Away

I went to the Irish countryside

to get away from you

To breathe the clearer air in

To breathe you out for good.

Myself, ah, I found myself again!

 

I found Laughter

a cabin in the woods.

Thank goodness

Ireland made me a home,

Because I was never home

with you.

 

In Rathdrum, County Wicklow

mountains, streams,

and forestry,

A little farm

away from you,

You far away from me.

 

How refreshing to wake up to birdsong

instead of your mother tongue,

When you would drown me in water kisses.

How you would laugh

as I held my breath 

counting, 1,2,3

 

screaming

internally

1,2,3

Let me go let me go 

let me leave.

Monday Mornings

You reminded me of a Monday morning cigarette break.

That between awake and asleep

Feeling,

Wishing

the day away,

With my rolled-up heart

Charred around the edges

lusting

for the blackness

That came with your presence.

Your kiss with its darkness

And your charcoal throat

The same warmth

that arrived with a raspy inhalation

of smoke through nose to chest,

My tar lungs and cigarette breath.

Burnt out amber

Of orange and black

Sparks against pavement,

The miniature fireworks

Under my fake Laboutin shoe.

You were my

Narcotic, Insomniac Addiction

Darling, Come Monday morning,

I thought of you.

Folded

“Am I still your favourite person?”

I asked, eyes wide,

Arms wrapped behind my back like folded

Linen laundry,

Egyptian cotton.

Can you unfold me and

tug at the frayed  edges until we forget they existed,

Kiss me clean.

“Am I still your favourite person?” I ask,

Or just forgotten

dirty

laundry.

Read Poem: Until I Met You, by Tina Culora

Please check out my poem ‘Until I Met You’ published on festivalforpoetry.com

POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film.

I didn’t consider myself a writer until I met you.

You were all scruffy hair and spectacles

at the end of your nose,

all classic novels

and 20 cups of tea

to keep you going

your tap, tap, tap on your writing desk

with your ink-stained finger tips.

I inspired you, you had said

once

and I clung to this long after you had forgotten,

Your gentle smile and freckles and your one armed hugs

I

wrapped myself in your wool jumper that winter

jotting down pencil words in messy notebooks,

with sore fingertips on typewriter keys,

I am certain

I wasn’t a writer

Until you inspired me.

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Manon

Paris was vibrant,

the outskirts, charcoal.

In dark corners

the women in red

lifted skirts for men in top hats.

Manon

was a demi-monde beauty,

scarlett dressed and wide-eyed,

Harlot,

They called her,

The men with grasping hands

who were always hungry.

An animal appetite

behind human eyes

A  beast in a suit.

If you listened carefully you could almost hear a hint of a growl

from the corner of his mouth

The sweat on his brow

window-wiped

with a lipstick blood handkerchief

Discarded

Before he returned home to his wife.

The silk strings on Manon’s corset were

always loose,

Ready for eager  fingertips,

That were too rough.

Fight for Us

I always thought we’d find our way back together, somehow, sometime, someplace.                                                                                    And we did. But we were older and we had changed.

You had made me cold.

You left. You were always good at walking away.

You did not look back this time.

You should have told me that you wanted to fight.

Until I Met You

I didn’t consider myself a writer until I met you.

You were all scruffy hair and spectacles

at the end of your nose,

all classic novels

and 20 cups of tea

to keep you going

your tap, tap, tap on your writing desk

with your ink-stained finger tips.

I inspired you, you had said

once

and I clung to this long after you had forgotten,

Your gentle smile and freckles and your one armed hugs

I

wrapped myself in your wool jumper that winter

jotting down pencil words in messy notebooks,

with sore fingertips on typewriter keys,

I am certain,

I wasn’t a writer,

Until you inspired me.