New Year - A poem a day for January

Hope you've all enjoyed the holidays. I'll be writing a poem a day for January, so all you lovely readers have that to look forward to.

Check back on 01/01/2012 for the first poem.


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Denial Cycle #3 - A Sonnet by Adam White, poet

Read Denial Cycle #1 first

Warmth unfound in the generous shelter
Of each poor souls that I would call my friend.
I smile and laugh and like a pro pretend,
And ignore the voice, the eddy and the blur.
So kind, akin to nothing, much like her,
In equal parts of sweetness and of dust,
With no sign of spoiling, though I know she must,
In her cot asleep and nevermore to stir.
Ashamed of how I weep in public light.
It's brightness makes me weak, and I collapse.
That I could have a moments grace, perhaps,
Or see the end of this protracted night.
I long for her to carry me downstream,
To join her in some never ending dream.

Read Denial Cycle #4 here


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Denial Cycle #2 - A Sonnet by Adam White, poet

Read Denial Cycle #1 first. Click Here

What crushing burden pinions me here,
While summer light plays merrily on glass?
Midday. you're at work. Hours slowly pass.
The tick of our old clock grows more severe.
The clock. The fingers on your slowing pulse.
The medic looks up at the lens-like glass,
And shakes his head at what has come to pass.
And then the knife, the rope, the dark impulse.
It's one P.M. You're not at work. You're dead.
The Ankou's fingers tap on window glass.
There have been days like weeks in how they pass,
And dreams of you bring lonely, waking dread.
The tricks I play on my own reeling mind,
Disintegrate and leave me left behind.

Now read Denial Cycle #3

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In Their Own Words : Adam White

In Their Own Words : Adam White: Adam White - In His Own Words TP: What is an Artist? AW: I have an unpopular view on artists. I think that everyone has the c...

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Denial Cycle #1 - A Sonnet by Adam White, poet

The truth not cresting my own skyline yet,
Though I can sense it's awful fingers touch;
Not cruel, not evil, not unkind as such,
But creeping in to dye my thoughts unset.
Cascading light illuminates your face,
My memories warm, though you are cold to touch;
Not distant, callous, not selfish as such,
You've left me still, though, lonely in this place.
Sleeping, pallid, you're covered, then you're gone,
And soon I may forget your tender touch;
Not lost, abandoned, not spiteful as such,
Just pushed aside so I might soldier on.
Oh, my lost love, my swollen eyes are sore.
Our meagre home your coffin evermore.

Now read Denial Cycle #2. Click Here.
Read my interview with Team Poetry by Clicking Here.


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Long, Bitter Life, a Sestina by Adam White, poet

Swore I'd never write another sestina. They are a monumental pain in the arse. Here it is though, for your reading pleasure. I'm a sucker for self-flagellation, clearly.

My life forgotten; only dust and ash,
And scattered thinly over broken glass.
Directionless, I'm just an eyeless soul,
Without the spark that makes a human whole.
I wander streets all painted sombre grey.
In limbo now for one eternal day.

I swore aloud I'd never see this day,
As snow fell over us like bitter ash,
And smudged on skin, it left a stripe of grey,
Those soot stained flakes as cold as frosty glass.
I meant those words with all my body whole,
And gave to you my weak, afflicted soul.

In time, you came to love this tortured soul,
And I to cherish every precious day.
The change was vast. It rocked my being whole
And burned my doubts to dissipated ash.
Oh, foolish me. This lie but fragile glass.
Your heart, thought red, was rough and concrete grey.

Some years had passed. My hair was peppered grey,
But I still had some youth within my soul.
I looked at bygone times through tinted glass,
Remembered well our wintry wedding day.
But then the call. My world reduced to ash,
My blindness cured and notions spoiled whole.

So furious, my anger held me whole,
My vision blurred, all colour turned to grey,
So only red remained among the ash.
Betrayals knife was plunged in to my soul,
A cheating wife had marred my blessed day
And wracked my soul with shards of shattered glass.

Now ten floors up, and only flimsy glass
Divides me from oblivion so whole.
A artful touch to end this awful day;
A spattered rose all over concrete grey.
Relief at last for my long tortured soul.
My just reward the sour taste of ash.

My final day did end through splintered glass,
Blood hot as ash burst from my person whole,
With only grey delay left for my soul.


