We visit the theme time and again
and draw the same conclusion
where the porcelain cups used
to play out routine,
objects, at once familiar
grant redundant aid when
questions stab at problems
challenged then rebuked, never
to see the uncluttered space behind
those repurposed implements.
Hollow clattering drowns out
the bubbling stovetop coffee.
And I wait
for a safe distance when
no longer of use, I cannot comply.
And it is silent.
From A Bankrupt's Diary © 2018 Ceinwen Wilson
I wrap objects in newspaper
with deliberate care.
They whisper evocatively.
In the dark
they journey to another place,
another in-between space,
witnesses of a past to mourn.
A waiting game is being played.
They are winning the charade
and draw me in with sepia hues,
glanced through misted panes of glass
distorted to anthracite decay.
And while nomadic and free,
in mocking silence they look on
and laugh at me.
From A Bankrupt's Diary © 2018 Ceinwen Wilson
Do you remember when
skinny, pale and winter skinned
we jetted off to tropical sands,
the island of my father’s birth,
happy, clueless newlyweds?
You ask if I have any regrets.
I smile and turn to my own thoughts.
What a question.
I meet your eyes, blue lagoons,
glinting pools of steadfast warmth
and ask if you’d like a cup of tea.
‘Lovely’, you say
smiling back at me.
From A Bankrupt's Diary © 2018 Ceinwen Wilson
It sits on the desk and rings all day.
My stomach sinks while my
head prepares to be underwhelmed
as I give the rehearsed reply.
I decide to ignore 0844, 0845
and numbers of futile cause
while relations ring with equal gravity,
on and on, an unabated, fixed reminder
of what cannot be undone,
evoking Oscar Wilde.
(Only relatives, or creditors, ever ring in
that Wagnerian manner.)
A rude intruder demanding
the involuntary final act.
Then there is silence, yet
the perturbed shrill resonates
in every corner
of every room,
subdued coercing tones of doubt.
From A Bankrupt's Diary © 2018 Ceinwen Wilson
After transgressions are confessed,
dissolving act on paper,
escape
with the remnants of my remiss
in my pocket.
Here loose change
chinks amongst disintegrating tissues;
cold, unyielding, useless forms
along with my blackened name.
Yet, begin again.
At zero.
From A Bankrupt's Diary © 2018 Ceinwen Wilson
Poetry by Ceinwen Wilson 