Examples of Draft Work

First Draft of Critical Self Appraisal

Critical Self Appraisal

I began writing this term with the theme of writing the visual as a starting point. Initially, I wrote in direct response to art works, for example, Shrinkwrapped was inspired by a Mark Rothko painting I saw at the Tate Modern gallery.The first and last stanzas directly relate to things I have seen within the paintwork but have described in a more metaphorical way. The second and third stanzas are different in that they employ aspects of synaesthesia – I have blended different kinds of sense impression by attributing smells and sounds to the visual piece. This is a recurring trope throughout my portfolio and a strength in my writing as a whole.

Submission was written in response to Tracey Emin’s photograph The Last Thing I Said To You Is Don’t Leave Me Here. Within this poem I couldn’t help but take into account the artist’s infamous character, particularly as she has placed herself within the piece. This therefore led me to create a narrative voice for the work, taken further than that which is primarily displayed within the image. I thought this was an interesting approach to the set theme and wanted to develop it further.

I wrote Nude In Studio after seeing the Janos Vaszary exhibition at the Hungarian National Gallery. This poem concludes in the penultimate stanza with a direct reference to the paint style and content of the painting but the rest of the poem is entirely imagined and based on my own impressions. This mainly came out of a feeling of sterility within the gallery and a desire to recreate the piece with a deeper sensuality. I think the influence of the context in which the painting was displayed is equally as important as the piece itself and this is also something that I used within Hagiographer.

I used a first person voice to personalise the poem and focused on a fictional story behind the artwork rather than the final, displayed piece. This is similar to Carol Anne Duffy’s Standing Female Nude, written on reflection of the sketch by Pablo Picasso. Both poems focus on the tensions between the artist and subject and build on this relationship to create drama which I think is more intruiging than a simple description of the piece.

Cells is the final poem in my submission portfolio that is written in direct response to a singular artwork; Louise Bourgeois’ Cells installations at the Tate Modern. I think at this point I had moved through a process of ekphrasis, becoming comfortable in writing small narratives and this had limited the variety of my working style. I now wanted to develop my ideas to something more intense and less bound by another artist’s concepts.

I read a great deal of Raymond Carver’s poems and ________ was the first poem I wrote that was influenced by his writing style. Rather than using fanciful language and metaphor, Carver’s poems are more matter of fact with a distinct openness. He creates small pictures that can be read on both a surface and deeper level, with a focus on themes of mortality and vulnerability. Dolour is also written in a similar style. I particularly like this poem as I think it is quite beautiful in its’ simplicity. I brought inanimate objects quietly to life to illustrate a feeling, for example the line ’The lamp plays hopscotch...’ This is also reminiscent of the line ’The floor tiles...play chess with the moon’ in Adam Zagajewski’s Dutch Painters, which I like a lot because of it’s playfulness. This style of writing is very different to the language I usually use but I think has helped to broaden my creative thinking.

All of my poems include a great deal of surrealsim and abstraction through the use of metaphor and physical description. This is particularly evident in Alize, Hagiographer and Etrog. I think this is one of my strengths and a technique I use constantly. This term I was more aware of using it as a device to highlight issues of defamiliarisation and alienation I experienced through my time spent in Budapest.

In his essay Formal Wear: Notes on Rhyme, Meter, Stanza and Pattern, George Szirtes argues that ’the gap between signifier and signified is potentially enormous.’ This was the focus of my visual Word and Image project (http://thewordandimage.blogspot.com) which is heavily interlinked with my poetry work this term. For example, the final stanza of Photograph describes the process we used in our visual work of applying ambiguous words to framed scenes in the urban environment of Budapest.

P.B. Shelley argues that poetry ’makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar by stripping the veil of familiarity from the world’. By undermining the environment through applying contradictorary labels, you are invited to look at it in a different way and similarly the use of surrealism and abstraction can emphasise this same feeling of defamiliarisation and invites the reader to consider normality in a more unusual and interesting way. The Word and Image project was therefore hugely influential in my writing and a topic I would like to continue working on.

