Comfortable in my own skin
For a thousand years or more
Inner calm and outer grin
Oozing from every pore
Tender care for follicles
That blossom forth with fur
Showing off unruly curls
That underline his ‘her’
Nibbled nails that niggle
Catching, snagging, telling tales
Tiny scars that wriggle
As hands flex and curl and wave
Gentle as a monolith
That towers high above
The pillory of Lilith
For whom Adam held no love
Alone is his pyjamas
After the sycophants
Are all in their beds
The dictator, silent
Examines his image
By moonlight
Wrinkles and lines
Cratered temples
And soft-joweled planes
Surrounded by wealth
In the marbled rooms
Of a haunted palace
He did not inherit
But strives to display
To best advantage
For diplomatic reasons
Dreaming of leaner,
Keener days
Before he became
A political prisoner
Trapped and tamed
By the violent success
Of his own actions
Never try to date musicians
Actors, players or politicians
All who make fame their lifelong mission
Feel compelled to keep ambition
Uppermost in their mind’s eye.
Resisting those whose hopes may lie
In other kinds of pie-filled sky,
Aspire to happiness: decry
The complex marketing campaigns
To fill your dreams with endless strains
Of violins, and chilled champagne
(Someone is selling something vain)
You’re not obliged to join, partake
In putting out, appearing, fake
So falsely cheerful, on the make
We don’t all want the same big break
And there are many paths to tread
That do less harm and keep you fed
You could just read a book instead
To fill your soul, first fill your head
If I were one, not two or three
I wouldn’t care what you thought of me
I’d have the choice to change, to be
The person inside, outside. Free.
But there is you, and her and him
And cool, and chic, and fair and slim
I don’t know where I should begin
To twist myself to meet each whim
Opinions hover overhead
What might she think? What would be said?
You couldn’t tell what’s in my head
I gathered thoughts, but lost the thread…
They’re moulding me to something new
To shine in every interview
And sell my soul – in shades of blue
With hints at things that could be true.
Five smooth hairs
Sit smugly on my brow
Staking their claim on my sanity
Tweezers forgotten on the carpet
The agony of plucking
Fingers shaking
Each unwelcome visitor
In the harsh grey light of dawn
Making the simplest remedy
The most painful
That one hair, evicted
Clings to my clothing like a child
Sobbing at abandonment
Unwilling and ashen
In stark contrast to my usual
Sombre-toned jumper
And wild auburn curls
I feel my age settle like a mask
Sewn to my temples
With threads of silver
I’m not black, not gifted, not even young
Never carried a knife to school, nor a gun
Have yet to feature on the ten most wanted
In the hit parade, no mention, by the tabloids I’m untaunted
For the paparazzi never follow me
Don’t flash my scanties for the scallies snorting coke at a party
I can move quite freely round the city streets
Nobody cares about my politics, my weight or bad habits
So you see I don’t meet the entry criteria
Just don’t belong to this mass-hysteria
Nobody feels guilty for my persecution
And I can’t expect apologies or contributions
I never sniffed glue, huffed paint or tried to get high
When there were chores to do, I did them, when I earned I put some by
My youth was not exactly what you’d call misspent
I never caught religious fervour, I’m not trying to repent
My dad stayed home while my mum worked late
We survived without the help of the welfare state
I never got fondled by an errant priest
Not been arrested for possession, prostitution by police
So you won’t see my poems in the magazines
Nor my biopic on your TV screens
For my stable mind and my legal status
Have put me into some sort of poetic hiatus
I can scribble it all down, every golden word
But it is nothing but frustrating if I try to get them heard
For the world is only int’rested in marketing a brand
And the labels all prefer to form their perfect, packaged band
Yeah, I write rap lyrics but I don’t perform them
So my street cred is a lie worn by some kid whose fans adore him
For the master wordsmith that can represent
Who gets his bling and ghetto styling from a Knightsbridge gent
Don’t try to kid yourself that I’m some kind of poet
I’m not down with any peeps, not cool, and don’t I bloody know it!
For nice, polite, well brought up, and hard working women
Can only write the life they know, and that won’t sell a single poem.
Caught between insolvency
And fast dwindling sanity
My mind slowly numbed
By the daily inanity:
To pay our rent and bills
That roll in despite my thrift
I prostitute my skills
And in limbo I must drift.
To utilise my brain
Or my imagination
At work would be insane
An idea far above my station:
The humble secretary
Must lighten others’ loads
Polite, always on time
And in nicely fitting clothes.
We mustn’t get too comfy
Or feel we are unique
As, impertinent, we’re fired
If we don’t turn the other cheek.
I hope my childrens’ children
Will not have to do the same
As what they term ‘profession’
Is truly a mug’s game.
Golden shadows of my past continue to haunt me. I pass corners of streets I remember as filthy, rat-ridden, miserable, and a ray of light suddenly illuminates a memory with a clarity that hits my gut. Forceful as a bolt of chili, straight to the heartburn.
In the everyday I am alone. I am mechanical, stiff, lifeless. I miss these ghostly shadows. Fleeting, they are gone, leaving a strange hollowness. This vacuum of feeling, empty, void. No longer relevant. I shake myself and go on with life. Passing occasionally to cross the road and wonder at changes I see. Proof that life goes on.
And the gold-dusty haze of memory settles on the flat screen of my life. I see things in monochrome, shades of brown and orange. As if through a sheet of bathroom-school-pane glass, everything looks mottled, grainy. And somehow more significant to my story than the things I can touch and smell and taste today in harsh and vivid colour.
Katherine Shirley 