
The 10th Muse.
By David Milligan-Croft.
.
A dusting of morning snow,
Covers my car.
I trace a love heart
In the passenger window,
And imagine you smiling
On the other side of the glass.
.
By David Milligan-Croft.
.
A dusting of morning snow,
Covers my car.
I trace a love heart
In the passenger window,
And imagine you smiling
On the other side of the glass.
.
Filed under Art, Books, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Haiku, Ideas, Innovation, Inspiration, love, mental health, Nature, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing
By David Milligan-Croft.
.
I have built a special place for you
in the corner of my mind.
Where I can simultaneously feel
happy and forlorn.
.
I go there when I want to be alone
with you. We sit in the shade of a cherry blossom tree.
Scintillating sun flickering through the branches.
Monarch butterflies flit through the air,
as pink petals fall like snowdrops.
.
There is a shallow stream
burbling over rocks, carving through a vale
of lush, verdant grass, abundant
with iridescent wildflowers.
.
Your head is on my shoulder;
I can smell honeysuckle in your russet hair,
feel your heart beating
against my rib cage.
.
Warmth radiates through your skin
into my fingertips. Stroking the soft down
of your arm. Breathing you in.
This is the closest I can get
.
without crawling inside of you.
I close my eyes and feel the heat of our star
on my face. Everything is ecstasy.
And we stay in paradise forever. Or,
.
until it’s time for me to go.
And I leave you there,
beneath our tree, shielding your eyes
from the sun, waving me goodbye.
.
And I go back to reality,
where you are oblivious
to my existence.
.
για τη δέκατη μούσα μου
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By David Milligan-Croft
.
There is a type of landmine
That only detonates
Once you have taken your foot
Off of it.
.
It spares you
Instant disintegration –
Instead, it gives you
That split-second realisation
Of the impending horror that is about
To ascend upon your hapless body.
.
Of course, if you are fleet-of-mind,
You may realise the error of your way,
And keep your weight
Pressed firmly down on the detonator.
.
In the hope that someone
Might come to your rescue.
That they collect rocks
And sticks and boulders – anything
They can lay their hands upon
To replace the downward pressure,
That is you.
.
And that is how it feels
To be in love with you.
To have two choices:
To wait for you in vain,
Or to accept fate
And lift my foot off.
.
για τη δέκατη μούσα μου
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Beatified.
By David Milligan-Croft.
.
I would wash your hair in a roll-top bath.
You, leaning forward,
Nose almost touching the fig bubbles.
.
My fingers, massaging your scalp,
Your temples, your crown –
You deserve a crown, my Queen.
.
Combing through the conditioner.
The viscous liquid oozing through the teeth
Of the comb and your russet brown hair.
.
Leaning back, I cradle your head,
Lowering you like the baptised.
Cupping the water to stroke away the lather.
.
Your lustrous hair floating on the surface.
Eyes closed, your face framed
In a perfect oval of foam.
.
για τη δέκατη μούσα μου
Filed under Art, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Inspiration, love, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing
Hands up, who remembers mix tapes?
I found one the other day, while I was emptying boxes, that an old girlfriend had made for me in the 90s. I couldn’t play it, of course, as I don’t have a tape deck anymore. Or a record player. Or a CD player. In fact, I don’t ‘physically’ own any music. It’s all in the ether. Intangible. Owned by Apple, Spotify, Youtube or some other super corporation.
It got me thinking about how I would go about making one now, if I felt the urge to translate my love through the medium of music to my new-found paramour.
So I wrote a poem about it. As you do.
Then I had an epiphany!
Why not go ahead and actually make the mix tape as part of the poem.
For ‘mix tape’, I mean playlist, obviously. So, here you are.
(The link to the playlist is at the end.)
By David Milligan-Croft
.
Don’t talk to me about love;
I was making mix tapes before you were born.
Speaking of which, just how old are you?
I may look old, but inside, I feel 33 1/3.
.
It was easier to record from vinyl.
That way you could avoid abrupt endings.
Fade in, fade out, like a Grandmaster Flash.
If you were slick, you might include excerpts
.
Of dialogue from old movies,
Or from great speeches like- ‘I have a dream!’
…That one day you’ll kiss me!
(Not sure that’s what MLK had in mind.)
.
Recording off the radio was an art form.
You’d need the dexterity of a nuclear fission scientist
And a Watergate wiretapper to operate
Play, pause and record simultaneously,
.
Before some schmaltzy DJ chimed in with his drivel.
And if your tape got chewed up
From too much stopping and starting,
You’d have to pull it all out until you found the kinks,
.
Straighten it, then stick a pencil in the spool
And rewind it all back in again.
Praying it doesn’t happen while she’s listening to
Je t’aime moi non plus.
.
I hope you like it.
It took me a whole weekend to put together.
Quite good fun though. Reminiscing, and all that.
I imagine you listening to it in your bedroom.
.