Bovarysme was the beginning of another approach to the theme. I started writing about events that had happened to me but presented them as images as though they could have been paintings or photographs – almost as notional ekphrasis. This is also notable within Alize, Hagiographer and Etrog. From this pont onward my work took a cinematic turn, much as the poem Vanishing Point by Martin Figura describes a journey as though part of a film, I think my poems have a similar quality. However Bovarysme could be described as having more of a freeze frame effect than a ’life in one take’ style.

My two favourite poems within this collection are Photograph and Revolution Day. Both were inspired by George Szirtes’ Reel as I strived to recreate the same cinematic feeling and level of description to present the environment with more vividity. I think these poems are the most successful in presenting a real life scene as a bold image or series of images, ultimately Writing the Visual. In the Word and Image visual project, we placed frames in the public environment to re-present it as art, in these poems I feel I have placed a frame around a situation, presenting it in an artistic context.

I have used a free verse approach to my writing which I feel is less restrictive. Enjambment also features heavily to emphasise particular sentances and allow for a flowing run through that I do not think end-stopped lines can achieve. The language is very physical and the use of metaphor creates a vividity and sensuality within the collection as a whole. I have used a distinctly female first person voice because they are all very personal and I find it difficult to disattach myself through a third person voice. I also believe that my identity as a woman is very important and should therefore be projected in my writing.

Generally, I have been working through a process of compiling notes on paper which I word process into full poems, then submit to the bulletin board. This is an ever helpful forum which has helped me to redraft my work continuously. I then print my poems and annotate them before typing up redrafts. This term I have employed the additional resource of a blog which I have posted the majority of my draftwork on (http://laurayasmin.blogspot.com) which has been very helpful in managing and tracking the development of my work. I will continue to use this for future projects as I think it has benefitted my organisational skills a lot. I could also post images alongside the poems, but have decided not to do this with my final submission as I think the poems should be considered seperately and stand up in their own right.

Overall I am incredibly happy with my submission and I think that my writing and creative thinking has grown significantly through my experience of living abroad.

Tutorial With Martin Figura

First question is why the centre partings? I’m not sure if it adds anything and seems to be imposing shorter lines – with odd line endings – or is it the short lines imposing the centre parting? I just don’t get it, it seems pretentious and adds nothing and takes much away from the very good work here. Try it differently and look at the line ends in particular. Read them out loud to your self.

Hope this helps Martinx

Shrinkwrapped

Caught within
a wire mesh cloud,
skin torn like wool
on a barbed wire fence.

In a field that smells of cinder
and charred fence posts
ashen lily petals crackle
in cellophane puddles.

You stand out like a stare,
the way you caught my eye
then blinked,

heavy lidded,
a swollen tongue,
thick and wet
licked across the sky.

I like this one very much. Some very nice imagery indeed. It contains enough mystery to require rereading and survives that.

Submission

The last thing I said to you
is 'don't leave me here'.

We played
until our knuckles bled
and our hands resembled
branches seared
by lightening.

Invisible, I pace the room,
playing hide and seek
with the cracks in the wood,
poking my fingers through
to touch the wind.

The smell of you lingers,
I strip down, discard
your touch, smear
traces of a song
across the walls.

It continues to rain
long after the
breathing stops.

Yup this is very good. Do we need the first stanza – I can’t decide? It really places the poem – but maybe too firmly. It becomes ambigious without it – a good thing posssibly?

Nude in Studio

Walking just to walk

the ghost town
and lie beneath the sky,
sprawled face down
on tarmac,

naked,
I wait for frost
to lick me
to glass.

