"I could sense your happiness even though I was your small dot of hope and your bond to faith. Sounds of celebration, contentment, I could hear them all. We spoke about us, our lives after I arrive. Your caressing touch as you spoke to me. I wish I could touch your hands back. Early days they were, was a matter of time.
Staring at her reflection, she could hardly recognise the face that she had lovingly pampered, that morning. Whilst rubbing it with the granules of the latest product that would give her skin a new life. She wandered bitterly, if there was some mixture that would breathe new life into her body, perhaps it would erase the memory of what had happened. She had, in carefree moments actually imagined herself with Darren. These thoughts had plagued her mind when he had been safely married, or when she herself had been in one of her relationships.
This has been a mixed month that I have enjoyed. I have been writing this month just talking a lot about the Shake the Dust project. It is getting really good at present, a lot of my group in Young Identity are becoming very proactive and seem really driven. Their excitement is infectious and I look forward to more of this during the following months. However this process has made me think I used to sit where they sit so out of no where I feel really old, yet only slightly wiser I guess it is weird what can spark your own thoughts of mortality.
I never looked at poetry changing my life until recently as I just neglected to think how poetry has got me through the rough times as well as good times. The way poetry is a way to express myself no matter what my mood an avenue to be destructive or positive. To show my joy with events and my discontent to spread like locus or vanish in an instance. Poetry has changed me into believing in ideas and revolution maybe this comes from the fact I used to squat only time will tell.
We the many have been occupied
By the few, impotent of that moral compass that drives
Back on Stockport Rd road I spot a red red sled dangling on a shop hook – if it snows this month it’ll be good for when she visits, though Levenshulme is all flat bogs, I could be a husky to her driver, rope round my waist – now would that be hernia territory or good for the heart according to the doctors at the blue cube surgery by car crash junction where I haven’t yet registered? -the one next to the unfinished mosque (Donations dried up? Planning trouble?) - you know the one?
Well I have always steered clear from writing too much on blogs as I just saw it as people needing to moan or just talk about themselves a lot.
I would like to apologise for this crude view as I have seen it do so much more, it can be used for fun, to exercise those personal demons and all sorts in fact it is a very useful tool.
Anyway my name is Danni Skerritt and I am a lesser known writer meandering from genre to different medium if it can be written I have tried it or am in the process of making it happen.
Her silky scarf covers her hair, trailing around her neck. It is powder blue; attractive, as is her face. Her dress trails to the floor, her body covered for modesty. The pot of Ginger tea is steaming and you remember the biscuits you ate as a child with lashings of hot milk. The logs on the fire burn delicately; the heat embraces you as you sit and cup your mug. The table displays a single gerbera, stemmed with wire. The waitress wears a flowery dress and she has tartan ribbons in her hair. She skates towards you, and brings with her a plate of pink cup cakes.
A textory from Hafsah Naib's Some Text series... and some words based on that work...
I found these bits of confetti, they led me to a strange clearing in the woods, I didn't bother screaming for help just howled to the wolves so that our ancient hunger could be satisfied.
Some Text (c) Hafsah Naib 2011
I'm too curious.
Someone had left the word
in the grass.
As I approached it,
I could see more,
and beyond that 'woods'.
The bushes were getting thicker.
I could see a word to my left
but 'help' was ahead.
Books & Covers
A book is born with a cover, yet no author thinks 'what should the cover look like?' as they write. Instead the words pour forth, the words are the art, a cover should be immaterial, it is merely a fetish object, the bizzarre attachment of emotion to a content as yet undiscovered by the prospective reader. We can fall in love with a cover, prize it, give it pride of place on our coffee table - 'this is who we are', we declare. We are these books. You need not have read them. Simply contemplate the covers - they declare my learning, my wisdom, my humour, my hidden depths.