A Poetic Interlude

My monthly dip into fresh new poetry. Because assonance and consonance resonate inside me.

Hi there

Sorry / not sorry, but this newsletter will be brief as I’ve been busy. (No sniggering at the back.)

It’s poetry time here in ReidItWrite land and I’m delighted to be able to offer you a 3-for-1 deal this week. Skip below if poetry is more your thing than my blabbering.

During the past week I’ve entered four more competitions with a variety of writing and continued to submit my debut novel to another batch of prospective agents. I don’t enjoy gambling or levering social networks but that’s how traditional publishing operates. Join the table or leave the casino!

I’ve also penned three new short poems (see below) and I’m working on a short story for the

Lunar Awards

’s second Prompt Quest (here’s the prompt I’ve chosen). My short stories are consistently the most popular writing in my Substack and I’ve grown to love them more. Practice makes perfect – and more productive!

Until next time (when I hope to deliver that short story to your door.)

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A tree near me. © J.Reid

Carefully

Unfold her carefully.
Peel back the torn foil.
Inhale her smell,
a heady mix of
dairy and devotion.
A deeper breath
brings more memories,
an aroma lingering
above industrious valleys.

You taste her again.
A faint grittiness,
liquid sandpaper
to wipe your tongue clean
of the words held
in your head. The ones
you should have said
whilst you thrived together.
The ones now dead.

Unwrapped and exposed.
Blues and greens
in veins and eyes.
Your fingers trace her limbs,
her gaze upon your face.
Forgetting she can't forgive,
you bite into her again.
Selfishly savouring
her time and space.

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My Flamingo Girl

My Flamingo Girl
at first declines to sit.
So a tilt of the hips
accompanies her stilted day,
supported by just one leg
on which to sway.

Voluntarily.
Subconsciously.
Needlessly.
She switches lower limbs,
favouring neither,
but never together.

At last she ends her work 
and the aches creep in.
Insidious wear and tear,
through her spine and hips.
Unwanted, yet self-inflicted.
All from forgetting to sit.

My Flamingo Girl
grafts too hard
for her spoken art.
I must craft her
another leg
to rest on.

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Ode to Substack

I’ve posted my third poem as a Substack Note because that’s where the majority of its target audience hangs out. Don’t feel obliged to join up/in.

I’ve called it an ‘Ode’, but that’s a stretch, even for the unstructured form favoured by Keats. I’ve previously (and shamelessly) drawn on his ‘To Autumn’ ode in case you’re interested in that sort of thing.

Autumnal Oasis

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