Lying on your bed, looking up at the ceiling.
Your long, velvet hair cascading over the pillow,
Thinking of me, thinking of you.
Except we’re not Gainsbourg and Birkin.
.
The lyrics say things I never could,
Would or should. And are more self-indulgent
Than a box of Thorntons. But what can I do?
I’m just a 20th Century Boy in love with a 21st century girl.
.
για τη δέκατη μούσα μου
Filed under Art, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Education, Ideas, Innovation, Inspiration, love, Music, Poetry, Radio, Uncategorized, Writing
.
By David Milligan-Croft.
.
Sometimes, I imagine life like a romantic fairy tale.
There’ll be a pounding at my door.
I’ll go to answer it,
And it will be you – standing
In the pouring rain – breathless,
A suitcase in your hand.
.
Or, I am walking down the corridor
At work. And I’ll hear my name
Being called. I’ll turn around, and it’s you,
Statuesque, and ready to run
Toward me.
.
Perhaps my phone rings. It’s you. (Of course.)
There’s silence.
Breathing.
Then you say,
‘I need to see you.’
.
Then, I remember that life isn’t a 90-minute
Hollywood trope.
It’s real. And so is
The fact that you left your job
So you would never have to see me again.
.
The fact, that I haven’t spoken to you since,
The fact, that I haven’t heard your voice since,
The fact, that I haven’t read your words since,
The day,
I told you that you had mistaken my love
For kindness.
.
You ran
As fast, and as far,
As you could
In the opposite direction.
The mere thought of me, repugnant to you.
.
Truth is a cruel mistress.
So I button my coat
And step outside.
The morning sun warms my face.
I hold out my hand to take yours.
I turn to you and smile.
You smile too.
And we walk into a brand new day.
.
για τη δέκατη μούσα
Filed under Art, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Innovation, Inspiration, love, mental health, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing
I met Tom Pow in a Stellenbosch vineyard in South Africa back in the late 90s.
Pretty small world really, as he’s from Scotland and I’m English, but was living in Ireland at the time.
I am fascinated by how people’s paths intersect. Everything that they had to go through prior to that point in time for you to meet. And, perhaps more importantly, why?
One of the things I have carried with me since our meeting, was his poem, ‘Loving, Writing’, from his collection ‘Red Letter Day’.
For me, it encapsulates the beauty and purity of love. Whether or not it lasts is beside the point. The point is that you got to feel that way at all.
.
για τη δέκατη μούσα μου
.
Filed under Art, Books, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Innovation, Inspiration, love, mental health, Philosophy, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing
By David Milligan-Croft.
Filed under Art, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Illustration, Innovation, Inspiration, Literature, love, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing
I’ve been a busy little bee of late publishing my first novel, Love is Blood.
Well, I’ve now also published my first collection of poetry, called Let me fail in Sunshine. It’s split into three sections covering childhood, nature and love.
When I first began writing poetry in my teens, I tried to write how I thought poetry should be written – T.S. Eliot, Wordsworth, etc, like I’d learned at school. This was unnatural and forced. (Not to mention, crap.)
It was only years later, after discovering the works of Raymond Carver and Charles Bukowski, that I realised it was okay to be me. Not to try and be someone I’m not.
So, I found my voice.
It wasn’t long after, that my work started getting published in poetry journals, periodicals, websites and anthologies. Many of the poems featured in this collection have been published in the U.S., Britain and Ireland.
Some of them are humorous, some are heartbreaking, while others will fill you with joy.
There are a couple of sample poems under the image of the front cover. I hope you like them. And, if you do, maybe you would be so kind as to pop over to Amazon and buy a copy of it please? (Just click on the cover image and it will take you through to Amazon.)
THE DEPARTED
Holes appear in wardrobes,
Cupboards stare agape.
Delft wrapped in newsprint,
Boxes packed and taped.
Naked patches,
Where photographs once hung.
Dusty bookshelves
With no stories to tell.
Bulging suitcases
Clambering for the door.
Except, I’m not the one,
Going anywhere.
GUILTY.
The pole from which I hang
Is normally meant for the washing.
Today though, I am out to dry,
Swinging like a criminal
By the neck of my t-shirt.
It was my means of escape
That captured me:
Across Mr. Gordon’s garden,
Through the hedge,
Over the shed roof,
With the crab apples,
Down the washing pole,
Where I now hang.
Filed under Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Haiku, Ideas, Inspiration, Poetry, Writing
Le cadavre d’exquis, de l’amour.
Draguignan, 1999.
© David Milligan-Croft
Outside the vineyard,
Droplets of rain refresh us,
Along with the bottle of white wine,
On the wrought iron table.
There’s a sunflower between us
On the cover of your notebook;
We take it in turns
To write our exquisite corpse, of love.
Occasionally, we stop,
To exchange wine through baisers,
While the rain makes our words bleed,
Like your mascara at Nice airport.
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