Poems to Quote to your Lover
Consisting of a set of love poems committed by
Rik Roots
Copyright © Richard James Roots 2011
Smashwords Edition.
This
chapbook forms part of the RikVerse.
The
RikVerse is a living book,
updated regularly and available for
viewing
online at the RikWeb
website
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only. then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For the many men I have loved,
but mainly for Nigel
who's
special.
Table of Contents
Summersex
»
We step barefoot across the still-wet humps ...
Cliff
»
As the hovercraft puffed its skirts ...
First
Love
» You're drowning me: water ...
Transaction
»
My friends ask me: how much does that special smile ...
Eating
Out
» When he laughs his tongue ...
Nothing
Much
» Look how quiet the room is: a cat ...
Accessory
»
Such a stupid hat ...
When
the Battle Ends
» Look out of the window: see
how ...
An
Office Acquaintance Offers Advice
» He said:
love is ...
Trade
»
You grab my hand and net aside ...
First
Night
» It was your eyes that sobered me: ice
...
The
Cartographers
» You promise me treasure, offer
...
Exhibits
»
She was skipping over the rope, her body ...
Morsels
»
When I fed you I set you three courses ...
Stood
outside the office, smoking
» Winter spit taps
on my skull ...
Take
this Man
» I married you on a couch in
Clarkenwell ...
Language
»
So when did we begin to evolve ...
Puppy
Love
» When I heard that song on the radio ...
Token
»
I buy a rose to mark ...
Joy
»
You're fun! Not as funny as the time ...
Renewal
»
We severed the band together, took a saw ...
Respect
»
It's strange how our fingers ...
Other books by Rik Roots at Smashwords.com
Summersex
We step
barefoot across the still-wet humps
of Dymchurch beach, its
moonlit streams an etch
of curves connecting each abandoned
stretch
of sea back home. I catch your hand, my thumb
a chat-up
telegraph of taps and strokes –
two strangers newly met at the
party fires,
shared beers and jokes beneath the stars;
desires
like this are best kept secret from our folks.
And
after – after grit and groan and sweat
and lick amid the
leathery strands of kelp –
I find a mermaid's purse among the
threads
of nets and cans, the dog inside unwhelped.
You gift me
one last kiss, a whisper: 'tide's
about to turn – I'll see
you round sometime.'
Cliff
As the
hovercraft puffed its skirts
against the concrete apron, so I flew
–
Dover harbour a spray of images
behind my brother as he
swung me
over the salt-crust lawns, the edge
of the unguarded
cliff, a handgrasp away
from learning the dangers of trust.
Now the
last hovercraft has been scrapped
for spares, I can discover new
seductions:
the dangers of windy walks through stiff grasses
to
watch the sea bolster Dover below; the feel
of rain spattering my
neck, my back
as I dance with you, tonight's friend,
on the
edge of the cliff – eyes forward
not down – each step an
experiment
in my trust of flinty contact.
First Love
You're
drowning me: water
blisters over the river's dirt bed –
a
borewall of branches, snakes, garbage
dumped in the forgotten
course. This flood
of you pistons me through storm drains.
'Change
must come,' grumbles
the corpse of a dog flushed
from its
grave of dust and tyres.
Now the
surge sings, percussion streams
harmonised with outlet gargles.
Nerves
get pinched, pressed in my skin – the hands
of a
giant who luges alongside me, holding me
safe in his great grasp;
he pushes my form
through sewers, curving me into the sea.
You
scare me; cleanse my veins
in chemicals and drown my
lungs.
'Breed,' squirm the maggots in dogmeat –
'Breed
like the gods have smashed
the skins of the world!'
Transaction
My
friends ask me: how much does that special smile
of yours cost?
I'll warn you now it's pricey:
not a
trinket stacked on shelves in giftshops
trading junk. You cannot
wipe my palms
with
coins and watch it swipe its muscly tricks
across my face, nor
will enticements bag you
that
act – for a drink I'll swap a grin, and for food
I'll pack a
leer into our dialogue. But
my
smile, my honest sweat-on-face with blushing grace
stretch of lips
and crowfeet tracks towards my ears,
deserves
a deal only you can strike, my love, when
you look at me with lids
half-drawn across your eyes.
