lytle books

he was her solemate..
7 1/2 B in black leather
laced to mid thigh
she tossed him off
and sat naked
in a pile of his letters

she could still smell
the sweet hide
but she giggled
as she wriggled
her toes

Carrie Berry
© 1997

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a fourth of a fifth gone
precursors of silken scars
   blaze hot and hard
         hell hanging on for hours
      guilt hanging on for centuries
quiet memories scream
         in silence
         never still

        please, let me
                  let me
               out

         in darkness
                  never void

         god, let me
               let me
                         in!

Carrie Berry
© 1997

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I lit candles
invoking your spirit

you blew them out
and made a wish

and stand
on ceremony
covered in hot wax

Carrie Berry
© 1997

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(An esoteric, topical and personal poem)

he cleaned his clock daily
and a well oiled piece of work it was

“chance favors the prepared mind”
he always said,

“you never know when
your time will come”

Carrie Berry
© 1997

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you slipped
into my life
slipped
into my hands
a cache of your poems
bound in trust

now
I find myself
slipping away
to savour the passion
of the youth
who wrote them

Carrie Berry
© 1997

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between rising
and setting suns
come the reasons

come the seasons
of seeding and feeding
of gleaning and death
and your fields
they lie fallow

no song to be sung
no breath for the pipes
no Angelus bells
to be rung

only tears
shed in silence
too late for this sun

(for Frannie)

Carrie Berry
© 1997

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have we sung
the song
too long
alone?

turning
to the same page
we sing
from different
hymnals
how will we ever master
heart and soul
if you refuse to play
your part as written?

(for MY Jimmy)

Carrie Berry
©15 May 1997

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not exactly your idea
but you saw the potential
and gave it wings
to see if it would fly

it got away from you
before you were ready –
before you could
add the finishing touches

by that time
no amount of rethinking
could make it anything
more than it always was

Carrie Berry
© 1998

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you wear his habits
like an old coat
oblivious to
his shadow
crumpled underfoot

a dark remnant
of formidable warp
twisted in its
own peculiar bias

to last
for generations

Carrie Berry
© 1997

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it was once called the house.

I don’t know –
why do you ask so many questions?

I didn’t spend much time in
the house –
I mostly kept to the front room.

sometimes it hurt
to be alone in
the front room
but not nearly as much
as being alone in
the house.

now it is called
the other room.

we moved out.
years later dad died.
mom threw out
this chair and that one
and broke up the little table.

now it is scarcely more
than a boxy space above
an oak floor
where I lie spread-eagled
asking questions.

and it still smells
of wax and dust
and fear.

Carrie Berry
© 1997

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when I was a child
I never spoke, acted or thought
as a child

now that I am grown
what can I put away?

he stares at me
through the glass darkly
unclouded by reason
of insanity
or passion
with a stranglehold
on a future
condemned to death
by the past

Carrie Berry
© 1998

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she said I could never
   fill his boots
“you are no match for him”
   and as long as she lived
   I couldn’t

but she’s gone
   and now there’s nothing
   I can’t do

today I filled his wellies
   with petrol
and found I had the match
as well as the bottle

Carrie Berry
© 1998

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daily bread

outsiders are the best part of the bread but you can’t eat them first because they keep the rest of the slices from drying out life is a constant struggle to get through the loaf with enough time to savour the good bits before the mould beats you to the outsiders Carrie Berry © 18 May 1998

dark particles

people dance naked in poems but not in my head where the light is too bright and there are no shadows to partner and what would I dance? would you have me trip the light eurythmic, or slaughter the muse to a slow handclap? or I could just stand here and let you watch.. just don’t mess up my floor Carrie Berry © 21 August 1997

tuppence

I find myself down again, let myself drown again in the heaviness of my own heart your bright mettle shines through the muck like a found penny heads up I manage to survive never seeing the other side of the coin we are a pair not drawn to parallel lines destined never to cross (for maggie) Carrie Berry © 06 September 1997

chinese acrobat

shattered tuckered, burned and fagged out platters tumble with illusions spinning madly to the floor let them splatter, doesn’t matter it’s a gimmick hardly more still it’s quite an act to follow difficult at times to swallow from still muddied waters filled with flotsam, jetsam then some more’s the pity, little pretty put your petty burdens down each by each they seem so simple hardly worthy of the strain bound at last to no known master you’re not spinning any faster why then must you wear your freedom like a blasted ball and chain? Carrie Berry © 13 September 1997

Help! I’m being held captive in a shortbread tin

God, you’re easy – you know I am playing, don’t you? No. How would I? Where I come from Celtic is curly, never kicking and a football shouldn’t be hit with your head – where pissed is not a state but what you’ve done after you’ve arrived there. Let the crisps fall where they may – how can I know you’re calling a spade a spade when a cake is a sponge a cookie’s a biscuit and I’m not any wiser after I’ve picked up my messages? If I am so damned ‘easy’ then why is this all so hard? Carrie Berry © 27 April 1998

washed up

the little line is gone       the one that reminded me how much water to put in the mop bucket       I scrub things to forget – sometimes I can’t remember what –       I guess it works       I woke at dawn and mumbled       through the morning small talk wiping tears on the back of my hands       while he turned to put on his tie       and blamed my runny nose       on a cold       I must be getting       when he left I said:       have a nice day I thought:       get out       so I can scrub things       now everything is spotless       and my knuckles are raw       but there is still a gloom brooding       and I don’t know       what kind of cleaner       will make it go away Carrie Berry © 1997

(un) jeu (pour) deux

turning (to) (and) returning (from) to (you) turning (two) (and) returning (two) from (and) turning (two) (is) returning (still) to (four) turning (to) (and) returning (from) two (you) turning (too) Carrie Berry © 26 October 1997

ecdysiasts

we shed our skins as we grow piling them up along corridors outgrown overcoats that have served their use but always manage to find their way out of the oxfam bag the piles get larger but we learn to dance around them hoping no one will notice as we flash our latest Carrie Berry © 12 November 1997

window

morning dithers from a grayscale palette a recluse tree hunkers all squint varicose branches crawling the sky in quiet agony I feel like an intruder but can’t not look the cold pane intervenes and empathetic tears fall wasted to the sill Carrie Berry © 19 November 1997

hairfire

beige on beige gets on her wick screams neutral to a fault trusted fingers save her rusted scissors hover over the candlestick drawing incineration from a can of irn-bru ignite a tufted flaxen canvas: a pyrotechnic pastiche from an ungodly palette burning down the house in flagrante delicto smouldering orange reflects gingerly in pools of green cliché igniting preconflagrations of blue tomorrows Carrie Berry © 17 April 1998

IN WITNESS WHEREOF

these presents partially typewritten, partially printed and partially screamed into the night are subscribed with blood, sweat and tears by the author of fairy tales, witnessed by blind passengers on a smoke-filled bus and sterilised imbeciles selling big issues to small minds on the 2nd day of June Nineteen hundred and ninety nine Carrie Berry © 2 June 1999

millstone

being depressed is hard work     a science     an art form     a way of life what if I can’t get it right? I just want to lie down. Carrie Berry © 29 May 1998

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