poetry Archives - Laura E. James

It’s all Off The Cuff

What would I do without my lovely, local writing group, Off The Cuff?

We quite literally write off the cuff. We enter the library with no clue as to what the task will be and settle down to twenty minutes of writing. This may be inspiration taken from a line in a book, or ideas gathered from the roll of a set of story dice, or one person’s suggestion, prepared especially for the session.

Our meetings are split into two, refuelling with coffee at the break. The second half is shorter than the first and can consist of flash fiction, or poetry, amongst other styles, and this is when I experiment with different forms of expression. We’ve even tried writing a twenty-six line story, each sentence, or each word beginning with the next letter of the alphabet, but an observation was made today that, whilst this certainly stretches the creative muscle, most stories end with someone having an x-ray or playing a xylophone in yonder zoo.

Andrew Began Counting Daffodils. Each Flower Grew Higher…Whilst X-raying Yonder Zoo.

See?

I love Off The Cuff for many reasons, the first being the wonderful friendship offered. I am looked after and nurtured by writers with greater knowledge and understanding than I, and I am in awe of these wonderful friends and their skills. And how different we all are. Give seven of us the same title, the same subject, and we will produce seven different projects.

It’s a fantastic way to get the brain kick-started, and with a notebook full of OTC tasks, I have a collection of ideas and stories waiting to be developed.

At our latest gathering, we were given the title ‘Speak of the Devil’.

This was my twenty minute offering.

Speak of the Devil

Say my name, and I’ll cock an ear

Speak it twice, and a mist appears

A third time now, you’ll see my head

My tail you’ll see, a fourth time said.

Say my name, and I’ll come to you

We’ll whirl a dance in devil’s shoes

But take my hand and a deal we’ll make:

Your soul turns black, it’s mine to take.

Say my name and I’ll show you how

With worldly riches you can endow

Your lust for life will see no end

If I remain your one true friend.

But turn your back on all I’ve done

The gift I’ve wrapped will come undone

Betray me once and you will see

My living hell: Immortality.

Speak of the devil, and you will see his tail

Best to stay silent, if your soul’s not for sale.

Which writing tasks flex your creative muscle?

Laura x

Grace

Grace is the word.

On Tuesday 5th February 2013, I took a jaunt to the Portsmouth Guildhall to watch Paloma Faith in her ‘Fall To Grace’ tour. She was outstanding not only with her stage craft and voice, but with her sense of style and her balletic moves. This photo in no way captures Paloma’s being, in the same way it cannot deliver her voice, but she was spectacular.

I’ve listened to both her albums, Do You Want The Truth Or Something Beautiful?, and Fall To Grace, pretty much back-to-back for months. I’d reverted to being my younger, teenage self, desperate to absorb every word and hang onto every note of every song.

Yes. I used to do that – the artists were different then, but the feeling was the same as it is now.

Black and Blue, the third track on the current Faith album, was playing when I resolved a plot issue in ‘Truth or Dare?’ I am truly inspired by her lyrics and admire her ability to tell a story musically, and with such depth of feeling. It’s quite an art.

The title of the second album, and the track Agony, brought to mind a poem I wrote in June 1987, entitled Grace.

I could easily go down,

So easily fall from grace,

You tease and touch and tempt me,

As you tenderly trace the depths and hollows

Of the places

Where I could easily go down.

In the softly scented room,

Where I could easily go down,

Your silent shadows soothe me,

And the secretive sound of your falling clothes,

As you ungown,

Say I will fall from grace.

I could easily go down

As you brush against my back,

You breathe and blow and blind me,

As you so deftly touch the depths and hollows

Within my soul,

As I so easily go down.

Tonight, I’ll fall from grace,

As you steal my shame away,

As together,

We go down.

Laura x

Click here for a link to my friend Sue’s account of the gig.

Things I’ve No Wish To Recall.

I’m remembering things I’ve no wish to recall

Wondering if time does away with it all

Thinking I’ll sink with the weight of the haul

Willingly, I would go down.

The surfacing memories bring high tides of tears

I’m floundering around in an ocean of fear

Frightened, I’m killing the retrograde years

Submerging them until they drown.

I feed to the depths the thoughts making me cry

Hunting, they’re sharks; they’re silent and sly

Circling, then striking, they eat my insides

Inflicting unbearable pain

Recollections are triggered by words, songs or place

The sound of a laugh, a familiar phrase

A programme we watched and then we erased

All gone, and nothing remains.

