Tag: poem

Florida

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As we rolled into Florida,

Pink, tasteless, gut-wrenching, blossom-coloured buildings

Adorn the sidewalks with big lettering

And lopsided decor.

Wide shopping strips full of Disney discounts

Arouse passers by with promises of cheap thrills

And bloated rollercoaster rides.

Applebees, Taco Bell, Red Lobster and Krispy Kreme kiosks

Make young mouths water and old wallets yawn open.

Guzzling Dr Pepper at a Chick-fil-a,

That famous southern hospitality surrounds me.

Please and thank you and door holding and excuse me’s ring through the air,

Orlando residents go about their busy days,

Ambling along highways practically co-owned by Disney,

Or at least it seems that way. Big, bulbous billboards featuring Mickey, Minnie and Pluto

Sit next to Florida orange juice deals

While Universal’s coasters perch idly in the background.

Like mother like daughter

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I’ve started donning flowery knee-length dresses,

Reminiscent of Squires garden centres and Japanese cherry blossom,

And I realise I’m turning into my mum.

She likes floaty, bell-shaped gowns with kaleidoscopic floral patterns,

The likes of which can be found in Monsoon, Oasis or Next,

Where the flowers are on steroids.

Be it tops, shirts, hats or skirts,

Madge laps them up, arms clad with fabric tulips

And strawberry-coloured petals as she waits at the checkout.

Like mother like daughter, I’ve been sucked in to these flowers,

Like a bee to honey.

In a similar vein, I get excited when buying new sponges

Fancy crockery and rainbow-coloured place mats.

Cleaning day has turned from “I don’t want to do this” to “I fucking love mopping”

And that’s how I know I’m her Mini Me.

With a splash of Dettol on that magic wand, she’ll leave cookers glistening

And floors so clean you could eat your dinner off them.

Wafts of lavender emanating from bed-sheets

And bathtubs free of pubes.

I used to stomp my feet and abhor said tasks,

But now I relish in a tidy kitchen, sweet-smelling bathroom

And smudge-less mirror.

Give me a fresh sponge and my night will be made,

Let me mop ’til the water is muddy and I’ll be satisfied.

For years I mocked mum’s love of cleaning,

Snorted at her anal ways and willingness to iron socks and knickers

‘Til the cows came home.

I guess I’d best start flinging disparaging remarks at myself,

Because I am her. And there’s no one else I’d rather be like.

The sun and old people and the madness of fashionable burning.

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What is it with old people when they come on holiday.

Mister, to achieve the shade of “pink” you’ve bravely opted for,

You might as well have stuck your head inside an oven

And roasted like a turkey.

Put some sprouts around your mouth

Stick some ‘tatoes round your buttocks,

And a pretty pink gobbler you’d make.

Mrs Saggy Bottom, do you not KNOW the danger of too much sun exposure?

A dollop of cream might banish that neon red line

Around your neck.

And to you Sir, the one I spy

Sizzling away on a sun lounger slumbering,

Haven’t you a bed that could provide more comfort,

Or do you delight in dyeing your back a deep shade of lobster red?

Sore in the morning, blistered to touch,

And yet you’ll get up and do it all over again the next day

No wonder you look like an old leather boot.

When I am home

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I am looking forward to the smoky back-garden haze,

And fog drifting over the horizon in winter.

Home is where I used to hang out of my window on the bluest of moon nights

And shuffle with Chuck Berry and Johnny Cash.

Winter is always the ripest, best, most elegant time of year

Because the ferns all sing sweetly in the breeze

And the rustle of a middle-class life echoes through the town.

Mornings are clad in grey clouds, making Gilmore Girls re-runs oh so inviting,

Sunlight peaks through, emerging from the sky’s womb,

At around 2 o’clock.

This is home to me. I’ve been away for 3 years

And now I’m desperate to find that shelter again.

Hello, eternal lover.

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He pushes his hair out of his eyes and grins. I’ve got Ketchup smeared over my chin.

A noodle ran amok and painted a pretty picture on my face.

Lunch is the best time of the day, I’m like a lioness ready to pounce.

A juicy gazelle smothered in sauce, a side of nachos, dripping with honey-laced pulled pork,

Sits before me. I feel my mouth water.

I’ve come to the conclusion, and am willing to accept,

That I am (how shall I put it?) engaging in a steamy love affair,

With food.

Feed me and you’ll have me in your pocket.

Polly pocket pig rocket,

Exploding and oinking in oodles of pleasure and zesty grunts. Roll me in sour cream and let’s have ourselves a party.

Lunch and dinner may be the highlights of my day (is that sad?)…

Saucy noodles can use my face as a canvas for all I care,

And sticky doughnut sugar can brush against my lips and tease my tongue.

Cheese can slide down my throat, fatty and unforgiving,

Choke my arteries. (If I can’t see it then it mustn’t be true, right?)

I’ll dump shrimp carcasses, burger lettuce and pizza crusts in the bin,

But food will never dump me.

The Irish Goodbye.

