TRIGGER WARNING (a poem for the silent survivors) Between the trolley and the traffic cone, Flows the river, through the town, my home. When I lived there, I sought a way out: Alienated, ladette, academic lout. Between the trolley and the traffic cone, Flows the river, through the town, my home. I hate the radio;Continue reading “Reflection”
Author Archives: morwennablackwood
Writing in the Age of the Image
Writing in the Age of the Image – Morwenna Blackwood Was it Ernest Hemmingway who said we are verbs not nouns? If so, I can state without hesitation that I am (and have always been) a writer. And a reader. Those who taught me to read and write, I cannot thank you enough. My childhoodContinue reading “Writing in the Age of the Image”
Dr Killerton’s Black Dog
The Meaning in the Ghosts of Variables.
Dusk had fallen, unobtrusive and cold as a mist; the world outside my window was black when I turned the light on. The blackbirds were going mental, so I switched off the light and strained my eyes in the hopes of seeing a tawny owl, but the patches of sky uncovered by hawthorns remained clear.Continue reading “The Meaning in the Ghosts of Variables.”
Green/Grey
Pylons watching. They buzz like fridges (Karma Police, Radiohead. Search it up, it’s a good song) – but there’s no sustenance inside, just death; like detuned radios without music. Pylons stand as a guard, or a warning, or a threat, close to the ‘welcome to’ village signs. Their wires cutting the sky, they stride acrossContinue reading “Green/Grey”
Yellow
The grass is all yellow. It crunches under my feet. I look up into the indifferent blue void. It’s summer, and I am … I am, under the black t-shirt and blue jean shorts, all yellow. It’s strange, but in a way I cherish this feeling. It is, paradoxically, comforting. That’s because I know itContinue reading “Yellow”
Voyria Doesn’t Give
Sometimes there’s a tissue in the wash
Sometimes there’s a tissue in the wash. The washing machine goes on as normal. But later, when you’re checking how long there is left in the cycle, you see it – front and centre – lodged in the rubber seal between the drum and the door. I didn’t check the pockets/ No one ever checksContinue reading “Sometimes there’s a tissue in the wash”
Moths
I wonder about moths. They need (moon)light to navigate their lives, even to the point of perceiving which way is up. Presumably, they recognise the cold quality of the light of the moon. Yet, in the early morning, as I commute through country lanes under a clear January sky, while the moon sits on high,Continue reading “Moths”
Mind Works
A poem written while on codeine. Mr Tourniquet in cubicle 6 watches the birds from his window. His environs are faded yellow and blue; his soundtrack a series of beeps. They bring him tablets and jugs of water; they take his order for lunch. He pretends he’s not seeing, hearing and smelling, but has nothingContinue reading “Mind Works”
