Eat My Words!

EAT MY WORDS! Steve Garrett

Eat My Words!

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First Impression 2016 Copyright  Steve Garrett 2016

Steve Garrett has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this Work.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the Author.

Book orders: Steve Garrett culturalconcerns@onetel.com www.stainless-steve.me.uk 07814 770450

To get regular free ‘Tw*oems’ (Twitter poems) follow Steve on @stainlesssteeve

Cover design:  Steve Garrett 2016

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Contents Dancing With Demons Birthday Underground Music My Father’s Books A Thorn Amidst the Roses Left Field Match of the Night Puppy Love Coming In Just a Hunch Giving Thanks On Safari Delilah The Power of Now Mountain Man Spring Front Line Tourists Who Do I Love?

What Doesn't Kill You Love’s Not… Ghosts Boxed Out Totally Bananas!

Shackleton’s Dream Unrequited Love Child Inspired by a True Story We’ve Been Invaded Corporate Makeover Falling Disappointed HAIKU Stiff One Night Stand Sweet Pain Seduction Short and Sweet

5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 35 36

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Dedicated to everyone who is brave enough to risk living from the heart.

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Dancing With Demons Dark figures lurk in the shadowed corners of men’s hearts, waiting for love’s flood to reach them.

Like women scorned, they’ll wreak revenge if they’re ignored; but if we approach them, with the shy passion of fresh faced schoolboys eyeing miracles of girlhood at the local dance, inwardly wincing at any suggestion of rejection, they will caress and contain us; whirl us out into the light as we surrender to their steps.

A faint heart never won anything; least of all the right to dance, where our deepest wounds become our inner lovers and our greatest gifts.

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Birthday

Once more you unfold, as I enfold you and feel you flowering; contained and containing.

Tender girl with dreams of sweet surrender; caring woman who makes her own way.

You let me into your darkness, where I plant a seed which feeds you, and frees you.

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Underground Music She sits there each day; blank-eyed and shapeless, squeezing an accordion is if it were a fearful child. while her fingers ramble randomly, and release plaintive melodies which are revealed, on closer listening, to be no more than collections of notes; members of a dysfunctional musical family, desperate to get away from each other, but fated to be together.

I used to imagine that, with time’s passing, a miraculous music held captive in that box of reeds and keys would one day be released though her fingertips to hang brightly in the dank air; reaching out to the spirit in all of us with an invitation to dance.

But her soul has stayed closed.

Times in my life have felt like this, when no harmony could be conjured from skill or circumstance.

I was only going through the motions, in the hope that connectedness would return like a prodigal child, to tears of remorse over time lost and of joy for what might yet be found.

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My Father’s Books There are piles of them everywhere, stifling me with their mute reproach; gathering dust like a precious commodity, to be clutched and closely guarded.

Those tomes are tombs, encasing dead and desiccated words, as drained and faded as the soft field flowers my sister squeezed the life from in her under-consulted Oxford English.

I crack one open, and a reek of mould erupts, shunting my memory into instant recall of threadbare bibles on oft-polished, old oak pews; universes of dust caught in the sharp shafts of light which slice through the gloom and ennui of the obligatory Sunday Service I head back to my laptop, grateful for its windows opening onto a world of living information.

Those books can wait.

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A Thorn Amidst The Roses I’ve wrapped up our golden moments and stored them to be savoured later on special occasions.

I’ll try to forget they’re there; like the craved Roses chocolates, hidden in our mother’s wardrobe while Christmas crawled too slowly towards us.

When I revisit those sweet memories, I’ll choose my favourites first (usually hard outside with soft dark centres); postponing for as long as possible the sad moment when all that’s left is the cloying sweetness, of orange crème and Turkish delight.

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Left Field That impossibly high spinning ball, a boot-powered upward swoop propelled with passion into the whitening sky, lifts my heart with its impudent disdain for earth’s greedy need to draw everything to her.

Despite all the skill and concentration applied to that leather egg, the innate unpredictability of its ovoid shape means that, on returning groundwards, it’s the luck of the bounce which decides which way the ball, and the game, goes.