You are the juggernaut
that blindly swerves
and smashes my ice not sure about this line-break. perhaops shell can come up.
shell in the road.
I have my doubts about this stanza (above) – it seems a little clumsy like the juggernaut. Not as elegant as the rest of the poem.
You repaint me, guilty,
warm, wet yolk
on your studio floor,

always. Not a fan of single words to end. Portentsous! I wouldn’t even take it up – lose it completely that’s what I say

’Cells’

I swallow his words
like small spiders
in my sleep, splendid
awake pinned
by his arms,
spine twisted
in his palms
until I prickle,
thistled. oooo no!

Our children
are glass bottles
we hang
from the ceiling,
untie at night
and roll
across the carpet
like clicking marbles.

If I go and have a shower,
will you still be here
when I get back?
You hover by the door,
pluck threads from the towel
in your hand.

Each time
in your absence
I toy with the idea
of disappearing.

If I buy breakfast,
you won’t leave
while I’m gone?
Your pockets crackle,
you scoop change from a bowl
on the desk.

I could dress quickly,
click my heels
and leave
no note.

If I make some coffee,
don’t go anywhere
will you?
You scatch your stomach
and scan the floor
for trousers.

I was not prepared
for your reaction
when I hid
in the wardrobe.

I like this poem very much – but fnd it chopped up too much. It works in some palces –

don’t go anywhere/will you where there is a natural suspense in the dialogue/narrative. Elsewhere is places too muhc emphasis on some lines that can’t carry it. Also I think it would just sound much better –rather than staccato. Its full of lovely stuff and a nice joke at the end.

I’ve had a little play below – but it would need more.

’Cells’

I swallow his words

like small spiders in my sleep,
awake pinned by his arms,
spine twisted in his palms
until I prickle,

Our children are glass bottles

we hang from the ceiling, untie at night
and roll across the carpet like clicking marbles.

If I go and have a shower, will you still be here
when I get back? You hover by the door,
pluck threads from the towel in your hand.

Each time ,in your absence I toy with the idea
of disappearing.

If I buy breakfast, you won’t leave
while I’m gone? Your pockets crackle,
you scoop change from a bowl on the desk.
I could dress quickly, click my heels
and leave no note. If I make some coffee,

don’t go anywhere will you?

You scatch your stomach and scan the floor

for trousers. I was not prepared for your reaction
when I hid in the wardrobe.

Dolour

Eating green apples

on a grey day

in a white room,

the lamp plays

hopscotch

on parquet wood tiles,

the glass bell

of the water pipe

sighs.

very nice – but I’m sorry I just don’t like this chopped up centre parting. PORTENTEOUS

Outside the window

two men argue

about the price

of flowers,

a tram sails past,

ash sprinkles

the sky.

Yesterday was salmon

and falafel, tonight

will be

an Irish cat,

tomorrow

I will hurl

your guitar

through the glass

and

leave.

Lemon sun leaks

through the reflection
of a window,
you stroke my palm
with green fingers

as she whispers

in four languages
behind my back.

It is still cheating,
you said, Just because
she is a woman.
I am not above
hitting a woman.

I pressed my idiolect fancy word young lady! it sounds clumsy though
between
paper feathers.
The train rushes

ginger not sure about ginger cornfields,

hedgerows dashed

with violet.

On our return, an old
woman sits
by the roadside
holding a cardboard box
full of torn paper tickets
and small, yellow-bird
fortunes.

Ecseri Piac

A chest of haggard dolls
and a beaten roller skate
snap at my fingers.

A cacophony I really like ths poem – cacophony seems a bit obvious compared to the rest of abandoned
string instruments
creak on a shelf,
glass gas lamps tarnish.

I am too afraid to touch
the porcelein or examine
strung up street signs
clanging in the wind.

Caged chairs clamber
across one another,very good discarded
rubber limbs writhe
in a heap on a cart,

scarred clocks leer
at ruby film posters,
flocks of chandeliers loom
over lock-jawed wardrobes

Purple-furred, beside an oven,
she sells postcards of
bear baiting, a frozen lake,
a faded holiday camp.

