Tuesday Poem

The old King’s in the nursery

counting out his babies.

The number’s always shifting,

there’s always someone missing  ̶

the books are cooked we all know that

but who was the chef

and who paid the bill?

Knuckle bones and

fingernails and

entrail stew

the old king doesn’t know what to do.

There’s salt in the wound

sweet in the sweat

and even the moon turns blue.

The old King’s in the madhouse

counting out his marbles.

The number’s always shifting

there’s always one that’s missing –

the game is rigged we all know that

but who gambled what

and who takes the prize?

Knuckle bones and

fingernails and

entrail stew

the old king doesn’t know what to do.

There’s salt in the wound

sweet in the sweat

and even the moon turns blue.

The old King limps through his nightmares

counting out his enemies.

The number’s always shifting

there’s always one that’s missing –

a flicker of curtain

a sliver of knife.

His son drools

his head as big as the moon

but never quite blue enough.

The old King doesn’t know what to do –

and we all know that. 

Catherine Bateson, 2013

Another from the mysterious fantasy verse novel that (only sometimes) has a life of its own. I think this poem was more than a little inspired by reading Bring Out the Bodies by Hilary Mantel which made me think of the street rhymes that royalty and state matters used to engender. What is today's equivalent?

Have a wander through more Tuesday poems, starting with the featured poem on the Tuesday Poem blog.

Tuesday Poem

It's Tuesday poem time again after a short recess for the festive season. This year I'm actively seeking poems, so if you read this and have poems you'd like to be considered for this blogspace, please message me and I'll send you my email. While we are waiting for all that to happen - here's another poem from the ongoing, niche-market, fantasy verse novel!

Ableth

The sea talked about my life

all through the years

until now. I strain to hear

the mountain speak.

It must as all things do but I am deaf

to the quiet shifts of tone

such small sounds

as I am blind to the changes of

forest green. And yet I’d read

the ocean, page by page

and know from one aqua moment

to the next grey letter the story

unfolding and who I was

in that changing.

Grounded

I search the stars

and nightly swim through

their milky waters, lulled

by the painless brew I swallow

as the night gulps me down

dreamless and lost

in its whale belly.

Catherine Bateson, 2013

There's a ripper poem posted on the Tuesday Poem Blog, so do have a wander through that and, of course, the hub takes you to other Tuesday poems - a whole wealth of poetry to welcome in the new writing and reading year. 

 

 

Tuesday Poem - Sal's Boat

Just as he wears his home

written on his skin, a tsunami

of proud pain washing

over shoulders across chest

and belly I want traces of him

forever inked into me

so no matter what I give away

or what they take

I will not forget.

When he’s done a boat

floats on my wrist.

In a week it will no longer

be strange.

When I wake at night he sings me asleep

his burred voice a lullaby tide -

I float home, a small boat on word-waves

I can’t interpret.  Will we have time

enough to grow into each other

so that when I dream

us shipwrecked, he dreams the rescue?

Welcome back to my Tuesday Poem - this is the latest from my work-in-progress, a fantasy verse novel. Do check out the Tuesday Poem blog which, this week, features the work of another Tuesday Poem poet, Kathleen Jones.  From here you can explore a diversity of other Tuesday poems.

Tuesday Poem blog - The Cook's Seduction

The Cook’s Seduction

I could do a standard flirt

looking long into your eyes

brushing your hand shoulder thigh

accidentally with a little wanton

gasp and flicker of heat

each fingertip an invitation

to cozy up closer mingle

our breaths and touch

everywhere I could flick

my hair send notes of spice

a fragrant tune of pure

desire I could flash skin

so your eyes had no other place

to look but

I don’t.

I take out the salt fish I brought here.

I grind it into soft paste,

add potato

a fresh egg

green herbs and

onion as sharp as

homesickness.

You’ll lick your salt-kissed fingers

clean, try to thank me

but words snarl and tangle like fishing line

half here half home

memories dissolving on your tongue

you’ll open your arms

wide as the ocean and

I’ll dock there, my love,

in the harbor of ink waves.

© Catherine Bateson, July 2012

If you'd like to dip into more Tuesday poems, go over to the Tuesday Poem blog, check out the featured poet and use the hub to fish for more great poems.

Tuesday Poem - 'Sal'

Sal

I went for the job because it was as far from everything

that I could imagine and then some roads further.

I knew I’d get it. So far in my life

I’ve got pretty much everything I’ve wanted.

Sometimes that hasn’t turned out so well –

the little fish in my belly

reminds me every morning

I shouldn’t have wanted Mad Wolf Dan

quite as much as I did.

I’ll have to deal with that soon

but for now, I’m happy to step off the cook’s cart

into my new home.

And then I see him.

He’s standing on a makeshift stage

his arms open as though welcoming us

as though we are his cherished guests

not a prisoner, the new cook and a handful of guards.

He’s stripped to the waist -

a good sight, sure -

and he’s covered in waves.

They curl and tumble across his chest.

They break on his shoulder blades.

thunder down his forearms

and foam at his wrists.

Here, in the mountains, the prison guard

wears a constant homesick reminder

tattooed in blues

inked into his skin.

My hand reaches out.

More than anything I want to rest it

against that crash of cool water

that licks his navel.

I have to shut my eyes.

Clasp my hands together

to stop their wanton movement.

When I open them again,

I’ve shuffled forward

right to the front and he’s saying words

I can’t hear properly to me.

I look up into his indigo eyes.

I bob my cook’s curtsy

but I keep looking

bold as you like.

Or shipwrecked.

I’d swim in those eyes

I’d drown.

Well, it appears that the Tuesday Poem readers are going to be subjected, poem by poem, to my latest venture! If you don't want to read a fantasy in verse, hop over to the the Tuesday poem blog where you'll find a diversity of wonderful poems linked to the hub. The featured editor, Claire Beynon has posted a haunting poem by South African poet, Ruben Mowszowski.