Running
November 14, 2012

I want to run through life, run to the places
That books are made of. Where life
Is lived. Where colours are painted
In new shapes and sizes round every block.
 
I want to run through life, talk to strange faces
And drink with the locals. I will drive cars
I can’t afford to buy – yet – and maybe
They’ll print my name where you can see.
 
I want to run through life, I can’t wait
Any longer. These hills look taller when
You’re standing right on top.
So will you run with me, or just sit down in the dirt?
 
 
I’ve been told that to inspire a more ‘communative blog’ or whatever that means, the blogger should ask a question to readers about a particular topic. So I’ll give it a go.
 
Is there anything you feel you can’t achieve because of circumstances holding you down?

Petrarchan Sonnet
October 3, 2012

my heart

my heart, to you, is a throw away thing
it’s a cheap plastic lighter
running out of gas.
the more i burn
the less i am.
and i cannot do, but yearn
and scream,
“just stop.”

my heart, to you, is a throw away thing.
wasting like the core of finished fruit
faded from your eye.
those lashes flicker away from me now,
and gaze
the other way.

Golden Syrup
May 3, 2012

by Elexa Rose

my chest is lined with golden syrup
turned pink by the touch of my blood
i breathe in hard
the walls of my lungs
stick together
wrapped around my heart and
the veins going in and going out
it's solidifying
grabbing
a rich golden fist
it trickles out of my ears and nose
clogs my tear ducts
there are lumps in my throat
you can feel them if you press
on my neck
my sweat gets stuck
my voice is a thin husk
as i heave and swell
and burst slowly
still slowing.

Beat
January 27, 2012

by Elexa Rose
 
We ruin the music with words and phrases,
Playing to a sea of pale, burnt-out faces.
Their eyes are lost in empty spaces,
Lost forever in our spot-light mazes.
 
The orchestra below always sounds the same,
Asking, “What do we do to start over again?”
It eats up every note that I drain,
The strings of violins are heavy as chain.

Is this what they call the end?
January 17, 2012

White lines followed by red lines
they interlock like a picket fence.
Just ask the question to show
you realise that I’m growing sick
and tired.

Like Melting
January 17, 2012

by Elexa Rose
 
Soft ash
that burns
although –
Glass sees through
into our heads
and cuts
up our thoughts.
I’d do anything
for you
to breathe life
back into
my sunken chest.

Poetry > Novels
January 16, 2012

So this is really just a rant. What I don’t understand is why novels hold greater prestige than poetry. Why is it that most people have read at least something by Hardy, Austin, Wells or Dickens; any classical writer yet the great poets of the past aren’t nearly as celebrated. Ezra Pound? He practically created modernism. E. E. Cummings? Another hugely influential writer that has had an impact on poetry to this day. T. S. Elliot? People seem to only associate him with The Waste Land, yet it seems no one has actually read it… if we can’t appreciate the classical poets how can people ever appreciate the great, up and coming poets of today? For instance, Caroline Bird, a young poet that has just continued to excel in the poetry scene from a young age. How many people actually know her name? How many people actually know what poet laureate is? Or know anything about Carol Ann Duffy other than she’s a lesbian and a bit of a feminist? It just annoys me, because all other art seems to hold so much more esteem. Any other styles of writing, music, visual art. When did people stop caring about poetry? I mean, how can someone enjoy literature and not poetry? I know so many people who can sit and read and thoroughly love George Elliott’s Middlemarch, yet put a couple of stanza of Barret-Browning in front of them and they moan. Poetry does so much more, it says so much more, it’s so much cleverer, it requires so much more, it’s simply brilliant. But then again, are modern-day poets trying to reach out to the wider audience? Or in doing that would they lose respect from the critics, from fellow poets? Is poetry in itself inaccessible these days? Who knows. Oh well. I will finish this with a poem by Matthew Sweeny which I think is accessible, is clever and resembles the kind of poetry I inspire to write like. I hope others enjoy it too.

Sanctuary by Matthew Sweeny
 
Stay awhile. Don’t go just yet.
The sirens are roaming the streets,
the stabbing youths are out in packs,
there’s mayhem in the tea-leaves.
You’re much better off staying here.
I have a Bordeaux you’ll like,
let’s open it. (I’ve a second bottle, too.)
And a goat’s cheese to fast for,
also a blue from the Valse of Cashel –
and the source of the bread stays a secret.
Was I expecting you to stay?
No, I always eat like this.
Hear that – wasn’t it a gunshop?
Come closer, turn the music up.
Maybe we should dim the lights.
Let’s clink our glasses to each other
if no better toast comes to mind.
I told you you’d ooh! at the cheese –
here, have some more. A top up?
You’re the kind of girl I like.
Listen, that was definitely a bomb.
Maybe the civil war has strted,
the one they’ve all been promising.
Well, there’s nowhere to go now,
so let’s kill the lights and retire.

Slow
January 16, 2012

by Elexa Rose
 
It’s not that I don’t
care, or I’m stoned
or a bit drunk. I just
can’t let myself trust
your less-than half
hearted words. We laugh
and smile though I wish
you’d put meaning in your kiss
so these silences aren’t so
painful and slow.

Let’s not finish how we started
December 11, 2011

by Elexa Rose
 
Catapulting, ever lasting, create.
Don’t pretend to hate.
I laugh at the sheer sight
of your usual lateness.
 
Words vomit, misspelt, try.
You’re asking questions,
but why?
Don’t stop to answer.
 
Finding lies, in half-hearted jokes.
We are in flux, in your fiction
I won’t take it,
I won’t break.

With Diction
December 7, 2011

by Elexa Rose
 
You crack
like the spine
of a fresh book.
 
Ripples in the air
prepare us
for the shatter.
 
Quiet now –
I can taste the fear
that’s all over your face.
 
Hush, small child.
It’s no time to cry.
Be brave.
 
Running from bright
television screens.
A better place
 
awaits us.
A whole new world,
filled.