Like the chance encounters of sperm and egg which created all our beginnings, life’s inherent randomness impels us to give up all illusions of control, and accept what comes our way with grace and celebration.

The game of rugby, held so close to our Welsh hearts, teaches this wisdom well.

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Match of the Night Let’s play!

I promise a level field.

You start.

Dribble around me as much as you want; I‘ll only offer token resistance, and you’ll always be on-side.

Try any kicks you like; there are no rules, and no penalties.

Handball is definitely permitted.

My tackles will be friendly, and if I take a dive it will only be to keep things interesting.

I’ll put my balls in your net whenever you want.

Just don’t let me score too soon.

The game would have to stop for rest and refreshments, and the only thing getting blown could be the final whistle.

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Puppy Love Like a young dog bounding though buttercups glowing gold in late afternoon sun, I retrieved the verbal sticks that you tossed with such studied insouciance.

I fetched each treasure to you, tail wagging wildly with fragile pride, but was unable to give them back; trapped in an anxious ambivalence between the need to please and a fear of letting go.

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Coming In Across the restless water, waves tease and flirt; pushed and pulled by a shoreline uncertain whether to embrace, or repel those shining invasions.

Soft and unstoppable; they suck in strength with every cleaning sweep, while myriad pebbles rattle in futile discontent.

The darkening surface hunches; a foam flecked back which swells and crests, then bursts forward rushing hungrily to possess the languid sand; and roars in surrender as it spreads to cover her before gathering back in shy retreat, as if ashamed of such fully spent exuberance.

Fools may resist the ocean’s ancient strength; the wise learn how to ride her. .

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Just a Hunch Born to be wild and reviled.

A heart of darkness living in the shadows.

A beast with no beauty; an ugly otherness, ducking and diving, sneaking and hiding.

Masking the enormity of my deformity.

I’m ready to clean up my act; cast off that distorted inheritance, and come out into the open.

Praying that you’ll see through my lying disguise and, sensing a sweetness under thickened skin, kiss me deeply until I metamorphose into a smooth amphibian who leaps without looking; long legs extending; hope eternally springing.

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Giving Thanks Even though I would give him a good kicking for wounding and confusing you, I also thank the man who lacked the courage to love you; that ghost hovering in your heart, whose taking flight left an ache which still clenches you in self protection.

It is only because of his fear that you are free to unfold with me now.

I hope there are lion-hearted men somewhere embracing past loves of mine with a similar sense of gratitude. Â

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On Safari I yearn to travel deep into your jungle; and visit places no man has seen.

Stumble upon shameless blooms which seduce with their ecstatic openings; and find a clearing where I can rest.

Discover new life forms in hidden crevices, and revel in the calls of wild birds as they take flight in you.

Burrowing deep into your undergrowth, I’ll seek caves hiding precious stones in need of polishing, and wait patiently for shy creatures to emerge before pushing my way to your hidden spring, where I’ll drink my fill, entwined by orchids, until emerging, smiling and tongue-tied.

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Delilah From the wish to exorcise our deep-felt fear of softness, and soothe the ache of disconnection from the feminine, we men can lose what we love most, by trying to prove our invulnerability.

And so we sing out from stadium stands to commemorate the love-crazed killing of Tom’s temptress from Treforest.* In our present tenseness and the false safety of our sad isolation, we are trying, and dying, to forget our need for the women who reared us.

We always hurt the ones we love, and would, it seems, rather kill our Earth Mother than risk remembering we are her children.

*The 1968 Tom Jones hit “Delilah”, which describes the killing of his former lover by a jealous man, became an unofficial anthem for the fans of Wales’ rugby team and until recently was regularly sung by them at matches. In has since been ‘banned’.

Tom was born and raised in the Welsh Valley’s former mining town of Treforest.

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The Power of Now If our planetary home-sweet-home is nothing more than a speck in space, insignificant in the universal scheme of things, why all the fuss about who owns what, and who owns whom?

On this, possibly our last lap to oblivion, we can surely afford to relax about such petty matters of self-importance.

