re POEM 30

Well folks... I’ve done it! A poem a day, for thirty days... hurrah :) Gosh, what an endeavour but its been great fun doing this bit of fundraising for Haiti. I raised £100 from a single sponsor who inspired the project. But, of course... all your support in reading and commenting has equally supported me in this journey. So, thank you all... so very much! Btw, the money raised will go to Haiti via Action Aid (a charity that I remain committed to - as I sponsor a child in Lesotho through them, and I have done a 10K for them too, in the past). Well, just to let you know that this isn’t the end of the story... as some of the poems that were conceived during this process will be reworked for my MA portfolio in due course. That's all for now...

Banana spider

His photograph hung

for a year at the Urbis

locked in a dark frame

matching thick Latin brow.

Long delicate lashes

tickling time squeezed

into air-tight jam jar. His breath,

damp and dangerous;

his sting far-reaching, untapped

wet bite slides on slippery angles

of glass separating us. Every

day for a year I visited Banana

spider in his rectangular mount,

thinking I was safe from his fount.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 29

Identity II

plantain and yam porridge,

goat pepper soup, okra or okazi

stew coaxed from mother’s kitchen

on special days;

on other days: pear pancakes

sprinkled with lemon and sugar,

peanut butter and jam on thickly cut

bread from a Beit Hanina store, or a bowl

of warm milky porridge with a swirl of honey

stirred in -

stir memories from another place,

another time; a timeless place

where the kitchen table funneled

wafts like grandmother’s tales

told under clamorous darkness as we sat

around on a straw mat in the veranda of our Omoba

summer house, always before she’d drop off; her head

bopping, swollen lips drooling, her snores

deepening, lengthening...

until her morning Milo. Like grandmother's cryptic

sleep-face, my identity is as obscure as a can of Malt.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 28

Deansgate Platform

Sipping tepid coffee, Amante

and I trample over footbridge, descend stone stairway,

and rest black bike against platform bench; hard,

uninviting...

unlike the hint of his Jean Paul Gaultier

perfume tickling my cold nostrils; warm, familiar.

Thoughts interrupted:

by a woman in her sixties pacing

with a pinched ‘I’ve just missed a train’

expression; her short booted strides

clunk concrete. Her bright pink coat

and ash-grey layered cut gives me chuckle,

Growing old gracefully? I suppose. Just as I am; snagged

in sequined net of romance on Deansgate platform.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 27

The city’s tunnels

Between Balloon Street

and Miller Street, a network

of tight-lipped subways and bricked-up

air raids occupy the ground below;

shelters which once served Victorian

Mancunians with tunnels linking hidden

dwellings, shops and bunkers. These cellar

dwellars also used busy waterways

as launch points for steam and ferry travel.

In steamier times, around the mid-1930s, these cruising

travelers would have passed arches (built into the Irwell

embankment) heaving with wine merchants, silk-dyers,

printers and cabinet makers - all clacking their cajoles.

Today, the chatter of these sellers is muted -

buried in the city’s tunnels and cellars.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 26

In search of clarity

Curved desk lamp curves

allows eco-light bulb to shimmer,

it flashes against lavender screen

of MacBook, specked with stars

mirroring a slice of spiral galaxy

evaporating deep into cyberspace.

In the foreground: an email in Italic

script and 12-point font size;

an email to Him asking

for clarity in this grit clogged

intimacy. Like clean sheets now stained,

giving off a smell of rotten oyster

mushrooms, this email leaves a sour

taste on thick stale tongue.

Catherine Mark

re Poem 25

Tendonitis

Thin cutting pain;
sharp stab - stabbing
the arch of my flat left
foot, vestige of three-

hour Sunday walk along
Manchester's cloudy canals ending
in Castlefield basin where narrow boats
(enveloped by night-life chaff) moor
as if sleeping the winter away.

