re POEM 8

Small talk

is what fills the rooms

these days

punctuated, forced;

hours spent keeping up

appearances of fatigued

dreams stretched

across too many years.

We have become a card-

board cut-out of an original

ideal. The traffic light

no longer green, but

a pulsating amber.

Between the bowl

of milk-soaked muesli,

the baby monitor goes off.

Looking up our gazes meet,

hang in mid-air and I rise

to attend to the bundle

gurgling in the only room

that makes sense.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 7

... feeling physically, emotionally and mentally fatigued today... it's been an ugly stressful week at work... anyway, I still managed a poem today, trying to maintain my momentum :)

Windmill

Blood drips

off knife edge

with clarity

in sleep’s windmill,

a screen of smoke apparent,

smokescreen

or revelation of what?

silent red

weeps;

longings

lost in hours

given to sorting out

recycling bins, de-cluttering

cupboards, washing out stains

on beddings, ironing out

wrinkles in waning relationship

circumcised between crisp linen.

If only dripped blood

did not stain sheets,

if only I could google

our memory map

to find the point of schism.

It is as if the bloodied drops

have accumulated to form

a pool the span of this windmill.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 6

B&B

In Aberdeen

or a coastal Welsh town,

I imagine it to be a sanctuary

for the weary and wanderlust

traveller –

where after organic Full English

the eating area will function

as a literary lighthouse

where transients saunter

in to muse over Larkin or Muldoon,

perhaps linger (a cuppa in hand) with Coetzee

or Murakami;

while a subtle chime

sounds above doorway, making

way for footfall rhyme; a stream

of cold-blushed clientele

wrapped in fleece

and wool.

In the late evening: among

sagging book-shelves, a local

poet weaves simile and metaphors

in poetic effervescence; pattering like

soothing summer rain

until an Open Mic session evolves,

evolving to create a world

within itself, as I have

done in the wilds of a Welsh

or Gaelic landscape.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 5

Drip

(a coffee house among many)

Yin-yang haven

hidden among industrial scars

of dearth and dirt…

Inside: inviting sleek-chic graffiti-style

artwork greets; the aroma

of fresh coffee, herbal teas

and home-made cakes tempt

an assorted collection of people:

stout Greek-looking woman

with a Maria Callas headscarf;

two lanky lads engrossed

in a game of solitaire; a brown

lady with a short afro laughing

at full volume with her awkward friend.

Unassuming music ripples

in the background, temporarily

washing away the crystal truth

lodged in my mind;

‘It is over.’

Catherine Mark

re What's going on?

Hello all... for those wondering at my sudden flurry of poetic activity - well let me explain - after incessantly moaning about my lack of writing space in recent months and in view of a fast-approaching portfolio deadline... in a bid to stimulate some writing (any writing), a friend has decided to sponsor me if I write a poem a day for 30 days. The money raised will go to charity re Haiti. Wish me luck. And thanks to all those who support my efforts by reading and/or commenting on these poems (do keep in mind that they are all first pennings, hence WIPs :)

re POEM 4

Accordion man

sat on the south-east side

of Piccadilly Gardens,

under the stern silence

of what were originally

Victorian cotton warehouses, now

obscured slightly by contemporary

glass and steel.

clothed in second-hand pass-me-downs,

and a slim scar, only an onyx ring

on his index finger seems

out of place on this forty-something face,

though might be younger,

if life had not dealt him a bitter hand;

handed him a royal flush

or a full house of cards,

a better hand to play

his gift in a London

orchestra. Instead,

head tilted sideways, he maps a fanciful

world with wiry fingers, as shadows

pass without a thought, journeying

towards perfectly stitched lives.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 3

Trapped moth

moth-powder trail

on glass pane;

a grey smudge

circles naked candle

fleck, then retreats

again. It reappears,

travelling a parallel

circuit with eye-line;

now a sudden cerulean

as if searching for nature’s

sweet sap along cob-

webbed corners of barren

nuptial box.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 2

Eloise

Scents of Identity

Sachet-blonde

hair gelled

in signature boy-band

style

permanent pout

peeks

from apricot

lips.

She is dressed

in French-chic,

a replica of haute

couture;

as if she’s walked

off a Chanel show

in Paris;

her glassy stare

through severe designer

frames catches my gaze

briefly as she unzips

knee-

length

pointy boots…

balanced on one foot,

then the other

she slips both off,

before sauntering

towards the kitchen area,

hollering: “teas, coffees…”

in thick Mancunian twang;

a togged-up faux-pas

of cultural conundrum –

she is no different from moi.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 1

Cloud 23

From lofty Hilton heights,

floor-to-ceiling windows

reveal urban lights

flash and fade,

resembling space-capsule

beams

circling feast of nightfall

razzmatazz,

mirrors the sparkle

of frothy Fosters

grasped by weary

fingers that betray fingernails

needing a trim -

Tomorrow, tomorrow,

perhaps I’ll get around

to doing the million and one

things scrawled on my ‘To do list’

now the length of a full month

of not dones:

... pay car insurance

... catch-up call with Elise

... make appointment with dentist

... visit mum at Hathersage

... cut finger and toe nails

Another sip

from near-empty pint,

as my companion

returns to his place

opposite

He smiles a smile

which seems to have been

stitched on from birth

I allow the corners of my mouth

to twitch upward, despite

the dull mechanical ache

hammering the seat

of my spine

“You look beautiful” he says

I turn away,

look out into the glittering

page beyond the muted black

and wonder how life

became so confused, complicated.

Catherine Mark

re Poem

N4

Hybrid moralities

rend through this Northern

nest nuzzled

between Piccadilly

and Ancoats...

Distracting vinyl

and garish plastic

displays in off-beat vintage

boutiques, a new cool

dotted along

enduring cobbles...

On pliant breast,

this nipple of Manchester

cityscape titillates

with its neon milk

ducts along streets running off Victoria

station down to Shudehill...

Feeding senses

like a ubiquitous Babylon.

Catherine Mark

re Talking Walls

Another snow day here in Manchester today so cooped up at home... giving me an opportunity to catch up with a number of things including updating my blog. Thought I'd post some pictures that have emerged out of a recent 'Photography as Contemporary Art' six-week course I did at the tail-end of last year. The images reflect two briefs given by the course tutor - 'the every day' (images taken around Manchester city centre) and 'portraiture' (of a friend willing to be my muse-of-sorts... lol). I have titled this project (for an exhibition) 'Talking Walls' - very much with the idea of a poem in pictures (or poetry in imagery) in mind. Very amateurish but it's my offering. Would love to hear your thoughts...