Alize

We guzzled

too-sweet wine

in the sorozo, where fat

men sweat over fruit machines.

I led you through charcoal bad line end

wallpaper to the wrong

side of the looking glass,

road signs shrank

like night butterflies

in paper cups, owls

framed a tiny door.

We are lizards basking

in a decollage of glass,

brick and plastic, crows

pecking at a landmine,

we bend teaspoons

down throats

to steal yawns. splendid

Among a shadow puppet

theatre of the grotesque

silhouetted on gables,

we are butter drenched.

I clutch my brown envelope

like a lunchbox,

and leave.

excellent – but did I mention I don’t like the short lines!

Man of Sorrows

Among the asylum
of thrusting priests
I am nymph skinned,
bleeding freckles
on the silent tiled floor.

You plead martyrdom

as I chew the door handle.

I lose you on 'A Szerelem Szigetén'
in light dust lacing
but I am a sailor heaving
through indigo oils,
through labourers’ folded faces.

I press a fingernail
through waxen fruit,
drain the rivers to sand spines.

Man of Sorrows, fish hook

fingers caught,

I hear your neck crunch
on Salome's pillow.

very good

Etrog

An ink crow

smudges the mist

of the sattelite orchard,

294 television screens,

the transposed bodies

of men flickering.

I am the heart hunter

plunging through the trees,

I prick pregnant

boughs, bursting fruit

flesh with my tongue.

I write my section six

on sliced white bread,

my right to squat

inside you,

but up ten hundred

flights of stairs

where light melts

my shoes, you wrap

yourself tight,

nut skinned.

I settle down

to peel.

very good, but the usual complaint

Photograph

This city is a brittle leaf
Dry skin peels
from buildings,
carcasses of age,
bullet sprayed.
Metal cages clasp
construction sites
that swell the sky.
Streets are missing
teeth, cleanly dug
gaps of earth.
Statues roam
past parliament,
grazing
marble buffallo.

Cyclones tear
our throats out
beneath the pavement,
steel inspectors
pierce my face,
the beggars
dormitories expand
through the subways,
bare mattresses,
fruit box bedside
tables, couples
wrapped
in reading.

I tie parcel tags
to trees, label them as
Turcsi Orr,
Levél Bomba,
Diótöro
I glue wooden
picture frames
to broken windows
and call it
No Sugar,
Leftovers,
Ocean.

Look.

excellent again – but line endings seem almost random in this one

Nest

Discontent
with folding tissue
paper ducks,
you developed a taste
for innards.

The hippopotamus skull
was the beginning.
Like Matryoshka dolls
you scoop out layer do you scoop them oit? very nice image – but is it the right one. I can see what you are tryiong to say, but it s a bit of a stretch.
after layer, hang
them out to dry
like a butcher's
carcass.

You maybe try without obsession I thnk we’ve worked out he’s a bit odd by now
slit my chest open,
ripped my ribcage
like a corset,
filled me.

No matter
that the plaster
bloats the hollows
of my cheeks
like a drown
victim,good
clogs my eyes
with pebble? tears.

Strung up,
skin shredded,
you display my core

like a burst plum

dripping from the sky. There is a bit of confusion here as to who is strung up

A cave of carpet, pitted in the centre like a peach seed?. We sat in coffee stain circles. I ought to kick your head in for wearing that shirt. We all laugh, jade green. Can you explain the meaning of odd, I don’t think I have the translation quite right. Diced bacon, shrink wrapped, tries to speak. I bet they love it, your hair down like that, bouncing on top of them, orange-peel eyes, somewhere across the ocean my mother dries to cardboard. Knee deep in shells, I smoke cheese through a walnut pipe, pinch clay clods into stars. I have a part man to let.

hmmm what have you been smoking out there apart form cheese.

