Most of the poetry I write is very far from being 'confessional'. That is to say, I'm not massively interested in writing the kind of poetry focused on 'my story'. Even those poems of mine which are very personal tend to be playful and tricksy. However, like a lot of folk I've felt a bit stirred up this week by a whole load of trans-related stuff in the media and on twitter. My first instinct was to get shouty and/or polemical and/or theological. Instead, I've decided to inflict a bit of my 'trans-related' poetry on you. Enjoy!
Working it out
Then a girl, a
teen,
tangerine in
cheap spray tan
clicks onto the
bus
and sways towards
the back,
her arse a
rolling fleshy pendulum in retro jeans;
her ease in four
inch heels, the hypnosis
of that arse she
wields like a weapon,
playing with her
body as if she were a
puppeteer
adjusting a new doll’s strings;
a girl trying out
what it’s like to be a girl
trying to be a
woman.
Watching her from
a distant evening
where I’m
twenty-four again,
conscious of
those twin mounds on my chest
secretly raised
over months, a pioneer
shovelling
earthworks at night, afraid to be seen;
my stinging
eyebrows thin as stiletto tips,
the too bright
lipstick huge on my lips,
my eyes fixed ten
feet ahead;
and I’m flicking
my own weak tight male arse out
far and wide,
side to side, picking my way
down the street
as if to a metronome’s click;
as if this will
grow it fat and round as an orange.
Flicking it like
a boy working out
what it is to be
a girl working out
what it is to be
a woman.
First published in Magma Magazine, No 39, Autumn/Winter 2007
Also published in my book Dazzling Darkness.
Baptism
Gasping
he steps in lets it grasp
ankles waist shoulders neck
feels it
cut his throat
wriggles
and pulses
scatters skin
in coils
glassy
slough
flexes
limbs cracks knuckles
winces searches for new things
sinks
beneath
runs
hands round the curve of hips
pinches
skin squeezes fat
slides a
finger deeper in
opens her
eyes
sees for
the first time.
First published in Wilde Magazine, 1, Winter 2013
Dress
After Olds
Heart
red, cut-knee red,
made from
perle cotton, the lustre of sunset
on a
lake. But not for showing off:
not a
take me out, let stars fall from the sky,
firecracker
kind of dress; just a dress
for an
eight year old girl, a simple pinafore,
to be
worn on boring Saturdays watching TV,
drowsy
from the scent of baking seeping
under the
kitchen door. A small flower
near the
hem, perhaps, a daisy stitched in by mum,
something
to pick at, fray, one day dig out.
A dress
maybe never even worn. Just hung
in the
wardrobe, occasionally seen, touched,
smiled
upon. To simply have known it was mine.
In those
days, to have had something.
The young man learns to love himself
I praise you, for I am wonderfully and
fearfully made – Psalm 139
I heard
the book of love waits for all
to enter,
desire enough to lift the latch,
a litany
of dreams difficult to reach,
but still
not far off.
I found
other words:
denier slip pantyhose basque;
I
explored a liturgy of touch.
I held my
sins in my hands,
delicate
things, easy to slip on;
I walked
in the dark, heels tapping
anxious
clicks, a rosary for feet.
When I
was a child, I thought
like a
child. Now I have put aside
childish
things.
I blow a
kiss
in the
mirror, mouth
This is who I am.
