Monday, 25 April 2016

NAPoWriMo #7 - Sea

The river finds a path to the sea
Regardless of the turn of clouds
or the distance of the shore.

Wednesday, 20 April 2016

NaPoWriMo #6 - When I grow up

I will grow my air into lilac buds
the sickness of lilies.

The milkman will leave empty bottles at my door
for me to curdle into vases.

I will sing psalms on Sundays to the age spots of my palms.

I will not drink pure white chardonnay like my mother
but swill lime juice between my teeth
and spit.

The crack of moths run floorboards
become hymn whispers.

God will crowd my thoughts with wolf like stalk

I will fish out the familiarity of his lies
and sing psalms to the age spots of my palms on Sundays.

Memories will crowd at the edges of an iron
I will have reached the age of permanent mists
lie grateful.

I will climb barefoot summit
watch where the red rivers run merge
sigh a 77 year migraine ache
knowing how I have made more moons rise than you saw.

I will watch on Friday
wring my wrist with lilies
die on a Saturday
and sing psalms to the age spots of my palms on Sundays

Monday, 11 April 2016

NaPoWriMo #5: In Search of the Cartographer

We attempt to locate the cartographer,
he holds the map to his own
co-ordinates, leave no trace
through the lake.

Bethan says she saw him at a call of crows,
community can not decide how to write this
and so he remains lost.

I heard the sound of him
running past a stream
that wasn't there when the maps were drawn,
and so he remains lost.

We arrange to meet him by the oldest house
but he cut her down to count he rings,
and so he remains lost.

The cartographer hold the map to his own co-ordinates
ripped from the beat of the sun on the pavement,
the horizon line folded into his satchel,
and so we remain lost.

Thursday, 7 April 2016

NaPoWriMo #4: The chat-up Line

"A Ginger
is just a girl who hasn't had the fire fucked out of her yet"

*Draft Response*

                   Fight back 
Earthquake                    Richochet 

Heart sway to the beat of Celtic Hips
and Pray 
you open bloodshot eyes to the cavalcade of Goddesses
that grace you with their presence 

This hair is fire
my skin the whiteburn of ancient roots
Eyes the blue of grey rivers reflecting the moon

There is no in between
when you are the birth of elements.

If I am just the burning embers of a fire that hasn't been fucked out
follow my heat into the darkness
where many have tried before you
and failed.

Tuesday, 5 April 2016

NaPoWriMo #3: Pray, come.

Woman, come by the river to pray.
Pull Damp rag
Crimson tide
from your teething jaw/raw
and bathe.

Feel the water
it is purer after you pray.

Hand to knee
feel the rip of earth
clot/clod at the roots
of weeds and push/pull.

The river will erode/corrode
the limitations of its banks
and return to the sea.

The illusion/stability of land will cease
built upon chalk/drawn
against dark cavern face
illuminated only by lamplight/moonnight.

The River cuts down the fa├žade of rock
to view its self-portrait
The Rock as a lover
breaks the confines of its frame to accommodate
harmony with the breeze.

Women, come by the river to pray.
See the true reflection of sisters in the time/sand
loosen the noose tension/lead weight beneath your chin
and pray.

Sunday, 3 April 2016

NoPoWriMo #2: Found Poem


Play cook peas
Freezing taste near prayer.

Brothers Conversation say Danger.

Too late
Tower block swallow
Field mission, brave walking.

Poor crawling always

               Found Cloud

This will not run out
This strange dark

Highly present here. 

This poem was inspired by an exercise at #WordsFirst with BBC1Xtra at Contact MCR 

Friday, 1 April 2016

NaPoWriMo: Extract from 'Small Hands'

(...) In the back bedroom is a box
China cracked and glued back together,
Where my milk teeth sour.

I held them in small hands,
quickly too big
and replaced the weight of them
with Fairytales.

I’d never tell you
Just pull on loose teeth
And find magic in the copper of blood
The barbed wire edge 

We found you
In the back bedroom
Plaiting the hair of Barbie dolls
When mine was knot and hairspray backcomb
Tucking the whisper of
Childhood into bed at tea time

As the door slammed behind me 
Guilt rose in a heartburn chest
Where the dance floor turned back to kitchen tiles
You said that ironing
Was a way of remembering

And smile when you found opals in my mouth that I’d mistaken for teeth.

~ Natasha Borton

Where the Words Went

I'm very privileged to have people who notice.
It reminds me to keep posting, to keep writing and keep pressing onwards.

Creativity like any other beast of existing comes in waves. There are times where I am boiling over with productivity, quick firing emails to anyone how will listen, touring open mics and generally making a bit of a nuisance of myself.
There are times that this seems an impossible task.

As some people have noticed my blog was dormant from July last year - I was still performing, my twitter was still active but those small characters were about all I could manage. I stopped reading, reviewing and at times thinking.

See, last July my Nanny passed away - it wasn't unexpected but it still came too soon, it was quick and slow all at once. She was the spark of my childhood, my imagination and the woman who could listen to me prattle on about new poetry, plays, music, books endlessly. She was a lady with Lavender in her hair and love on her fingertips.

When she passed, I was adamant that I would immortalise her in a long spoken word show - I still will, but I allowed the need to explain myself to consume my grief and my creativity didn't respond. It felt like I couldn't do her justice.

Now, I feel ready to get back into the heart of it all. I am writing again and performing with a zeal I haven't felt in months - that is all thanks to the wonderful support of readers, friends, performers and fellow creative. You are all wonderful and you have brought me back gently to the folds of your wisdom and sharing.

So, what better time to spark this blog back into action than NaPoWriMo!

Speak soon,
Natasha x