So let’s salute that monk of Zen legend, clinging to the edge of a precipice who picked and tasted a strawberry, which filled his soul with unspeakable sweetness just before he fell smiling into the jaws of a tiger waiting patiently below.

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Mountain Man I needed to climb this mountain; big MAN stuff!

(A woman wouldn't understand.)

The challenge, the satisfaction, and the elevated perspective.

Perhaps most of all, to prove that I could.

I only wish I hadn’t made it out of such a small mole hill.

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Spring White blossomed cherry trees powder the landscape; soft eruptions of spring’s awakening.

Deep in the woods, patient pines wait in line; dignified and tall-standing, bathed in late afternoon light, and echoing birdsong.

When a chainsaw’s banshee shriek tears through the air, a multi-fluttering of wingbeats signals the birds’ escape to safety and the trees brace themselves in surrender to the inevitable.

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Front Line I’m going over the top: white flag in one hand, cock in the other.

After too long in this defensive trench I’m ready to bite all bullets; stand in the firing line and take the heat.

No more pot shots, or lobbing bombs across the gender divide.

Forgoing all future skirmishes, I’m ready to meet you naked in the middle of no man’s land and dance.

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Tourists

She contains and tames the day’s bright moments, capturing them for some future show-and-tell; false memories of a presentness missed by living through a lense.

He sculpts time’s softness into something bird-like; breathes life into it, then follows its wild flight.

She strides ahead, a clear destination in mind.

He dawdles to pick flowers; savouring the river’s symphony.

She has their life mapped out; a sense of how, and when, things have to be.

But he needs to improvise.

On this, their first and last journey together, common ground eludes them; as does, for now, the courage to go their separate ways.

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Who Do I Love?

The bad one; the mad one; the sometimes can be sad one.

The smart one; the sharp one; the loves-it-from-the-start one.

The kind one; the mind one; the beautiful-behind one.

The real one; the heals one; the likes-to-cop-a-feel one.

The strong one; the ‘wrong’ one; the knows-where-she-belongs one.

Not ...

The good one; the ‘would’ one; the doing-what-she-should one.

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What Doesn’t Kill You A former prisoner of war told me of a guard who seemed to enjoy forcing rotten meat into his mouth. in what seemed a pointless punishingment.

But years later he understood that this apparent cruelty was the only thing which had kept him alive.

Whether it was an act of benign subterfuge, or a wish to harm, with unintended consequences, remains unknown.

The truth which emerges is that: when life seems at its harshest, it may be giving us exactly what we need.

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Love’s not: Overnight, a bed of roses appeared in her garden; their yearned for fragrance and light, masking the improbability of such a swift flowering.

The petals quickly wilted, as if in shame, and on closer inspection, she found rootless stems planted in haste by a suitor from a misplaced desire to easily please.

In the depth of her disappointment, as she vowed to never again embrace such false hope, her tears secretly watered a deeply buried seed which sprouted and grew unseen; astounding her with a sudden blossoming on the occasion of meeting her future love.

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Ghosts Parental ghosts, hovering in the corners of my life long after they should have left; intrude at inopportune moments to tell me again why I shouldn't be living, or loving, the way I want.

It’s time to eject those unwelcome guests; thank them for their advice; forgive them for being wrong, (they didn’t know any better); and ask if there’s anything I can do to help them move on.

Then kick them out, and change the locks.

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Boxed Out I thought I was boxing clever, keeping us both in the dark about my uncertain intentions.

Weaving and bobbing; ready to evade the expected sucker punch, that never came.

Only when you tired of my feinting and left the ring, did I wish I had been brave enough to dance with you differently.

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Totally Bananas The banana marketing people are missing a trick.

Some men pay serious money for a hacked off rhino’s nose, believing its generous dimensions will enhance their sexual credentials; so surely this famously phallic fruit could gain an equal reputation for aphrodisiac effects.

And, unlike swallowing ground bone, there’s at least a chance that digesting its flesh would enhance horizontal performances

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Shackleton’s Dream Your eyes, burnished in the fire of fearlessness, reflect my projections back to me, until they come barking at my door like wolves from the wilderness.