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The Reason, the Trapeze Artist and the Clown, a poem by Adam White, poet

Graceful, she swings on her trapeze;
My beautiful, blind acrobat.
So much brighter and better than me,
She soars over devastated streets.

I will never be good enough.
For all my promise and promises,
She can always call my bluff.
A shade of a great man made rough.

Glass crunches beneath my tired feet.
I'm looking up at her, like always;
Proud, heavy, motionless and beat,
Wallowing in waves of my defeat.

Graceful, she swings on her trapeze;
And I wear my worn, old clown shoes.
The audience stands in awe of her;
But can only spare laughter for me.

Weirdly enough the whole concept for this poem came to me when I woke from a dream about playing the drums on rock band. No idea why

Check out a classic poem of mine, The City


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Hanging in the Wind, a poem by Adam White, poet

You'd never said anything quite as apposite as you did that day.
I guess I'd overestimated your lack of intelligence.
I went looking for excuses, finding only my squirming feet,
Standing in a very obvious, quite inescapable hole.
My writhing stomach dropped,
Plopping out horribly
In the dirt and faeces
I'd soon be grovelling in.

With a skill hitherto unseen, you assessed my slow reaction,
Concluding your grim suspicions were correct, and lunged for my throat.
You had very sharp fingernails and my habit isn't to strike girls.
Knocking me down, you became alike to a rabid, fat baboon.
I bled profusely,
(Which I guess I deserved)
And as I looked up at you
I thought "God, I hate her."

Sadly for me, once you'd calmed down, you didn't just get up and leave.
You wanted to talk about it, like I could reveal some secret;
Some apt reason for why I would throw away such a precious love.
Sadly for you, I was angry, bleeding and primed to tell the truth.
You've become quite ugly,
You act like your mother,
You bathe and still smell bad,
And I slept with your friends.

My quite excessive cruelty, in this case, was anything but kind.
You ran out of the door and I spent the day boxing up your things
(Since this was MY flat, and I'd be buggered if I was giving it up.)
You came back later with your brothers. I wasn't there to be hit.
When I came home that night,
You'd never existed.
The papers told me you were
"Found hanging in the wind."

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Grade 'A' Fantasist, a poem by Adam White, poet

By the light of a favoured medium,
I reckon they sit illuminated,
Switching between those banal chat-rooms
They oh so very love with all their heart,
Browsing some codified scribblings,
Looking for the subtle mention of
How unchanged and true the feelings are.

And of course, she is crying gleefully,
Supposing she's found some secret message
Hidden among the withered leaves of madness
Insanely dedicated to a fruitless past
Of silk sheets, bloody nights, camouflage shirts,
Reminiscing about lost forevers,
Almost but not quite as bad as

The foetid remains of a kinder future
That leave too visible scars on her skin.
Her own personal Shiva/willing slave
For degradations she's still suffering.
She passes the grave no less frequently,
Taking handfuls of cooling, fresh laid earth
To stuff her roach motel, dank, empty womb.

Get it? You can cum but you'll never leave?
The hordes that visit keep the "towels" she folds.
She is disinterested, scanning away
While her latest victim plumbs the horrid depths.
"His name begins with a consonant" she thinks.
"No, a vowel." Narrowing the pool somewhat.
She cries like he's telling her he loves her.

Moving on, this one reads from her factory,
A little house with an aging husband,
Who despite a kindly face, would slap hers
'Til she's black and blue if he realised
That she drifts back to a fairytale life
She thought herself too good to invest in.
Now she's half the woman and twice the size.

Still, she plasters her views world-wide,
Admitting each time she says more and knows less,
That repeated pregnancy rots the adult mind.
Press the trousers. Bake another stupid cake,
Then upload another side-on picture
Of that massive, vein ridden, vile paunch,
So we can all point and laugh, heave and hate.

They remember the words, the time, the place,
The vapid reason or oh so easy lie
That brought them moaning to their sorry lives.
They read the words and realise their fate.
They will not be rescued from their wedding days.
They will not be cured their awful plagues.
They will not be happy living life their way.

Grade 'A' fantasist, revel in their pain
And have a slice of happiness to keep.
Beside you, a too small quilt with her beneath,
While they waste another lonely night
In such sub-standard, awful company,
While all that was offered them lies ever dead
Or never living under present light.

Check out my next poem, Hanging in the Wind
Check out a previous poem of mine, Unlike You




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