Playing with Form: Tetractys

give us
such freedom—
but the truth is
they are just legalised murder weapons.

More Information

© Ammie-oy 2010


Then and Now

When I grew up there were children in the street—
hopscotch squares and British bulldog,
big orange space hoppers,
skateboards and scooters—
seaters on bicycles, free in the wind;
trees to climb and woods to explore,
a key to get in left by the back door.
Older teens strolled hand in hand
and stole kisses under lamp posts.
They’re all surfing now. No wild blue
expanse for them—
caught in a net of inactivity,
active verbs to describe passivity,
the polyphonic hiss eclipses voices,
text replaces speech and
cars claim the streets.
Cocooned in cyber space, the earth grows
smaller and a child’s world expands
into isolation on a screen.

© Ammie-oy 2010

Writing class exercise – Mr Tutti Van Clutties

This poem is just a bit of fun. I recently found it on my computer and thought I’d add it here as a bit of light relief! It was prompted by a university writing class exercise. We each gave our partner an obscure word or phrase that they would not likely be familiar with and they had to write a poem around that word or phrase. The phrase I was given was tutti van clutties. I had no idea what this might mean but after thinking about the phrase I thought it worked well as a name and came up with this poem:
Mr Tutti Van Clutties
Mr Tutti Van Clutties,
a Dutchman by birth,
is a noble chap with a stately girth—
suave in a smoking jacket, velvet maroon
surveying with pride his haven-like room.
His hair is slicked back like a forties spy,
his cigarette holder affectedly high.
Mr Tutti Van Clutties that honourable man runs
the finest coffee shop in all Amsterdam.
His pedigree impeccable;
he really is respectable;
his herbs the most delectable
in all of Amsterdam.
He doesn’t trade with gutter trash
but keeps a formal house.
He doesn’t advertise his hash—
he keeps the tourists out.
He only serves the finest skunk,
rolled in purest Zig Zag papers
and he lights them up most elegantly
with an overly extended taper—
each smouldering piece of modern art a credit to its maker.
The shop is aromatic,
the clients strangely static
and the smiles verge on beatific
in Van Clutties’ Amsterdam.


Photo by: ATLC at Virtual Tourist
© Ammie-oy 2010

Walking West to Field

It’s soft underfoot,
the untrodden spring of the grassy bank
yielding and the air smells
sweet with mingling scents of rain,
grass, hay and earth.
The dark is drawing in—blending
all the greys together,
blurring the defining lines
and we’re faceless, blind.
But not alone. No sight—
only sounds.
The wind talking, trees sighing, a vixen’s bark
and a miles distant train.
A purring car slows to take the bend,
floods us with light,
fleeting greens—too bright, deafening roar
then deeper dark
and the disturbed whispering of roadside grasses.

© Ammie-oy 2010

Moving In

Rubber slaps and snaps, as
slick blue is stretched
over pink flesh.
Water, running—
creates a sheen,
marred by soapy rivulets;
speckled with scum
Inside hot and powdery
—or wet; sweat?
No longer sure, but
blue knuckles are thinning the skin of them—
flexing the thing of them;
marking me white
and stained
—with the smell of them.
The cloying, clinging, lingering, latexy stench of them
—long after they have been
peeled off like a second skin,
discarded in the bin.

© Ammie-oy 2010