Satan,
the walls of my bedroom covered in notes
and graffiti – all I learned from the
study of expensive texts bought from
a tiny shop at the back of the British Museum.
At home, my Catholic Bible perched next to
The Book of the Law. Do As Thou Wilt
on one side of Themis' scales:
Give and Ye Shall Receive.
I sacrificed much at the altar of adolescence
not least my humility in exchange for
hubris. It took me many years to win at back
but I remain broken, my Faith burned
on the vanities of science, my patience
flung far from the grasp of fools.

short forms 25th August 2016

a prayer
for her lost dad
goes unanswered by God.
He's got his headphones in again.
Humming.


© Rachel Green 2016

red rose
arching over the trellis
fading buddleia


© Rachel Green 2016

empty house
several paintings in progress
wet oils
I can't help thinking that
might have been a mistake


© Rachel Green 2016

acrylics
not suitable
for my taste

I hate the way the colour flattens
the lack of vibrancy
in the visual cortex

I'm just a sensualist


© Rachel Green 2016

She needs more time to herself

© Rachel Green 2016

Wednesday, 24 August 2016

poetry 2016 / 093


Northampton, 1996

The indolence of August
fills the spaces between silences.
You shift position, uncomfortable
even in the shadow of a tomb.
Augustus Montclair 1814-1872
but the carving of him faded
under the onslaught of acid rain;
a product of the traffic
he could never have predicted
when the church he patronised
was a good walk from the village
(the better to collect your sins).
Now he looks generic, a mud man
from a fifties sci-fi and his sword
has become a ridge of limstone
populated by lichen of a dozen hues.
I glance across at you, streaks
of cold mascara from your tears.

© Rachel Green 2016


Thank you for stopping by

short forms 24th August 2016

dead dad
her fervent prayer
"Why did you take him, God?"
He answers with a text message:
"His time."


© Rachel Green 2016

sunshine
through the montbretia
nasturtium echoes


© Rachel Green 2016

paintings
refugees from the greenhouse
all over the house
I have to live with them
to see if I like them


© Rachel Green 2016

silent house
with everyone else away
personal projects

Several paintings on the go
I try using acrylics
for a new portrait

how I miss my oils


© Rachel Green 2016

She thinks God uses a Nokia

© Rachel Green 2016

Tuesday, 23 August 2016

poetry 2016 / 093

Stubbs Road

An escape
from the cold and damp
and the three-bar gas fire
we couldn't afford to light.
Beer from the gallery;
home made wine,
bathroom fermented puccine.
We tried drying banana skins
he having read somewhere
they were a narcotic but
the resultant stench from the oven
brought down the wrath on the tenancy holder
convinced we'd get thrown out
of the ratty little shithole we lived in.
Hydrangea florets, nutmeg;
cannabis when we could afford it
(it was easy to procure)
resin, leb, black, double-zero,
skag, skunk, ganja, weed.
The names were a catechism to poverty
the less you could afford
the more you needed it.
Scrounging canvas from the polytechnic bins,
paint from the B&Q skips
we could manage food
from the back of Marks and Sparks
(on Saturdays we ate like royalty)
but narcotics never got thrown away
and after seeing Brian on Evo-Stick
brown paper bags were out.

short forms 23rd August 2016

old man
wears tin foil hat
to stops the constant prayers
Even God has his problems here.
old git.


© Rachel Green 2016

all those seeds
scattered in the spring
next year's poppies


© Rachel Green 2016

details
advanced self defence
guns and knives
teacher is unimpressed
with my elbow strike


© Rachel Green 2016

 I once read an argument
for the existence of God
based on the banana

Evangelist Ray Comfort
claimed the banana
proved 'intelligent design'

Exactly. It used to be inedible.


© Rachel Green 2016

peace and quiet teeter into loneliness

© Rachel Green 2016

Monday, 22 August 2016

poetry 2016 / 091

Tin Jewels

As a child
I peeked under the skirts
of topiary;
trailed my fingers along the petals
of flaking rust
and dug the splinters of loneliness
from the pads of my fingers.
I ran barefoot through the slugs
and breathed the soft fur
of dandelion fairies;
catching thistle seeds as they drifted
through the echoes of schoolyard taunts.
Sundown bats along the banks of the canal
dead pigs and half-submerged bottles
the targets of juvenile missiles
and the soft huff of a horse's breath
on a frosty October morning.