We start this week with a trio of poems from Mandy Laird-Hall, otherwise known by her professional name of Emily Laws. All of these poems were performed at our Dead Good Poets' open mic nights in the years before Covid. Enjoy them and please feel free to comment and share.
The Big One*(dedicated to 12th August 2016)
A thousand nights of painting on a borrowed face
To attract, interact or merely distract
The crowd at the pub or queue at the chip shop
The wearisome war battling boulders and dents
My personal series of unfortunate events.
The stifling ceiling creeping eerily lower
Heavy heartbeat ticking slower
Endless monotony, ceaseless cacophony
Mindless mindgames, factitious lobotomy
Struggling to swim against the tide
Sucked down by currents, washed up, cockeyed.
Seeing life through the bottom of a glass
Allowing the colours to fade to brass
A blur of greys, dismal days –
Smashed into rainbows by one single gaze
When she raised
Her eyes to me
When she raised her eyes.*First printed in the Lancashire Dead Good Poets' anthology 'The Big One', 2018
Let Sleeping Dragons Lie
Let Sleeping dragons lie.
Don’t try to befriend, train or mend
Their natural tendency
To set you alight,
Consume you with one blast
Of hell-borne wickedness.
Let sleeping dragons lie.
Lie in their placidity.
Lie in their disguised acidity
A dragon cannot change its spots
Or should that be scales?
Their tails should be avoided –
One foul flail and you’re out.
Out for the count.
Do not pass go
Do not collect 200 pounds.
Let sleeping dragons lie
Don’t awake the fiery snake
The blood-red eyes, disguised
While sleeping, no sign,
Seemingly benign,
Almost fine, godlike, sublime,
Yet rancid green, unseen
Your true disposition
Cruel magician
Let sleeping dragons lie
Or you may fry!
2 ¾
Outside the now house that was
Post Office, in my pram,
I ask you how old I am –
Two and a half or two and three quarters –
Your daughter.
Two and three quarters, you said.
The pram was grand.
You wove me through fairytales and
Unavailable beliefs,
Streets carved with wound down paper rounds
Of back-breaking love.
You bore the load. Toad.
Cockroaches. How they encroach on your life.
She finds them and obliterates
Every sound of them.
She wove her treasure trove so deeply,
So astoundingly,
So God-given magically.
There will be three more poems from Mandy's back catalog next week. Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