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On the day of my departure, I spotted a corner in her bedroom and thought about what might happen if I stayed there. Lurking, hiding, tugging at the duvet with nimble fingertips… the corner looked so comfortable, so peaceful. Shrouded beneath micro-fibres and cat hairs which always flutter up my nose and make my chest wheeze, I could stay there and not have to go back. The life of an expat isn’t always so rosy when you’re headed for a country you wish you hadn’t ventured to in the first place. And as you feel your body being shoved hard in one direction, you start to dig your heels into the ground and that corner, that tiny, honeycomb crevice of carpet and dead skin suddenly looks so appealing… The same thing happened at Disneyland. I was on my year abroad and hating every second. A moment’s joy came in the form of a weekend break to Disneyland Paris and I found myself staring at another corner (this time in a bathroom) and wondering what would happen if I just stayed there, curled up like a kitten… and never went back to my desk job. Strange, isn’t it? How corners and small spaces seem to offer comfort in dark times, beckoning me in with open arms and clutching me to their simple bosom. Safe spaces are lovely and inviting, but in a similar vein to comfort zones, nothing grows inside them.

Sixteen.

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I’m trying to remember what I was like at sixteen.
Hair flat, nails worn, a thick shell weighing heavily down on my back,
I fell in love with a rockstar with thick, tousled locks and tight, leather pants.
He was better than any boy I’d gazed at, any boy whom I’d written to on MSN.
That callous green icon flickering.

My students aren’t like sixteen year olds.
Immaculately groomed, nails chiselled, no shell displayed on their backs,
I shudder when I’m with them, hunch when I’m explaining,
Confused gazes litter the air,
And smirks and faces smacking of apathy.

But they are sixteen, that ripe old age,
When Sixteen Candles and Pretty In Pink should be a staple.
And me?
I withered like a flower in front of adults,
I retreated back into my shell in class,
(Don’t. Make. Me. Read)
I self-flagellated any chance I got,
And still do.

Where is my confidence? Am I lacking some crucial brain component?
I’ll soon be turning a quarter of a century.
So why do these sixteen year olds intimidate me?

The Gran Canarian heat

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The Gran Canarian heat has me sprawled across the stony floor like a starfish.

Pores open, chest red from sunburn,

Three showers a day is a common occurrence.

Deodorant stick runs frighteningly low,

Armpits stagnant after a hard day’s labour,

Teaching the youth of today and tomorrow.

Donning long sleeves to look presentable, more business-like, like I belong,

The fabric only clings to my fruity skin.

Famous for our lack of air conditioning,

Parents implore we purchase more fans to keep their children’s brows free from sweat,

But even when they’re blasting, and kids

With snotty-noses and grotty fingers brush their fingers along the tables,

We’re still roasting like English potatoes.

Surf’s down

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We went to a place yesterday. Where human whales flopped over beach chairs, sunburnt tourists fanned themselves with Daily Mail up-turned cones and bright beams of light fell from the sky. I so desperately wanted to be the Beach Boys’ surfer girl, tousled dirty blonde hair falling all over a speckled back and shiny shoulder blades, wading into the water’s waves and knocking them sideways with my board. But of course, I didn’t dare rent a board. Oh no, anxiety would not allow it. Think of all those people who will watch and stare as you mount, fall and wrestle with the wind when trying to transport said item from shop to shore. The beady eyes upon you, eyeing up your belly fat, your thigh wobbles, your hunched shoulders and your worried pupils darting from sand to sky from sand to sky in a super-tense flurry. Instead I watched the others paddle with all their might and come crashing down beneath the slippery surf foam, colliding with kiddies occasionally, muffling apologies and eyes turning red from their salty playground. I tried it for about ten minutes, but was knocked off and pulled under the weight of the board. Anxiety crept up and choked me, I wondered who had seen, whether they’d laughed, cracked a smile or simply not cared. I assumed the former, not the latter, and returned the board to the others, too nervous and self-conscious to continue. Unable to practise, do, say or try something new, anxiety’s grip seems to have turned into more of a strangle, and this frightens me more than the cowardly beast herself.

Week nights.

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I took to my bed like Janis Joplin to her Southern Comfort. Diving down between the sheets… earplugs in because the TV’s a-cracklin’ in the living room. Fleeting thoughts about one of my students whose curiosity puts his classmates to shame. Wondering if I’ll ever have a kid like that. Couple of Spanish words bicker inside my brain, pushing them lightly to the side, I slumber. Phoebe’s clawing outside the bedroom door… it’s 1am and the TV’s still moaning but the air is black and stuffy from my snores. He’ll come to bed eventually, I say. Phoebe will tire eventually, I say.

I awaken in the deadest of hours and open the door to her furry feline face. The TV has tired too and switched itself to mute, boyfriend sprawled across the couch with a bag of weed and a dirty jar or gherkins beside him. Midnight snacks are always devilishly peculiar, I say. Phoebe is whimpering at me, rubbing her dainty little furs against my warm shins and peering up at me with two eyes like glazed donuts. The dry food bowl is still plenty full and there’s a ring etched into the sofa from where she’s been sleeping beside her master. Hoisting my pyjamas down in the bathroom, she follows me in, dearth of any human need for privacy. All too willing to hear the gargle of the toilet just for a few measly pieces of her Whiskas luxury tin. Finally, I’m forced to scurry back to the bedroom at lightning speed to avoid her following me in. She’ll hide under the bed and then crawl on my face, I say. Like Flash, I’m gone within seconds, and poor Kitty finds herself in a state of (what she would call) starvation once again. Let her nibble on the toes of Boyfriend, I say.