Eating Out
When he
laughs his tongue
splits his lips, spider lines
compressed like
the accordion
serenading the the diners;
the veins across his
bow-nose
beacon his joy of fine malts.
Her joy
is sedate, her oatmeal
hands clasped to the linen
where she
hides her smile,
her beige eyes tuned to his face;
I watch her
water-stretched heel
stroke along the curve of his calf.
I carve
designs on the tablecloth
with the steel of my knife, quiet
amid
the clatter. As I wait
for your late arrival I refuel
on cheap
house white and the sight
of the waiter's tight groin.
Nothing Much
Look
how quiet the room is: a cat
whiskers behind sunlit curtains
for
spiders; noses cold rice
from a plate in search of meat.
Shadows
shoal the tank, each a life
behind the green scum growing
on
the glass. Tide rings in the mug
mark the slow sips of a cold
coffee.
You
activate me remotely, the song
of the phone triggering
animation,
audio smiles and shrugs as we chat
for a while about
nothing much at all.
Accessory
Such a
stupid hat.
Not you, the way it falls
across your eyes, the
brim
sieving dust mites;
a swatch of orange
without
feathers
– felt, maybe,
or shoddy.
So many
rags and snags
rolled tight to fit
in this cupboard.
Dress
up for me.
Let fall your hat, your shirt –
wear me,
tonight, my supple
leather laced tight
to you.
When the Battle Ends
Look
out of the window: see how
the sparrowhawk plucks feathers,
how
the pigeon flaps grit over the path?
I
bought a brace of feathers once,
tied them to my arms and flapped
–
elbows held acute above the shoulders.
Look at
you, crying. Why cry over
the carcass of a bird you've never
loved?
You need new eyes to see beyond
the unzipped barbs along
the quill.
An Office Acquaintance Offers Advice
He
said: 'love is
a sport of both skill
and chance,
strategic
planning must become your
core competence.'
I said:
'why render these chemicals
into a game?'
He
said: 'you have to
compete, my friend.'
I said:
nothing. I watched his tongue
moisten his underlip, a quick
slither
of spittle between words to gloss
his looks. He smelt
of sharp spices.
I watched him cock his head, his eyes
remained
symmetrical, blue – electrodes
pushed through my forehead. I
watched
his throat form thoughts; a rhythmic
rise and close,
rise and close.
Curled hairs caressed his larynx.
He
said, oh,
something or other.
I wasn't listening.
Trade
You
grab my hand and net aside
the camouflage and walk into the
murk:
there's ghosts in here – they moan
in whispers,
grunts; the shunts
and smacks of fruitless, faceless
love;
anonymous entanglements
of slugging tongues. I slip
my hands
around your waist,
then down into your jeans to cup
your
muscled arse, pull our groins
together. Can you see the devil
set
within my eyes? I can suck
the wisdom teeth from jaws,
the snot
from lungs; I
can gnaw through sweat-built chests
to lick the
hearts of warriors,
my fifteen minute friend who asked
to dance
astride some tumid tail.
First Night
It was
your eyes that sobered me: ice
at the end of the world; the ghost
of a fox
staring down his hare across the tundra;
a
chilled air vaulting through the sweat
of men as they drank,
posed, assessed. That glance
of shivered blue left me feral. I was
in the bar
and
then I was in the bar with you. When
you passed me lager, I spied
iceflake glints
on your dew claw. We danced, I think
we
danced; or possibly you stalked my tracks
through the snows of our
private ecology –
new ground frozen from the polar seas.
The Cartographers
You
promise me treasure, offer
your body as the map that leads
to
riches. I search for symbols
in the folds of your skin;
intercept
clues on tasks to perform morsed
by white eyeflags,
semaphored by curls
and angles at the edge of your mouth.
Your
hands challenge translations –
they fly to sift through the
world.
I have to vector them, pin each digit
with a symbol:
here be dragon lairs,
unicorn trails, wells of gold coin.