Left brain responds to jabbing pain:
says, it corresponds to knotted
tissues of a relationship in knots;
where conversations around whether
the sofa-bed in the second room should be out

or not; and heated discussions over house hygiene
rules bubble over. If only Men are from Mars
and Women are from Venus could resolve
this current of conflicting egos. If only
marriage was as simple as tiffs over questions
such as 'Does my bum look big in this?' If only
matrimony was not bristly like tendonitis.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 24

Regrets

A pile of these organisms

pool to form an organic Loch Ness

beastie,

latching on to miles and miles

of time spent in trial and error,

stops and starts, take-off and failure:

an unkind tone; a lie which morphed

into another lie and breathed a lateral

contrived existence -

this frozen pool of regrets fractures;

deep wounds refusing to heal.

Some call them learning curves,

others coin them mistakes of a kind,

whatever term of endearment is used,

the bottom line is that more often than not -

regrets tend to rot the gut.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 23

In search of Blue Pearl

Rise and fall of breath,

each breath carries sacred words

and syllables; a dinghy

on steady stream calming

tumbling hot thoughts:

Haahm (inhale) saa (exhale)

Haahm-saa Haahm-saa Haahm-saa

Haahm (inhale) saa (exhale)

Haahm-saa Haahm-saa Haahm-saa...

bound energy uncoils

from saddle of spine

(interrupted intermittently

by a chattering consciousness)

until shaft of blue ascends

to the other self - blue pearl.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 22

Greek mezze

platter of mini-

dishes: olives, humous,

aubergines, Feta cheese,

brushed with olive oil

and paprika; reminiscent

of Kefalonia home-grown taverna

tucked under Cephalonica trees,

the wafts and the mandolin-

strumming crooner transports

this basement Manchester eatery

into a sea turtle’s haven until Valentine

stomach is stuffed silly.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 21

Inspired by a walking tour that I and hubby went on today...

The Smiths’ Manchester

fingerprints of murky murders

on moors in 1960s industrial decay,

bleak macabre bogey-man

surged out of Gorton soil

usurping grey-blue skies

into an eddy of raw-red scene,

against community of black tears

unsure of the lyrics of this intruder

in their midst - synonym of silent

nurseries, a final wave and ‘Bye mam’,

or fag-end squashed outside night-

club where Suffer Little Children

would play decades later

in jangly post-punk groove.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 20

Identity

Bright flag flaps

high on pole

disappearing with clouds

the shade of coal.

The gnomes below

in circus colours

loop the ground, round

and round in crop circle

puzzle. Lingering

between the flag and gnomes

is the sweet smell of plantains

from Mother’s kitchen.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 19

A Salford District

A Foster beer can, Walkers crisp wrapper,

left-hand leather glove and a disabled umbrella

looking like a treehouse crumbled in a Tornado,

scattered by the banks of the canal, strewn

between mottled ducks traveling at yoga pace

with the poise of a sublime Buddha. I even

suspect that these creatures are laughing

with incredulity at the profanity of human

split-second decisions; indifference in this fringe

of cobbled urban space. Or it could be they

are tanked on leaked 4.5% beverage - a leverage

in seeing roses instead of debris.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 18

Between Us

an imaginary mercury line

connects his head to my toes,

then zigzags from my knees

to his elbows. Without warning

this strand of silver splices two

egos wrestling with Vegemite,

what-ifs and everyday mites.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 17

Swinton church

on Station Road,

beside dark police station, overlooking

what was once the Village Green.

night lights shine over last rites

of ebbing Anglican persuasion;

mimicking a bowl of heaven’s honey

albeit laced with poison -

the poison of apathy packaged

as interdependence and self-preservation

in the vein of the tall steeple, gabled porch,

medieval Gothic flourishes glowering at me.

It’s a strange composition in the midst

of cut-and-paste Pizza shops surrounded by layers

of rubbish spilling over sidewalks, a sense of pride lost

in this place which thrived on coal and swine

in a not too distant past. ‘Where have all

the parishioners gone?’ I ask the Evening Light.

