richard pierce

richard pierce

25 February 2013

Birthday poem for Alex


How It Is


This is how it is.
 

The things we do best we never plan.
We just let go, so our bodies take over.


The memory of where our feet fell,
In beautiful balance, at that perfect moment.
And our arms, hands and fingers,
As we abandon ball and fear,
When we watch, outside ourselves,
The red trajectory,
And our heart stops and leaps,
Because we win.

 
Parenthood is like that,
Bowling out of the dark into the light,
With no hope and no plans,
And the best moments the ones
We never dreamed of
Until they were complete.

 

22 February 2013

A Study - transcript from my journal, 20/02/2013

Sitting in Waterstones Piccadilly. Queues forming for Nicholas Sparks and two actors from his latest book to be made into a film. I'll be there one of these days. I refuse to give up now.

Have tweeted that I'm here till 6 if anyone wants to buy my book and have me sign it. That was 15 minutes ago, and no one's shown up yet. That's not really a surprise, is it?

I fancy a quiet pint with a fag. Not much chance of that either, though.

Lots of short people here, too short to see my book on the top shelf of the P section.

I wish I could sketch. So many interesting shapes and faces. Different types of hands, fingers, ways of walking, talking, breathing.

Is the man opposite me famous, the one who's on the phone saying he doesn't know what he's doing because no one told him where to go? So he leafs through his paper, headphone in one ear, the cable white against his ruddy cheek, a blue beret on his unruly dark brown hair, squints, frowns, crosses his legs, feet in suede boots, licks his finger, turns another page, short attention span, then finds something of interest, lingers, motionless, on the same page for minutes, and then the cycle begins again. Paper finished, he taps his fingers on the chair's armrests, gets his phone out of his coat pocket, screws up his eyes, messes with his fingers on the screen, looks up every now and then as if he's waiting for somebody, looking for somebody, and impatient at having to do so.

One minute to six. Still no one for my book.

Now he's closed his eyes, supports his head with one hand, looks like he's dozing. His phone rings, and he's off again, complaining about not being told where to go. Call ends, and he's back to masking his restlessness with apparent indifference. And then he bites one of his fingers, makes a decision, and off he goes, down the stairs and away. I wonder who he was.

14 February 2013

Valentine's Day poem

The things I wish for always disappear.

I don't see enough of you,
naked,
in the soft light of day,
nor in the harshness of artificial light,
now I think about it.
Routine and habits divide us.

Sometimes, at night, I wake,
and traces of brightness push their way
through the curtains to leave their trail
on your face.
You look so young then,
and I touch your youth
until I fall asleep again,
cower up to your heat
and dream of seeing you again,
naked.

It's not just sex, it's being.
A graze of touch isn't enough,
here and there,
to remind me of your beauty.
I want to drink empty, to its base,
this cup of passion we first poured
all those years ago,
without an audience,
in an echoing room,
without self-consciousness.

I want you
every second of every minute,
every minute of every hour,
every hour of every day,
every day of every year,
because I love you,
because I don't see enough of you,
naked.