Cool

I will never

be cool

I will never

be funny clever forward enough

I will never have the right thing to say

on the tip

of my tongue

I will never be bright enough

I will never be the social shooting star

the one

the core

I would not want to be

in the middle

I would shrink shirk hide

I will never be cool

have it

be happening

or whatever the fuck the word for it is now

I will always be peering through the glass

glad to be on the dark side of the glass

but wistful

about the ease style smooth

of the people in the light

 

© Elizabeth Cutts 2014

 

***

This poem wrote itself in a few minutes flat, I think I’ll need some distance before I can evaluate it honestly. The total lack of punctuation makes me a bit nervous (see – not cool).

The Hardest Word

No.

 

To say it to you

To deny your request

Is like cutting my own flesh.

 

My gut swoops and hangs

My sweat stinks my fear

My head swings in an arc

And my voice will not sound.

 

To be silent now

To deny my own wish

Is like fastening my own chains.

 

My throat closes fast

My ears hum and buzz

My breath hangs in my mouth

And my voice will not sound.

 

***

Copyright © 2014 Elizabeth Cutts

***

Today I Dismembered You, Old Friend

Today I dismembered you, old friend.

 

I took your sinewy strips of red bark

and narrow, crackling fingers

and put them on a bonfire.

 

I sliced your white fibrous limbs

into fat chunks for later.

 

It is a violation, a betrayal, a chore.

Can it be an honouring?

 

The incense scent of your sap

and the green grit of your lichens

are smeared across my skin.

 

I will miss you.

 

***

Copyright © 2013 Elizabeth Cutts

 

This is a quick’n’slapdash poem written because today my favourite tree came down in a storm. I originally posted it on my gardening blog but decided I would also post it here.

 

 

 

It’s Nothing

He stares up at the night sky
and sees no stars
just blank distance between them.
 

All the hope light life givers are
extinguished
Driven out with more nothing.
 

The sparkling things have been redacted
One by one
until all that is left is gulf.

 

***
Copyright © 2012 Elizabeth Cutts

Alien Occupation

And the moor drew back,
and away, up
into the mountainside.
Away from the alien
in its midst.
Where the armchair squatted
the moor was thin
(keep back, it’s alien)
and the armchair sat
staring at an absent t.v.
The wind eddied to avoid
disturbing the dust mites.
The armchair sat, unconcerned
infront of the mountain’s armpit
where the moor was gathering,
staring and scared
whispering
between bilberries and heather
“Beware! Beware! The alien is here.”

 

***

Copyright © 2001 Elizabeth Cutts

***

This poem is over ten years old and in fact I think it was inspired by a photo of a dumped armchair on a mountainside that I took when I was a child. It’s silly, but it makes me smile and while I don’t think it’s a great poem it has pleasant memories attached.

Wuldor

It’s cold now. With Wuldor
Winter comes, the hunter.
The gusts freeze, in frost held
Forests, deer for guest’s meat.
See over icy fronds
Arrows fly the bows grip
To find the hard tined one
Taken, kill of Shield-Ase.

***

Copyright © Elizabeth Cutts 2009

***

As you can see from the copyright date this poem is an oldish one. This was my first and (lets be honest here) only attempt at a particularly gnarly form of Old Norse verse called dróttkvætt. Wuldor is an Anglo-Saxon god probably identifiable with the Old Norse god Ullr, a hunter god of Winter. Going into winter as we are it seemed an appropriate verse to post.

Lost Words

I went to find the words
Wraiths from the past
Blind text
Some turns of phrase
turning through my life like seagulls
living on scraps of crap. Detritus
Some mediocre mouthings in the wind
Flipping in my past
Mutterings
But they’re gone
drifting away
neglected fading in old formats
Unreachable
on unreadable blank scraps of
black plastic
If they are even there
shifting away from me on
currents of my life
of my past
twisting against the stream
Forgotten

I try to catch them
twisting away turning through
water air thought memory
Unknowing
How much flesh will they yield
scraps of shimmer and ghost and pain
Foolish

***

Copyright © 2011 Elizabeth Cutts