My
finger sketches your face's edges,
the cream henge of pegs cradled
within lips.
'The map is not the thing,' your tongue
hints.
But I know this – I dismiss
the adipose spoils midriffing
you,
mere landscaping that can't disguise
the designs etched in
your marrow.
I could
finish exploring this map,
but instead I let you fold me
tight
inside your elbows, watch you build
a map of me in the
pits of your eyes.
Exhibits
She was
skipping over the rope, her body
a basket and her face an embrace
of garbage.
We laughed like the monkey laughed, his snout
two
model lorries axle to axle, though his laugh
was silent while ours
staccatoed across
the boxed up exhibition space,
disturbing
frowncast students and mumbly aficionados.
'Why
can't these idiots see how funny he was?'
you wondered. But
then Picasso sold his bits
and pieces so idiots could mount
them
in ice bright halls while he mounted whores
in Paris. I'd
have mounted you there and then
but the gallery staff had our
number and our hour
in the company of genius was almost done.
Morsels
When I
fed you I set you three courses:
oysters from Whitstable, a
carnival
of slime singed with lemon, edged
from ashtray shells
and gulped;
a testicle of truffle, shaved
into a soft scramble
of eggs and cream
and served on toast – crumbs knocked
from
your chin by my thumb, each morsel
followed by a froth of
champagne;
figs stuffed with mole, the bitter
chocolate
squeezed from the fruit
as you bit the sweet flesh.
When we
fed guests you set me:
rings of calamari around a candle
guttering
its wax into my navel;
frets of watercress stems woven
through
the down between the hooks
of my hips, dripping from the rinse;
a
pharaoh's necklace – layers of mango
intersliced with pear
flesh, molded
to the folds of muscle and fat
and bone lacing my
heart within
its cavity, safe from the scavengers
snuffling
through our home.
Stood outside the office, smoking
Winter
spit taps on my skull:
cold drops print 'you don't belong
out
here' on the paving slabs.
These
shoes I borrowed pinch
my toes and your coat's too thin
to keep
the wind at bay. Still,
this
morning's kiss still warms
my lips. I puff smoke between the
rain
and respond: 'you don't belong in me.'
Take this Man
I
married you on a couch in Clarkenwell,
its stuffing the curls of
groin-hair
that Sebastian had buzz-cut from clients.
We held
hands as he dabbed the needle
in vodka, pressed its exquisite
point
through the seam of my glans. Not once
did you glance
from my face to watch
my testicles dance to the pain. We
swapped
our vows in white-hard hand grasps and later
we kissed,
my trousers loose on my waist
and a dribble of lust on my newest
ring.
Language
So when
did we begin to evolve
a different tongue? That first night
of
friction, perhaps, our growls
new sounds for acts and thoughts;
or
weeks later, meeting in pubs,
shifting lexemes to build a
space
between us and the crowds
who admired our mutual lusts?
Or did
we develop our idiolect
browsing shops for sofas and
linens,
partners in style crimes? I speak you
as well as you
talk me, and sometimes
we'll even chat silently,
conversations
conveyed by touch, look. Observe how
my shoulders
type: 'I love you!'
Puppy Love
When I
heard that song on the radio
I became a silver jubilee younger.
You
look good in my head, the shaving cuts
barely crevassing
your sheen of cheek.
Lavender
was your smell, as soft
on my nose as your clothes against
my
hands when by chance I stroked you:
I still want to peel you of
them.
We
drifted – my lust got hidden in
text books, equations, exams.
You
were too tidy in the end, I was scared
and the song was
derivative, cheap.
Token
I buy a
rose to mark
our anniversary:
stout, black thorns
erupting
through the stalk
in whorls; the sawtooth leaves
nestling the
tight bud –
sheets of peach and cream
rolled in green
folders.
You
smile, take my palms
and lag them round the stem,
pluck a petal
and press it
inside my mouth with kisses:
'Love,' you
whisper, 'is what
we do with symbols, yes?'
I nod and
grin, and bite
the lips that feed me.