It hurts to acknowledge the guilt and regret

But there were times in our lives I’ll never forget

The love and the laughter will heal my soul

I’m glad I’m remembering the things I recall.

Laura E. James

11.09.12

Retro Poetry: The Female Football Player.

Ah. Mavis, A favourite of mine. I enjoyed team games at school, but I wasn’t particularly good at any of them. What I lacked in skill, I made up with enthusiasm. Sadly, enthusiasm doesn’t get the hockey ball in the back of the goal or the rounders ball past first base. Enthusiasm also fails to get one picked for a team. I was invariably the last girl standing and therefore joined a team by default. I would pick Mavis regardless of her impressive sporting skill. I would pick Mavis because I love her courage, determination and sense of hope.

There is always hope.

The Female Football Player.

Our Mavis wasn’t pretty, but she’d one thing in her favour,

Men forgot about her two buck teeth and the way she used a shaver.

They didn’t mind her two crossed eyes, or her broad rimmed N.H. specs,

They could tolerate her dandruff and the falling, flaking flecks.

For our Mavis wasn’t pretty, no one noticed on the whole,

For that something in her favour was the way she scored a goal.

Her rolls of fat were quite grotesque and no one dared to weigh her,

She moved like an ox in the penalty box, our Mave, the football player.

Playing soccer was somewhat tricky with one eye made of glass

But she never stopped if out it popped and landed in the grass.

The opposition split a rib, they thought our Mave defenceless,

But their luck ran out with Mave about and she knocked them downright senseless.

She charged towards the other side and they had to run like Hell.

Her dribbling was by far unique and she could slobber just as well.

She proudly wore her colours; they were stripy pink and black,

And on her chest was her address, with her number on the back.

Although no one fancied Mavis, what thrilled them most of all,

Was not the way that she could slay, but how she handled balls.

There was no one quite like Mavis, to show you ball control,

For she’d tease and trick, and then she’d kick and our Mave would score a goal.

Oh! How the men, they loved our Mavis wearing shorts and not a skirt,

But they’d leave like a shot, if Mavis forgot she was not to swap her shirt.

Poor Mavis wasn’t pretty; she had an awful rear,

Miss World was not what Mavis got, but ‘Player of the Year.’

Written: 16 – 17 August 1987. Midnightish.

Retro Poetry: Harold.

A few weekends ago, I cleared out my wardrobe and came across some old friends, which I thought I would share with you.

I wrote lots of poems in my youth and this one was my mum’s favourite, so I’m starting with ‘Harold’.

Harold

Harold wasn’t feeling well

Poor lad, he’d lost his zest,

So he went to see his doctor,

Who sent him for a test.

Harold wasn’t feeling well

And if one thing made him worse,

It was the smell of sterile flooring

And a strict, imposing nurse.

But Harry wasn’t feeling well,

So he sat outside the clinic,

And he watched as the phlebotomists

Mixed the haematinic.

The first man rolled his sleeve up,

And flexed his elbow joint,

Harold wondered why he did it,

But he was soon to get the point.

He’d been sitting there for ages;

He had better things to do –

He had a meeting at ten thirty

And another one at two.

Poor Harry wasn’t feeling well,

So he started counting sheep,

It distracted him from feeling ill

And it sent him off to sleep.

He came around at ten o’clock

And felt better for his rest,

But how long had he waited

For this bloody test?

He tapped his fingers slowly,

And studied both his feet,

He picked his dried up elbow

And fiddled with a sweet.

But Harold wasn’t feeling well,

He was such a lifeless heap,

So he slowly closed his eyes once more

And nodded off to sleep.

His number flashed up on the board,

But Harold did not budge,

So the fellow sitting opposite,

Gave him a gentle nudge.

But Harold keeled right over,

He’d have got up if he could,

But he got so sick of waiting,

He fell asleep for good.

Written: 01.07.87 9-10.30 pm.

Beg For Rain

Beg For Rain.

Tears are the betrayers of our souls. We can fight and we can turn away, but once they pierce the backs of our eyes, we cannot halt them.

Relentlessly, they come.

Tears have a will of their own. They are strong and will grip our throats and strangle us until we are forced to release them.

Powerfully, they come.

Tears will sell our secrets, flaunt our vulnerability and make easy fools of us.

So, with all this said, why don’t

They come?

Tears.

Bless-ed tears.

Let them rain down and wash me away.

Let the water sanitise, let their salt sterilise and

Let me be clean.

Please come.

Laura.