Creative Corner… BECKIE STEWART

Two original poems by Beckie Stewart, poet and editor of Manchester borne literary journal, Black and BLUE.

 

Anchored in Cataluña

 

Sat on a bar stool east of Tàrrega when you could be
home by now and bored, a hot meal in you and a sleep
that would cure the late night city itch. Tonight I leave
voiceless pleas on your answering machine recording
the defunctness of your love.

You told me you kept dreaming of drowning on the shores
of Connemara, legs clamped in weeds lungs filled
with stones and sea glass. That was a few weeks ago.

I found shells in my pocket yesterday. You said death was in-
elegant and untrue. I asked what the view was like from up there
turning away from you.

Where you are the sidewalk is burning where are you
these houses are burning. Along the orange groves
roadkill taints the heat. You count the miles to home
and know your legs won’t take you there, know
a good sleep won’t save you, that the sea
stitches a space for a bitter moon
to grey the waves and keep you there.

Theo, it has been three weeks.

Tell me you still dream of stars that fall
like ash from the grate of our hearth
tell me you know your way home in the dark

because last night I dreamt an arc of Northern sky
an ice clear sea scratched gold and you blue
cold hands filled with reins of weeds
bridling that tide, and failing.


The difference now makes

 

Round and childish there was a time
your hands fit perfectly into mine, now
they get claustrophobic. Now
I’m on my back trying to sell the world
a trick selling myself the idea of you
as a fever. There were 6 dreams in a row
where you got to be the hero and
I wasn’t the villain just an observer
not even first person narrator.
I thought this would get easier.

I am wondering what it all means.

I thought I saw you on a bus in Old Town but
it was just a guy with bad posture chewing
his fingernails. I am trying to remember
all the shit that you’ve done but can only
think of German beers, bare legs in summer. Can
only remember you as half a person in my bath
at Easter. Can only see how I should still be
in love with you but can’t now. Your hands
they don’t fit in mine. Your hands are fists
and mine open palms of surrender. I am trying
to remember. Now you’re saying it can be us
just with the volume turned down
and I am wondering what that could mean.

Visit the Black and BLUE site at: www.blackbluewriting.com

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