At first fear hangs in the air, I breathe it in. It is an ache in my stomach. It is heavy, screwed down and locked tight. I don’t want to let it out. I know what it’s like and I’ve felt it before. It is a wild blind thing that has no thought; it speaks in screams. Speed and action are its limbs. It destroys everything in its path. It feeds on ignorance. Time contracts.
I feel it stir inside me. Tonight I will sleep in it and when I wake tomorrow it will still be there, clawing at me.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
One Hundred Words While Drinking Coffee
I am sitting in a Starbucks in Border’s Bookshop, drinking coffee. All around me are people sitting at tables alone or in pairs. A mother and daughter, a retired couple, single women surrounded by shopping bags, and a few men, brief case or rucksack beside them.
All of them are busy either talking, reading newspapers or new books, a woman is fidgeting with her mobile phone. A man in his twenties is fiddling with his i pod. Two women are sharing a joke.
I take a book of poetry from my bag and open it, reading, I slip silently away.
All of them are busy either talking, reading newspapers or new books, a woman is fidgeting with her mobile phone. A man in his twenties is fiddling with his i pod. Two women are sharing a joke.
I take a book of poetry from my bag and open it, reading, I slip silently away.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
One Hundred Words About Escape
I used to be able to escape but not any longer. When I was a child time was like a great cloak that I could wrap myself up in and hide for hours.
But now I am always visible to the world and the world is always visible to me. Time is no longer a cloak but a constant light that exposes me.
Sleep is a temporary refuge. And films have reduced to a thin flickering veil.
Sometimes I rush for the stairs where I work, each slow step lifts me out of sight, a cloak that barely hides me.
But now I am always visible to the world and the world is always visible to me. Time is no longer a cloak but a constant light that exposes me.
Sleep is a temporary refuge. And films have reduced to a thin flickering veil.
Sometimes I rush for the stairs where I work, each slow step lifts me out of sight, a cloak that barely hides me.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
One Hundred Word Poem For Good Friday
"Mercy"
A fragile cry
struggles free
into the parched night.
Then silence
except the low drone
of the wind
through bare winter branches.
Until the cry rises again
splits open the darkness
with a long low moan
strong and insistent,
falls to hard wrenched sobs
then to sudden silence.
Heartbeat.
Again.
Now raw and wild,
gouged out of fractured breath.
Throat muscle and tongue
sculpt air
to a single word
that hangs trapped
in cold moonlight.
In the darkness
I imagine
a naked thing
cowering in the dust
red faced
twisted limbs
blood stained,
torn bandages
searching the darkness.
(c) David Loffman
The poem is inspired by different sources. The most important one being Prayer of the Heart a piece of music by John Tavener - which I comment upon in an earlier post.
A fragile cry
struggles free
into the parched night.
Then silence
except the low drone
of the wind
through bare winter branches.
Until the cry rises again
splits open the darkness
with a long low moan
strong and insistent,
falls to hard wrenched sobs
then to sudden silence.
Heartbeat.
Again.
Now raw and wild,
gouged out of fractured breath.
Throat muscle and tongue
sculpt air
to a single word
that hangs trapped
in cold moonlight.
In the darkness
I imagine
a naked thing
cowering in the dust
red faced
twisted limbs
blood stained,
torn bandages
searching the darkness.
(c) David Loffman
The poem is inspired by different sources. The most important one being Prayer of the Heart a piece of music by John Tavener - which I comment upon in an earlier post.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
One Hundred Words About The Troubadour
The Troubadour - 50?s coffee house in Earl?s Court with a deli, gallery, club and garden.
I read at The Troubadour last Monday. Despite being exhausted, it is always a warm and friendly place to be. I always come away from an evening feeling strong and positive about my writing. When I get home it always takes awhile before I can relax.
At the end of a season Anne Marie organizes a poetry party. Poets come up and either read one of their own poems or someone else’s on a theme. This season ended with the theme of coats.
I read At Penmon Point. (see 19 February post)
When the evening finished I just wandered around chatting to Troubadour friends.
I read at The Troubadour last Monday. Despite being exhausted, it is always a warm and friendly place to be. I always come away from an evening feeling strong and positive about my writing. When I get home it always takes awhile before I can relax.
At the end of a season Anne Marie organizes a poetry party. Poets come up and either read one of their own poems or someone else’s on a theme. This season ended with the theme of coats.
I read At Penmon Point. (see 19 February post)
When the evening finished I just wandered around chatting to Troubadour friends.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
One Hundred Words About An Anniversary
Today we celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary. It feels like yesterday. It feels like a lifetime ago. Last night we ate at an Italian restaurant just round the corner. It was a gorgeous evening.
Our wedding day was a fragile spring day. It hailed in the morning but the afternoon glittered with low dazzling light. Pam was in Africa and sent us a telegram. I walked in on Katy – her sisters sewing flowers to her dress. I wanted the day over and the two of us driving away. Our car decorated inside and out with balloons, beer cans and confetti.
Our wedding day was a fragile spring day. It hailed in the morning but the afternoon glittered with low dazzling light. Pam was in Africa and sent us a telegram. I walked in on Katy – her sisters sewing flowers to her dress. I wanted the day over and the two of us driving away. Our car decorated inside and out with balloons, beer cans and confetti.