Break up letter to a long term love

When I first met you, I practically jumped in to your arms, begging to be burnt. You were rough around the edges, chaotic and disinterested- all the things I needed you to be.

You were Monday to Sunday, never sleeping or dreaming; sometimes we forgot to eat, I was so high on your essence. You got in to my system, intravenous, incepting every pore on my body and running your mottled hands over me, day after day.

Those first heady years we were inseparable, it was hard to tell where you ended and I began. I threw myself in to everything you were- I couldn’t be away from you- I was intoxicated in a way I had never known. I wanted to be under your skin, find out things that no-one had ever discovered about you, be the one who lasted.

Then it starts; the slow, slow itch. The fly to swat.

It was little things, your constant drone, the way you never let me sleep; burnt out on drugs and alcohol. Tired of staying up until dawn every day, waking with nothing to hold on to, the death in frequency of joy. I told you I needed a break, some time to myself and you raged, grabbing me by the hand, pulling my arm out of its socket so hard I almost cried out. “Remember all the times we’ve had together”. “You’ve got a good thing going on here”. Even my friends couldn’t believe I would let you go. You shook me to the core and I lost certainty in myself. I guess that was one of your skills.

I ran that time, went around the world to get away from you but thought of little else. I itched to be with you all night, checking up on you, stalking you online and aching inside for the pieces of you that I no longer had within my grasp. My health started to improve, but I receded further in to a black hole, thinking about what I had lost. You called out to me a few times and I knew I had to come back to you, we were meant to be together, destined to last.

I loved seeing you again, we were fresh and new- it was like the first time all over again and I couldn’t believe how much I loved you. How could I have ever let you go? I wanted to burst just to be in your presence. Everything about you was familiar yet brand new. I wrapped myself up in your arms and rolled myself in to your core. But it didn’t last, it couldn’t.

London, I’ve given you so much and taken plenty from you. All those days and nights, the constant assault on the senses, the twilight hours which never darken or quiet. I’ve lived here, loved here, created and cried here, but it’s time for us both to move on.

I think you should consider it, I don’t think I can do this much longer.

You will always have a piece of my heart. x

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Rhiannon Dance: Save the Bees Anthology

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I’m excited to announce that my first collection of poetry is now available to purchase through Amazon. I spent a few days going through my notebooks, which dated back to 2001 and picking out some of my favourite poems. The common theme that ran through them was the environment and how it shapes our feeling and perspective on the world.

Growing up in Wales was all druids, enchanted forests, coasts, fields, horses, birds, worms and stone. London is a feisty gargoyle, coughing up her cancerous, sooty lung. These were all themes I had unconsciously focused on throughout my fourteen years of poetry writing.

I hope if you decide to buy a copy that you’ll find as much excitement in reading them as I did in exploring their language and writing.

Link to buy: http://amzn.to/TlbXBe

James Joyce: Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

 

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Dylan Thomas began his brilliant writing career at the age of 16. To anyone who has written at this age, your influencers are strong figures, springing from your pen and feeding the words on the page. James Joyce and Gerard Manley- Hopkins were two prominent writers who influenced Thomas- in turn, he influenced one of the best poets of our time, Bob Dylan. 

 

A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane’s and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird’s, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.

 

She was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. Long, long she suffered his gaze and then quietly withdrew her eyes from his and bent them towards the stream, gently stirring the water with her foot hither and thither. The first faint noise of gently moving water broke the silence, low and faint and whispering, faint as the bells of sleep; hither and thither, hither and thither; and a faint flame trembled on her cheek.

 

– James Joyce- Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, 1916

Funeral Blues: WH Auden

This week we studied Auden and the rise of modernism in poetry. The readership at the time was frustrated and felt poetry was far too abstract; they couldn’t relate it back to their own lives, Auden went some way towards incorporating the socio-economic and political atmosphere of the time in to his work. I felt a few people in the class were quite negative towards this poem, feeling it was too simple or ‘childlike’. The very beauty of this poem is the simplicity and the way he manages to ‘trick’ the reader, for he was not in mourning at all- he simply wanted to re-purpose the poem for wider release. I find it hugely poignant in its simplicity, particularly the last two stanzas- it captures beautifully the loss of innocence brought about by the death of a loved one. 

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Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Ezra Pound: The Garden

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One of my favourites from my first poetry class:

The Garden

Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anemia.

And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.

In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.