Revolution Day

From the park

to Heroes Square

grandparents hold

their inheritors aloft

like flags, painted faces

blend into charcoal

helmets as beetles good

swarm the streets,

slice the junctions

with guillotine blades, Can you swarm and slice?

an almost unnoticed

handover before coffee

shop windows.

Cyclists dismount,

trams judder, a tin bad line end

voice echoes over

conversations

about the varying

degrees of McDonalds

standardisation is varying and standardisation a contradiction?

across continents,

'But we haven't tried

Hungarian food yet'.

Remove and walk.

Blacked out eyes

of oil coach slugs

unloading ants

onto the pavement. slugs ants seems a bit over written

An old man flutters

against plastic shutters flutter shutters – step away from the heavy rhyme Miss Elliot

in the tunnelled

underground,

resurface into the

eye storm, a bit prog rock

a headlight looms

and fades.

The effigy burns

before Kaisers,

we trickle

through to a muffled

silence

like distant bombs,

the street pricked

with horses hoof prints,

the bridges noosed.

’Apocolypse,’

I whisper

as we meet you

at the escalator.

Sleep

is a net curtain away,

dawn spreads

like a bruise.

Propped on pillows, don’t get raisin at all

we lace our toes

to the rattle

of the box fan,good

hold our breath

against the flush

and downstairs pad

of feet.

A smoked mist which is it – smoke or mist?

clogs the drainpipes,

an engine shakes

the patio,

the French doors throttles?

we never

open. P word!

It is the same grinding

sound like teeth,

twisting the bedpan

the way you fingered

rosary beads before

they were taken, I don’t get the bedpan rosary bead analogy

trapped inside yourself,

best left unsaid

in the bowl

you shit in.

Links to Bulletin Board Work and Development

Below are the links to all the poems I submitted to the poetry bulletin board. This has been a useful resource in gaining feedback on my work and has helped me to redraft my writing significantly.

http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4238.html?1202605195
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4261.html?1203232774
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4262.html?1203272774
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4263.html?1204481940
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4264.html?1203444053
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4369.html?1205171779
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4367.html?1207072771
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4370.html?1206475166
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4371.html?1205115042
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4372.html?1205529636
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4373.html?1205163631
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4374.html?1205177579
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4409.html?1207290033
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4410.html?1207072721
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4411.html?1207197596
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4412.html?1207069946
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4416.html?1207072588
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4449.html?1207195709
http://digitalmedia.nsad.ac.uk/cw_discus/messages/4/4450.html?1207197689

Work in Progress

A cave of carpet, pitted in the centre like a peach. We sat in coffee stain circles. I ought to kick your head in for wearing that shirt. We all laugh, jade green. Can you explain the meaning of odd, I don’t think I have the translation quite right. Diced bacon, shrink wrapped, tries to speak. I bet they love it, your hair down like that, bouncing on top of them, orange peel eyes, somewhere across the ocean my mother dries to cardboard. Knee deep in shells, I smoke cheese through a walnut pipe, pinch clay clods into stars. I have a part man to let.

Purple

Sleep
is a net curtain away,

dawn spreads
like a plum bruise.

Propped on raisin pillows,
we lace our toes

to the rattle
of the box fan,

hold our breath
against the flush

and downstairs pad
of feet.

A smoked mist
clogs the drainpipes,

an engine shakes
the patio,

throttles the French doors
we never

open.

First Budapest Poems (only just found)

Written in response to a film installation at the Ludwig Gallery of Contemporary Art.

It is the same grinding
sound like teeth,
twisting the bedpan
the way you fingered
rosary beads before
they were taken,
trapped inside yourself,
finding spirituality
in the bowl
you shit in.

Random poem.

The shadow of Mcdonalds,
Burger King squats hopeful
more inclined to the passer by,
takeaway cubicle open
like a ticket booth.
McDonalds screams
Internet Access
like a spoilt child
who has been told
she must leave

the birthday party.