‘Retreated to the cellars’ is the reply.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 16

Hoorah... I'm just over the halfway hump :) Many thanks to all of you who are supporting me in my current fundraising endeavour by reading and leaving a comment. I really appreciate your motivating kudos across the blogwaves :) Thank you, all...

Job hunting

convoluted as tracking

gulper eels across currents

(even if tagged with sensors

sewn into silk skin);

their migration through Atlantic

waters an epic jaunt, similar

to my job search in wintry

economic climate:

chasing jobs on-line,

in local papers, job boards,

pulling networking chords,

slippery... opportunities slip...

though I keep fingers firmly crossed,

in hope of something right

being clinched on time

for end-of-month billing chimes.

The oxygen snuffed, my gills

of survival suffering

from hours poring

over liquid laptop,

under the weight of residual

stress triggered by toxic

game of workplace ‘politics

and chess’; another experience

to survive in this ocean

that is life.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 15

Training begins

Crook back (made worse

with a two-hour vacuuming

spree yesterday), seethes

in pain, a gravelly crunch,

fierce with each step along

Salford Quays canal pathway.

The metallic scent of white

gulls lined along a jetty

and seaweed-coated debris,

momentarily distracts ache

settled at the seat of my spine.

I exhale, turn slightly and catch

the gaze of a man with a bullish

face and heavy-rimmed frames

nursing a fishing tackle. He nods,

bends to fix his stare on the rods

splayed around his Wellington boots.

Again, I inhale, push my form

forward, resist the temptation

to pause or teeter to a halt; ‘no

pain, no gain’, I clutch this familiar

mantra knowing I must endure three

months of training for the event in May.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 14

Distance

Threaded track trails

from here to somewhere

and back again. The distance

that has crept between us reminds

me of dotted phone poles,

communication masts

and parallel wires bounding

for miles and miles;

a continuum of the ‘here

and now’ dissolving into faded

sepia, like the static on a BT

line, we are nowhere, and the distance

between us continues to swell.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 13

Autumn’s Answer

He who knows nothing doubts nothing (Spanish Proverb)

The hills yawn

gushing daylight dawn

which flood the valleys

as minutes coalesce into hours

lengthening

stretching

the span of Autumn’s glow

flickering in gold glass

between sighing winds

slapping cheeks and thigh

while sweeping coastal

tides

high high high

a spray of raspy white on teal blue

breaks my jump into you.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 12

Another day

sifting shapes

shift

shifting

as if entering night’s half-open lips

shroud of emptied

effort and toil

foil

the passions which carved the day

until darkening skyline

presses city shadows

subdues... extends...

its shady length towards tomorrow

and

another day of crumpets buttered with bitty

marmalade,

another day filled with Wallace and Gromit

characters at work,

another day of ambitions drifting

like a mistress between the inky line

of today and tomorrow.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 11

Sleep apnoea

an irregularity of nature;

an endless mare stealing

sleep, that is before the apparatus

the size of a 1980’s cassette player

became a part of us,

now

humming mask

intrudes on nuptial nook

regulating shallow breathing,

no longer shaking the walls

of cerebral drama,

now

a different visitor -

but where is the choice

between the two? I ponder,

as a strange scent of roasted corn

fills the room, mingles with the dramatics

of machine and man

falling into sleep’s well.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 10

The Brazilian

lithe length

extended in horizontal

position, enveloped by silk

bedspreads;

fired up like a Rocky theme song,

he laughs, twitches a toe

strumming an invinsible steel

-string guitar.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 9

In the Conservatory

Fifty-two boxes goad,

“need unpacking” I mutter

to watching walls - this clutter

collected from five years

living in Birmingham:

books,

photographs,

mementos,

handbags,

shoes...

flashbacks of whirlwind

romances; cranky colleagues;

illness which lasted months - all

crammed away in storage boxes

brown stacked on brown,

reminding me of boxed

sub-world existences:

prisons

boarding schools

nursing homes

psych wards

like yolk within albumen

I am unable to begin to unpack

the memories,

for whatever reason I want

them to stay in the yellow.

Catherine Mark