I pacify and recruit them to pull my sled through the frozen waves, drawing ever nearer to the magnetic attraction of my own true north.

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Unrequited I showed you mine but you wouldn’t show me yours.

I dug words from deep places, and arranged them in front of you; you smiled wanly and walked past.

I piled my stall high with fresh fruits; you picked them over, and bought elsewhere.

I put on my best clothes and sang sentimental songs under your balcony; you gave a wave, and closed the curtains.

I dissected myself in front of you, labelled all my vital organs; but you skipped biology that day.

I picked fragrant flowers to place at your door; you opened your window to let in the scent, then left them to wither.

I strutted my stuff on the dance floor hoping to catch your eye; but you had already left.

Finally it was time to have it out with you, (in a manner of speaking).

Taking my deepest breath I declared an undiminished desire.

You said you liked me well enough; just not in ‘that’ way.

And would I like some tea

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Love Child We arrived from different worlds and collided by coincidence.

Conception was on a train; incubation followed, and love was born to us, full of hope and desire.

Survival was uncertain at the start; the prognosis poor, and the future uncertain.

Yet with faith and passion we kept her alive to grow stronger day-by-day, full of light and laughter.

Nursing her through sleep-starved nights when death seemed imminent, only made our love’s life more precious to us; surviving and thriving against all odds.

We held love close, comforted and nourished her, She responded with promises of possibility; and we allowed ourselves to hope that she might live long, and all would be well.

Such hopes are not foolish; they are what charge our hearts in the face of doubt and discouragement.

But they cannot alter the inevitable.

Our love was destined for a premature departure from this world.

I still feel the pain of her loss as keenly as if it were a missing limb, but cannot wish she’d never been born.

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‘Inspired by a true story’ Although she said I was her thirteenth lover, I didn’t feel unlucky at all (not realising she meant ‘that week’).

Then I noticed her two black cats; the ladder over the door; and an opened umbrella in the bedroom next to a broken mirror.

I started carrying a rabbit’s foot for protection and t must have helped.

Because when she stole my wallet and hacked into my bank account, both of them were already empty.

Unlike my heart; If only she’d tried to steal that instead.

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Corporate Makeover We’ve been invaded!

The bastards crept up on us when no one was looking; now they’ve got a stranglehold on our hearts and souls.

They’ve paid off the right people, and trapped the rest of us to be shot like fish in a barrel.

Our imaginations have been seduced by their empty promises; shines and smiles, hiding true intentions behind a slick artifice of multi-mediated messages telling us who we should, and shouldn’t, be.

Propagating a sense of personal shortfall which prepares us perfectly to keep doing, and buying, what we’re told.

Make no mistake about it; they’re after our lifeblood; and we’ve let them drink their fill.

It’s time to join the Resistance; put our money where our minds are!

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Deep Diving I dive into your smiles (the horizontal and the vertical) and, holding my breath, go ever more deeply into you until I hit bottom.

Oysters wait patiently there for their sea-stroked shells to be cunningly cracked, and their pearls picked.

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Disappointment She’d hoped he would set her heart on fire; but it turned out he was more arse than arsonist.

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HAIKU Out on a Limb A stiff branch quivers.

Blossom showers over you.

Fragrance fills the air.

One Night Stand Rise and shine.

Ebb and flow.

Give and take.

Come ‌ and go.

Sweet Pain Soft blossoms first push their roots through hardened ground; pain bringing sweetness.

Seduction With you, my cock up was a conspiracy.

Short and Sweet Man comes.

Mangoes.

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Steve Garrett

Steve lives in Cardiff and writes poems for our challenging times. His writing covers some ‘big issues’, from global warming to relationships, with a humorous touch, aiming to entertain and intrigue.

Steve’s wry observations of life and love are wary, but not cynical – still hopeful, despite life’s many paradoxes and disappointments, and inspired by the belief that insightful words can help us know and appreciate ourselves and each other better.

“Your poems have a warm, wry quality which you combine with incisive insights”.

Gillian Drake: Roundyhouse publishers.

‘Steve has dug deep…but several readings may be necessary to appreciate the writer's pithy revelations’.

Tony Webb: poet, writer

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