Revolution Day (2nd draft)

From the park
to Heroes Square
grandparents hold
their inheritors aloft
like flags, painted faces
blend into charcoal
helmets as beetles
swarm the streets,
slice the junctions
with guillotine blades,
an almost unnoticed
handover before coffee
shop windows.

Cyclists dismount,
trams judder, a tin
voice echoes over
conversations
about the varying
degrees of McDonalds
standardisation
across continents,
'But we haven't tried
Hungarian food yet'.
Remove and walk.

Blacked out eyes
of oil coach slugs
unloading ants
onto the pavement.
An old man flutters
against plastic shutters
in the tunnelled
underground,
resurface into the
eye storm,
a headlight looms
and fades.

The effigy burns
before Kaisers,
we trickle
through to a muffled
silence
like distant bombs,
the street pricked
with horses hoof prints,
the bridges noosed.
’Apocolypse,’
I whisper
as we meet you

at the escalator.

Man of Sorrows (Frozen Door 3rd draft)

Among the asylum

of thrusting priests

I am nymph skinned,

bleeding freckles

on the silent tiled floor.

You plead martyrdom
as I chew the door handle.

I lose you on 'A Szerelem Szigetén'

in light dust lacing

but I am a sailor heaving

through indigo oils,

through labourers folded faces,

I press a fingernail

through waxen fruit,

drain the rivers to sand spines.

Man of Sorrows, fish hooked
fingers caught,

I hear your neck crunch

on Salome's pillow.

Alize (2nd draft)

We guzzled
that too-sweet wine
in the sorozo, where fat
men sweat over fruit machines.
I led you through charcoal
wallpaper to the wrong
side of the looking glass,

road signs shrank
like night butterflies
in paper cups, owls
framed a tiny door.

We are lizards basking
in a decollage of glass,
brick and plastic, crows
pecking at a landmine,
we bend teaspoons
down throats
to steal yawns.

Among a shadow puppet
theatre of the grotesque
silhouetted on gables,
we are butter drenched.

I clutch my brown envelope
like a lunchbox,
and leave.

Nest (Sculpture 2nd draft)

Discontent

with folding tissue

paper ducks

you developed a taste

for innards.

The hippopotamus skull

was the beginning,

like Matryoshka dolls

you scoop out layer

after layer, hang

them out to dry

like a butcher's

carcass.

Your obsession

slit my chest open,

ripped my ribcage

like a corset,

filled me.

No matter

that the plaster

bloats the hollows

of my cheeks

like a drown

victim,

clogs my eyes

with pebble tears.

Strung up,

skin shredded,

you hang my core
like a burst plum

dripping from the sky.

Etrog (Picnic 2nd draft)

An ink crow
smudges the mist
of the sattelite orchard,
294 television screens,
the transposed bodies
of men flickering.

I am the heart hunter
plunging through the trees,
prick the pregnant
boughs, burst fruit
flesh with my tongue.

I write my section six
on sliced white bread,
my right to squat
inside you,
but up ten hundred
flights of stairs

where light melts
my shoes, you wrap
yourself tight,
nut skinned.

I settle downto peel.

(2nd draft)

Lemon sun leaks
through the reflection

of a window,

you stroke my palm

with green fingers
as she whispers
in four languages

behind my back.

It is still cheating,

you said, Just because

she is a woman.

I am not above

hitting a woman.

I pressed my idiolect

between paper feathers.

The train rushes
ginger cornfields,
hedgerows dashed
with violet.

On our return, an old

woman sits by the roadside

holding a cardboard box

full of torn paper tickets

and small, yellow-bird

fortunes.

Tell Us Something We Don't Know (3rd draft)

Eyes roll like eggs
in the cutlery drawer,
the coffee stains
on the rug
begin to bleed,
’That looks uncomfortable.’
I gather the eyes
in a pan,
light the gas.
The pupils are pips
to be pulled
with tweezers,
they hum
in a bowl.
A bubble breaks
the surface
of the water,
I cover my mouth
with my hand,
’Pardon you,
I'll leave you to it.’
I dance
with the fireguard
during the wait
but he is overexcitable
and has to be sent
to the cupboard
under the stairs
to calm down.
I smoke a cigarette
to cover the screaming,
the challenge has made
my hands shakein blue lace air.

