I wake up to the sound of your 6.45 alarm,
only to realise it’s mid afternoon where you are
and I was nowhere near your phone, your sheets, or you.
I get home at 3 or maybe 4 in the afternoon,
waiting for you to come in shortly after me
but you’re already sleeping if all is right.
I wait for that short crack of time, between 11 and 7,
as we both move around the bed – shared space even
in this frustrating distance – one in, one out
like an exclusive club of which neither of us is
really a member, we just sneaked our way in and
will be discovered soon. We better enjoy it while it lasts.
Exchange hellos, trade good wishes for the day
for the night and wait for another revolution
before we meet again.
Ci son voluti anni per mettersi
in pari, tra principi e grattacapi
rosticciana e vino da un lato del tavolo
acqua e couscous dall’altro –
spinaci al centro, compromesso facile.
Ci son voluti anni per ricordarsi
dei morsi sulla schiena,
delle portiere sull’occhio,
delle altalene nel mento
con una risata o due, anche scettica.
Ci son voluti anni per trovarsi
a distanza, da un paese a un paese ad
un altro ancora, sempre di scambio econ qualche cambiamento necessario
da entrambe le parti.
Ci son voluti anni per capire
che le frasi da dire son poche
alla fine. Mm-hm. La macchina ti serve?
Skype? Andiamo a correre! Mah.
Famose ‘n serfi.
Ci son voluti anni.
Something a little different.
It’s marking season at UEA, and as tutors, we’re all losing our minds a bit. So here’s a story based on real life events,* courtesy of the microfiction account UEA140story and co-authored in marking delusions with fellow marker Kim Sherwood. Marking.
*Not based on real life events.
You say that home is where the heart is
but we would disagree,
to an extent. We’ll get back to you on that.
You say all roads lead to Rome
eventually. We’ll see about that too,
just be patient, give us time.
You say that time flies or crawls,
but we prefer to see it slide
trying to keep pace with us.
You say pride goes before a fall,
then call us lazy and inefficient
but we’re actually pretty grounded.
So do your best to bring us down,
we’ll just keep on going. Slowly.
Time and space don’t matter
here, as she walks along the brink
cautiously slipping into
and onto the shimmering page.
Time and space don’t bother
her, she looks upon the spine
slicing through light and beams
as the universe supports her.
Time does not envelop her
as she finds her space
an innermost inch, a room
to call her own, at last.
Space does not contain her
for yes, there will be time
reflected and refracted through
the chapters in her life.
Time flows and space constricts
but she, modern Promethea,
is unbound, the fallen chains
spark on weatherworn rock.
Space is fluid and time congealed
as an ice-cube washed ashore
that she may or may not pick up
take home and place on a pile
of unread pages, unfinished sketches
of a blind seer’s book.
As she steps out back into the cold
she’ll forget about it. It will melt.
Become one with the books
bleed into pages, blur the images
blend the lines, push the boundaries
and time and space won’t matter.
There will always be
more time, if you know where to
look for… oh, bugger.
and the clocks strike autumn.
She stands, alone
as the evening lingers
for a little while longer
before submitting, fully, to dark.
The snailing pavements
of streets around her
in the dimming light.
She walks, alone.
Whenever she would visit
time simply stopped.
And yet, this once,
she watches the walls peel
in dregs and flakes of
leftover summer days.
The majesty of stone
of a faith now crumbling.
She stops, alone,
to look at the creatures,
still on their towers,
watching upon the city
below them, a rhapsody
sounding through their wings
as the wind blows through.
She smiles, alone,
at the memories of past
seasons, lost and regained
with another closed circle.
tastes and smells,
from different places.
And this is where she stays.
As the ageless faces
of clocks remain silent,
as the austere backs
of walls light up,
as the grave wings
of stone rest,
we leave her here