INDIGO DREAMS

PUBLISHING LTD

 

BODIES

Gareth Writer-Davies is a gardener from Letchworth, Hertfordshire, UK

 

He was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and the Erbacce Prize in 2014 and also Highly Commended in the Geoff Stevens Memorial Prize in 2012 and 2013.

 

Gareth has been widely published over the last few years, in magazines such as Poetry News, The Journal, Bare Fiction, Ink, Sweat and Tears, A New Ulster, Sarasvati, The Delinquent.

 

He is a member of Poetry ID, the North Herts Stanza of The Poetry Society, for whom he has organised community events and a collection of Orwell inspired poetry.

 

His poetry has also been included in arts festivals within the UK.

 

 

 

Gareth Writer-Davies

 

Bodies

 

ISBN 978-1-909357-71-6

 

Indigo Dreams Publishing

 

Poetry

 

138 x 216mm

 

36 pages

 

£6.00 + P&P UK

 

PUB: February 2015

 

 

ORDER HERE

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love

 

I have grown to respect you

For years I took you for granted

And I was losing you

 

But now

Head to toe

I have grown into you

 

And as a token of my love

I forgive my nose

I forgive my gut

I forgive my lachrymose eyes

 

And lying in the bath

I like your imagination

My knee a turtle

My penis magnified

 

I like my hair greying

The moles on my skin

I like the still hard muscle of my thighs

 

I love you

And now

I don't want to lose you

 

 

 

The Slim Shape

 

my mother was 36 24 36

 

I did not know what this meant

when I pushed in

the pointy tip of her bra

and watched it pop out again

 

it made me laugh

it made her laugh too

 

I like the boyish figure

slim hipped

not much of an arse

 

but I can never share my heart with those

whose clothes

take a straight line and hold to it

 

mother was a flirt

who married young

then thought better of it

 

but her round laugh

her round singsong head

was my first and only love

 

when the slim shape came in

she gave up and faded away at the edges

 

my mother was 36 24 36

 

but she

was without measure

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Song Of The Hips

after Lucille Clifton

 

my hips are ships

 

my hips are strong / my hips are wide

my hips follow the tide

 

my hips are mighty hips

I am captain of these hips

 

my hips have a jolly crew

my hips fly the red / white and blue

 

my hips hold precious cargo / my hips have tattoos

 

my hips are ropes / my hips are sails

my hips have a mermaid on their prow

 

when seas are rough / my hips come around

 

my hips weigh anchor / my hips bear true

my hips are meant for you

 

ahoy! / my hips! / they are ships!

 

 

 

Gut Flora

 

to breast milk and intestinal mucosa

we give thanks

 

for each baby blooming with bacteria

we give thanks

 

a florist would charge an arm and a leg

for such a bouquet

 

we give thanks for spores

for the way

that each part of the body tidies

up after itself

 

and working like a smooth semiotic machine

the great intestinal gardener

gathers muck into the magic chamber of the bowel

 

which we treasure

to bring forth night soil

and flowers

from the effort of our daily toil

 

without the flora of our guts

we would be

idle

too fatigued to raise our finger for a cuppa

to eat our supper

 

we would slowly waste away

 

for each protozoa

we give thanks

 

 

between parasite and host

there is always

a symbiotic relationship

 

so we pray

that forever there shall be

digestive harmony

 

a signifier

between good health

and catastrophe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tortoise

for my grand-children

 

the skin that I'm in

is hard

hoary like a tortoise

 

a kagoul is my shell

 

working in all weathers

there is always more to do

 

stones that gather

like scathed children  

weeds

that nothing will kill

 

I slowly munch through the roots

dig through dirt

to the bone

 

the skin that I'm in

is a carapace of keratin

that I've grown into

 

my hooded head

perfectly self contained

 

in a hundred years

though giant

I may be forgotten

 

but scrape your knees

and you shall know me

 

 

Ode To The Spleen

 

my spleen has enlarged

taking over the function of the heart

 

my spleen thuds

with the blood of ill humour

 

like a wasps nest hanging by a petiole

my spleen chews

capriciousness into poison

 

a reservoir of melancholy

my spleen burns

to exudate the blood

flood each vascular organ

 

my spleen withers

like a grape on the vine

the cup of death is the sweetest wine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The poems in Bodies are viscerally beautiful. They have the beauty of viscera: rich, vital, and gleaming. In this pamphlet the world of the flesh is elevated, granted the transcendence of art. It reminds us that the body is, in truth, the medium for all art; 'For breast milk and intestinal mucosa we give thanks'. Read it and rejoice in the blunt wonder of living.”

Bethany W Pope

 

“‘The body is the great poem’ says Wallace Stevens. Following Stevens’ advice, these poems truly inhabit the body, inspecting various elements of the human body with wit, insight, productive curiosity, and assurance.  It is often said that to de-familiarize familiar experience is a task for poetry – and here the poet shakes us out of our complaisance about the body which we take so much for granted. These poems do indeed ‘sing the body electric’ in poems that are fresh, exciting and immediate.”

Penelope Shuttle

 

“Gareth Writer-Davies has the ability to be playful, yet leave you feeling an underlying sense of hurt, of pathos. His poems are often witty, yet you feel here is a poet who can not only turn somersaults but can take the reader on the tumbling journey of words, images and language with him. This poet understands duende.”

Geraldine Green

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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