Vaszary redraft

walking just to walk

the ghost town

and lie beneath the sky

sprawled face

down on tarmac

naked

I wait for frost to lick

me to glass

you are the juggernaut

that blindly swerves

and smashes my ice

shell in the road

you repaint me, guilty,

warm, wet yolk

on your studio floor

always

very rough ideas

I leave my imprint on you
like teethmarks in wax
knead your shoulders
like clay, make you bleed
twice on cotton sheets
like a baptism massacre
dab at your heart
with a sponge

like an ink scar
of the past
a mistimed blink
of the skin
snaking up your wrist
to your elbow
I trace each lie
in permanent
needle point

you burn a smiling face
into my wrist
watch as each twisting
serpant writhes, spits
blue venom
and the eyes on your arm
become mine, the deep
indigo pools
you once swam in
now hissing acid pitts
like warm apple core
sockets, I tease
seeds from your pores
to plant

Frozen Door (2nd draft)

Among the asylum
of thrusting priests
I am nymph skinned
bleeding freckles
on the silent tiled floor
You plead martyrdom

as I chew the door handle.

I lose you on 'A Szerelem Sziget'
in light dust lacing
but I am a sailor heaving
through indigo oils
through labourers folded faces

I press a fingernail
through waxen fruit
drain the rivers to sand spines
hear your neck crunch
on Salome's pillow

Frozen Door

Written in response to a visit to the Museum of Fine Art.

Among the asylum

of thrusting priests

I am nymph skinned

bleeding freckles

on the silent tiled floor

martyrdom pleads

through the quiet awe

of misunderstanding

I lose you on 'A Szerelem Sziget'

in the light dust lacing

I am a sailor heaving

through indigo oil

through labourers folded faces

I press a fingernail

through waxen fruit

drain the rivers to sand spines

I hear your neck crunch

on Salome's pillow

Tell Us Something We Don't Know (2nd draft)

Eyes rolled like eggs

in the cutlery drawer

The coffee stains

on the rug

began to bleed

That looks uncomfortable

I gathered the eyes

in a pan

lit the gas

The pupils were pips

to be pulled

with tweezers

They hummed

in a bowl

A bubble broke

the surface

of the water

I covered my mouth

with my hand

Pardon you

I'll leave you to it

I danced

with the fireguard

during the wait

but he was overexcitable

and had to be sent

to the cupboard

under the stairs

to calm down

I smoked a cigarette

to cover the screaming

The challenge had made

my hands shake

the air was blue lace

Revolution Day (unfinished)

From the park

to Heroes Square

grandparents hold

their inheritors aloft

like flags, painted faces

blend into charcoal

helmets as beetles

swarm the streets,

slice the junctions

with guillotine blades,

an almost unnoticed

handover before coffee

shop windows.

Cyclists dismount,

trams judder, a tin

voice echoes over

conversations

about the varying

degrees of McDonalds

standardisation

across continents,

'But we haven't tried

Hungarian food yet'.

Remove and walk.

Blacked out eyes

of oil coach slugs

unloading ants

onto the pavement.

An old man flutters

against plastic shutters

in the tunnelled

underground,

resurface into the

eye storm,

a headlight looms

and fades.

Alize

I can remember drinking

that too-sweet wine

in the sorozo, where fat

men sweat over fruit machines.

I led you through charcoal

wallpaper to the wrong

side of the looking glass,

road signs shrank

like night butterflies

in paper cups, owls

framed a tiny door.

We were lizards basking

in a decollage of glass,

brick and plastic, crows

pecking at a landmine,

we bent teaspoons

down throats

to steal yawns.

