I couldn’t make my ‘I hate modern feminists’ rant into something reader-friendly so I thought I’d post a poem instead. It’s rare I write in verse and I did this one for some themed competition or another…

I always think I suck at poetry because people read so much into it, and there’s never anything more to mine than the words as they stand. Apparently though, other people don’t seem to agree with me. I’ve got poetry coming out in two anthologies very shortly – two and half (M- is my co-author on one) in the Olympia book  Expression- The Olympia Poetry Anthology 2009 and one in Forward Press’s “Animal Antics”… not bad for someone who wouldn’t know a literary technique if it jumped around in front of her screaming, “I’m onomatopoeia – Take me, woman, use me!”

It isn’t about myself, incidentally. I plagiarised the idea of someone standing at the door with a suitcase from the Del Amitri song  ‘It’s Never too Late to be Alone”, specifically the lines, “You can find yourself one day staring into space / With a suitcase waiting by the door  / You can think you’ve got it made / ’til it hits you in the face / That these are not the people you wanted to be before”…


They’re bitter-sweet, these things around.
Remnants of the life I’d found…
…Or thought I had, at any rate.
And pushing on in other ways
Will not bring back those bygone days,
nor cause these feelings to abate.

And so it is that here I stand,
with suitcase and car-keys in hand,
with fingers round the handle curled.
And were this door not burdened with
a sadness that in some ways is
regret, then I could face the world.

But leaving now with all unsaid
about the ways we’ve been misled
seems honourless and cowardly
and through all other tribulations
problems, trials and complications,
honourable we’ve tried to be.

So it is I close the door
remember what we’re married for
and put the waiting kettle on.
there happens now a brief delay
until I softly put away
the signs that I was almost gone.