Drip

Drip. There it is – can you hear it? Drip. It’s a leak, there’s a leak in the pipes somewhere, god knows where. I can’t seem to find it. I can hear it though. Drip.

I saw Daniel today. It was the first time I’ve seen him in four months, one week, two days, and three hours. Roughly. He looked the same, exactly the same. His eyes were still brown, his lips still hooked into a smile. When he spoke to the guy at the coffee cart, his tongue was still thick with a lisp and he still wore that gold watch. On his right wrist though – that wasn’t the same.

He didn’t see me. There were a lot of people around; we were in a big crowd. I was third behind him in the queue. That’s the fifty-eighth time I’ve been third behind him in this queue. We used to joke about how we never noticed each other even though we were so close so many times. How could we have missed love when it was standing to our left ordering a cappuccino every morning? God knows.

Daniel was the first one to notice the drip. I woke up one morning to find him waist deep in cupboards, poking around under the sink. It was driving him mad, he said. So I put my hands over his ears and held him close.

It never used to bother me. I heard so much more when I was with him – the hiss of a kettle, the foot tread of neighbours, the thump of his pulse. And now he’s gone.

Drip. I wish this would be gone. Drip. It’s a leak, there’s a leak in the pipes somewhere, I think Daniel knows where. I can’t seem to find it. I can hear it though. Drip.

Source: Frank Baron, http://www.theguardian.com

Obsession – My Rocket Fuel to Anywhere

It has been difficult to keep on top of this blog recently, largely due to a lack of organisation and that unfortunate thing called ‘Life’ getting in the way.

However, in the silence between posts, I’ve been exploring more aspects of poetry. A form I found myself particularly attached to was the Sestina, a form that is often associated with obsession due to the amount of repetition. And it led me to think…

…we all have an obsession. Whether it be a person, a hobby, a route we walk every day or even a favourite food. Hell, writing is an obsession in and of itself. Here I am, writing this blog because I feel a NEED to. It’s something I want to do, feel happy when I do it and feel a disturbing sense of guilt when I neglect it. It has consumed me in a way nothing else can.

So, after my day of essay planning, writing, re-hashing and referencing, I am sitting down now to share with you my obsession.

What’s yours?

* * *

ANYWHERE

 

Paper-strewn and sturdy, the oaken desk

stands in firm opposition to the aged tree

that brandishes weapons of twigs and leaves.

It is crude in its animosity at the poised ink pen.

A girl, stony faced, swivels in the black coated chair,

chewing on her hair in the light from the lamp

 

that flickers. Blinking a fluorescent interrogation, the lamp

squats in readiness in the quiet corner of the desk,

as shadows dance a war, stemming from the legs of the chair.

Outside, winds howl and birds are buffeted into the tree

– it is a scene that begins to all-too-eagerly stream out from the pen.

The girl is not there – not really – she is lost in leaves

 

of orange and red, caught up in the wind scattering these skeletal leaves

to the grainy earth. It is her shell that sits in the lamp

light, nothing more than a dry outer husk gripping that pen.

Suddenly, though paper-strewn and sturdy, the oaken desk

is hovering, cushioned on an electric cloud of flakes of tree

bark and tweets of birds; like an outstretched hand, the chair

 

offers up the power of its occupant, ignorant of its status as ‘chair.’

The girl wonders if anyone else has ever noticed that leaves

are so very free, independent of their mother, that majestic tree

that birthed them; or that motes of dust swim up to the lamp

like moths to a flame? Why would anyone stay strapped to a desk

when you can soar, with nothing but air in your lungs and a pen –

 

that rocket fuel to Anywhere. It is moulded to her palm, that pen.

Universes are splayed around her, dotted and mapped on the chair,

the ceiling, the walls, even the carpet that fluffs under the weight of the desk.

There is Life coming to life, she can smell it damp on the leaves

and taste it sweet in the air. The heat from her lamp

has the brilliance of a sun – it is like food to the grateful tree

 

that is crowned as Mother Nature – the first tree

ever granted such an extreme honour by the power invested in pen.

Stop. There is goes again, that fluorescent blinking lamp

and she is just a girl again, just a girl sitting in a chair

chewing her hair, whilst outside whips the dusky leaves

that whisper of where she just was. But she was only at her desk.

 

‘Flip the switch on the lamp and tuck in the black coated chair.

Outside is just a tree, just as the wand in your hand is a pen.

Go on out and rake the leaves my love. And later, tidy that desk.’