Among a shadow puppet

theatre of the grotesque

silhouetted on gables,

we are butter drenched.

I clutch my brown envelope

like a lunchbox,

and leave.

Sculpture (unfinished)

Discontent
with folding tissue
paper ducks
you developed a taste
for innards,

the hippopotamus skull
was the beginning,
like russian dolls
you scoop out layer
after layer, hang
them out to dry
like a butcher's
carcass,

your obsession
slit my chest open,
ripped my ribcage
like a corset,
filled me.

no matter
that the plaster
bloats the hollows
of my cheeks
like a drown
victim,
clogs my eyes
with pebble tears,

strung up,
skin shredded,
you display my core

like a burst plum

dripping from the sky.

Picnic

An ink crow

smudges the mist

of the sattelite orchard,

294 television screens

like Dali's window,

the transposed bodies

of men flickering,

etrog sweet.

I am the heart hunter

plunging through the trees,

prick the pregnant

boughs, burst fruit

flesh with my tongue.

I write my section six

on sliced white bread,

my right to squat

inside you,

but up ten hundred

flights of stairs

where light melts

my shoes, you wrap

yourself tight,

nut skinned.

My abortion sprayed

up the trunk,

I settle down

to peel.

Photgraph of Budapest

This city is a brittle leaf
Dry skin peels
from buildings,
carcasses of age,
bullet sprayed.
Metal cages clasp
construction sites
that swell the sky.
Streets are missing
teeth, cleanly dug
gaps of earth.
Statues roam
past parliament,
grazing
marble buffallo.

Cyclones tear
our throats out
beneath the pavement,
steel inspectors
pierce my face,
the beggars
dormitories expand
through the subways,
bare mattresses,
fruit box bedside
tables, couples
wrapped
in reading.

I tie parcel tags
to trees, label them as
Turcsi Orr,
Levél Bomba,
Diótöro
I glue wooden
picture frames
to broken windows
and call it
No Sugar,
Leftovers,
Ocean.

Look.

Biscuit

She took my hand,
led me through staggering
streets. We paused only
to wash our reflections
from puddles.

I scattered pieces of myself
through the city like crumbs,
scrunched beneath the cushions
of a dilapidated sofa,
pooled around the drain
in a flooded subway tunnel,
bobbing in tear
tracks on the road.

You found us curled
in the pocket
of your best friend’s
leather jacket.

You Taught Me How to Make Wine Bottles Cry (Inspired by Louise Bourgeois' Cells)

I swallow his words
like small spiders
in my sleep,
awake pinned
by his arms,
spine twisted
in his palms
until I prickle,
thistled.

Our children
are glass bottles
we hang
from the ceiling,
untie at night
and roll
across the carpet
like clicking marbles.

Missing

If I go have a shower,
will you still be here
when I get back?
You hover by the door,
pluck threads from the towel
in your hand.

Each time
in your absence
I toy with the idea
of disappearing.

If I buy breakfast,
you won’t leave
while I’m gone?
Your pockets crackle,
you scoop change from a bowl
on the desk.

I could dress quickly,
click my heels
and leave
no note.

If I make some coffee,
don’t go anywhere
will you?
You scatch your stomach
and scan the floor
for trousers.

I was not prepared
for your reaction
when I hid
in the wardrobe.

Ecseri - unfinished

A chest of haggard dolls
and a beaten roller skate
snap at my fingers.

A cacophony of abandoned
string instruments
creak on a shelf,
glass gas lamps tarnish.

I am too afraid to touch
the porcelein or examine
strung up street signs
clanging in the wind.

Caged chairs clamber
across one another, discarded
rubber limbs writhe
in a heap on a cart,

scarred clocks leer
at ruby film posters,
flocks of chandeliers loom
over lock jawed wardrobes

Purple furred, beside an oven,
she sells postcards of
bear baiting, a frozen lake,
a faded holiday camp,
wishing they were here.