The furiosity of butterflies

there’s this feeling I can’t get rid of,

i can’t out run it,

can’t escape it

it shakes me to my core.

sometimes

i think it may have disappeared

i relax, breathe, enjoy

but it returns all too soon.

the clenching,

the writhing,

the fear,

tangling its way through my head

no matter how much I meditate

or run

or talk

or do anything that you would-be experts

seem to think I should do,

tell me to do,

it remains.

the only constant that I can be sure of.

it may leave me for a day,

at times, a week

but it will certainly

always

return.

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Sympathy for the animal sidekick

A continuation of U A Fanthorpe’s poem ‘Not my best side’

It’s all very well, this

virgin saving, but I always end up questioning

what’s in it for me?

The girl gets saved, the dragon dies,

this guy on my back, wearing the entire armoury (not realising,

had the dragon breathed fire,

as is traditional dragon behaviour,

he would have been cooked alive

like a jacket potato in tin foil)

gets the girl and the fame,

and all I get is a scratch under the chin,

a carrot, and another painting to add

to my slowly growing collection

in the stables. Hardly seems fair

when without me, he wouldn’t have

got anywhere in the first place,

especially on those matchstick legs.

 

https://i2.wp.com/english.emory.edu/classes/paintings&poems/uccello.jpg

Blizzard

Drifting crystals shimmer under street-light,
boots pull through the grey white sand.
The hole, ignored in November,
leaves February’s toes unfeeling.
Red hot ice forms fingers in unravelling mittens,
wind attacks the hood, flake shards spiking behind plastic frames.
Time slows, quiets, before puddles form on doorsteps.

The Staircase

The edge of the carpet is fraying,

peeling up – it will soon be nothing.

it used to hold such fun,

bum slides down, crawls up

but now it only holds stains.

The house is no longer yours,

but the bannisters bear your fingerprints,

marks from a time when you were carried

on the shoulders of your father,

from back when your mother knew your name.

Boxes sit at the bottom of the staircase,

but you feel the need to sit here a while,

take it all in,

before you had this house over to new memory makers.

Installment in the Turbine Hall of the Tate

A single red ball

rolls to stop.

It sits alone for a while,

some people come and look at it

and slowly, it gains friends,

balls of all different colours joining it

piling up, spilling out,

each one filled with a secret to be learnt

only by inquisitive strangers,

secrets detached,

the weight released from their bearers,

left floating in the void.

A problem shared is a problem halved;

these secrets become millionths of the size

they used to embody to their bearers,

and minor curiosities for visitors.

 

Some of them come back to visit,

curious to see what the others have shared.

They never find their own secrets

and indeed, never remember them.

They are lost in a sea of regrets and things better left unsaid.

 

The balls are recycled, after it’s all over,

forming pens, bottles, all manner of things,

their secrets hidden forever.

 

The first red ball returns

to the pocket of its creator,

becoming a memento of when things so trivial

carried more significance.

The Gallery

Footsteps pass in front of them first, the workers:

the milkmaid carrying two urns of milk under a glowing moon,

the farmer leading his cows down to the river, burning in the heat of the rising sun,

the watchful shepherd, shivering, hungering, and waiting.

Through the glass doors, the girl stares from under fifteen layers of petticoats,

curious as to the events taking place on the other side.

Her brother scorns her, young though he is, knowing that their role is in this room,

talking to the old man and woman whose powdered faces lead them to an early grave –

they all look down their nose at the glass doors.

The dog by the girl’s feet yaps, yearning to break free and paddle in the untamed stream

that passes through the workers, sick of the neatly trimmed grass

being the only outside beneath his paws.

These huge oil figures are immortalised apart,

destined for years of separate rooms, seperate lives,

no matter where their gazes may lead.

The Ringing

I thought it was normal

The ringing

So when the doctor asked me

‘When did it start?’

I had to tell him that I couldn’t remember not hearing it.

It used to be just in the quiet of the night,

When everyone was in bed,

That my ears would fill with the high pitched hum

But the volume has been turned up over the years

Now it persists constantly,

Only ever drowned out by noise that turns my ears

into three hundred pound weights in the morning.

When I strain to hear something, the ringing becomes offended,

And rings ever louder to grab my attention.

The ringing is not only a noise,

It is a constant distraction,

It is an ache through my skull,

And it almost seemed to mock me in the doctor’s office

When I was told there was no way of stopping it.

 

© Alyx Hurst 2017

Under the customer service smile

The clock on my car

(which is always seven minutes fast)

tells me that I am three minutes late

and I sigh

the click of my seatbelt unfastening

making my heart flutter and thrum. A new day

in this hellscape begins.

The next time I get in this car, I will be

exhausted, probably

will not have eaten for ten hours,

and have been standing up for

just as long, and unless

my boss has had her 9am pinot grigio,

will probably have been yelled at at least twice.

The gravel slips under my feet

I sneak a glance through the window,

I don’t see them,

I am relieved, for a second.

I greet my colleague, who is clearly high, again,

greet the chef, already busy chopping –

he inhales his way to an early grave regularly

in pursuit of five minutes of peace.

We all brace when the boss walks in,

wanting to be a victim of just a patronising word

and a smile, rather than face her full wrath.

I give a rueful smile to the regulars in for lunch who say ‘it must be wonderful

to work here.’ I clock out

at half past six, stomach growling, head misting,

and drive home along roads stained with tears.

© Alyx Hurst 2017

The Turtle

She shuffles, head bowed

through the rain, desperate

to make it back home.

The shell on her back gets heavier 

with every step,

she pauses, 

turtles,

and starts again.

She tries not to complain, 

for this is the baggage she chose to bear

but there are days like this

when the weight becomes difficult to shoulder.
She persists.