Joy
You're
fun! Not as funny as the time
we stood in the gay bar and
watched
the fat drag act fire a replica cannon
which had, as
his performance droned on,
slowly drooped until its dulled
mouth
was level with the audience. 'That
will teach queens
to douse in lacquer
on a Friday night,' you said. I burned
your
hair, once, when we made a game
with candles and ropes. In those
days
we would play twice a day: we'd pounce
each other for
instant satisfaction.
Nowadays, gratitude comes in tea bags
and
interrogations. I could have given
you up a decade ago, but
somehow we found
a slow burn that keeps us chuckling still.
Renewal
We
severed the band together, took a saw
to its dulled sheen and
rasped atoms
of
metal into the air. Soap had failed
to ease its passage. Later we
shopped
for a
larger token. I would not sacrifice
a single digit of yours to an
oval symbol
of our expanding love.
Respect
It's
strange how our fingers
interweave when we cross roads,
shop
for carrots, newspapers,
cartons of milk. Sometimes
I'll
fold my palm around
your knuckles to keep them
warm while we
wait for the bus,
or walk to town. Sometimes
you
knuckle my hand away: decisions
are shared in this space, we
both
must agree to risk the spits
of strangers, haters,
sometimes.
About these poems
Welcome to this, my third collection of poems. In this collection, I am proud to present you with some love. These poems deal with loves and relationships in all their wonderful and woeful manifestations. Some of the poems are a little raunchier than others, but there's nothing (too) offensive or smutty in them!
About the author
Rik was born in the small village of Dymchurch on the Romney Marshes in Kent, England. Dymchurch has three Martello Towers and a station on the Romney Hythe and Dymchurch Light Railway. This was Rik's world for the first 24 years of his life, except for those six terms away at college - the North East Surrey College of Technology, that is: Rik somehow managed to fail his final school exams and thus never made it to university.
Poetically, Rik has been writing since he was 14 or 15. He happily acknowledges that no work from that early period survives, thanks to a fortuitous kitchen fire which may or may not have been started deliberately. The kitchen was relatively unharmed, in case you were worrying.
Rik's major claim to 'proper' poetic fame is being part of the group that established Magma Magazine - he even edited Magma 6, for his sins. The magazine's subsequent success has nothing to do with Rik; he left the Management Board a few weeks before Magma 7 was published.
Rik's main publishing credentials are, strangely enough, in Magma Magazine. Nowadays he rarely submits poems to journals and has no plans to seek 'proper' venues for his chapbooks and manuscripts - Rik has a website, after all, which makes him very happy!
On a broader note, Rik is currently studying for that elusive degree with the Open University, and writing science fiction novels. Rik used to work for Her Majesty's Civil Service which is, he says, a perfect training ground for people wanting to write novels based on alternate realities and fantasy.
Rik currently lives in London, for his sins. His hobbies include causing trouble in various online venues and inventing languages. He also codes up websites - like this one.
Find
Rik on ...
Smashwords
Twitter
Facebook
The
RikWeb website
The
Rik Files blog
Other books by Rik Roots at Smashwords.com
The Gods in the Jungle
The jungle city of Bassakesh holds the keys to the future of the Vreski Empire. It is the sole source of the valuable Vedegga dye; it is also home to the mysterious Servants, who harvest the dye.
Delesse, the Bassakesh Governor's daughter, is marrying Loken, heir to one of the most powerful Clans in the Empire - whose leaders, Loken's own Father and uncle, are plotting to disrupt the dye harvest as part of their wider plans to win the aged Emperor's throne.
When those hasty plans go awry a terrible plague is unleashed across Bassakesh, bringing widespread death and chaos.
Aided by a collection of survivors and Servants, Delesse and Loken must travel through the jungles to face down and defeat the people who not only threaten the Empire's stability, but also ruined their wedding.
Set on a planet far from Earth, The Gods in the Jungle is an investigation of the drives and desires, fears and beliefs of the various peoples and classes of a crumbling society, through the eyes of those immediately involved in events which threaten to bring an Empire to its knees.