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James Waddell

Page history last edited by James Waddell 11 years, 4 months ago

Senior 6th Form




Would I, in beamy black, frame daintiest lustre mix't of shades and light?


I am a seismograph

registering our heartbeats

black and white still, preserves

negatives of life in colour

I can't write in fresh, flushed blood

It dries to black, here

emblazoned charred marks of what were



They are prints, then, leading to

a scanty plot of ashes

on a smooth, white pillow

where once you burned, asleep.

At least, again, I can hold you between the covers.


La défence de la grisaille


Les limites de ma langue

sont les limites de ma pensée

Comment puis-j'écrire

sur l'amour heureux

quand j'écrire dans une langue

qui roule lourdement,

au lieu de voletant?

Comment puis-j'y penser

quand je pense dans cette langue?

Peut-être le monde devrait parler

dans la langage des oiseaux.

Mais rien ne serait fait.

D'ailleurs, la pierre et le feu

sont souvent plus belles

que la plumage coloré.


They exist, but are identical, and so is filth


Your eyes are pagan

nocturnal concentric tree-rings

tumbling into vortices

empty but smouldering

tugging fixing assailing

but blossoming sometimes in

morning-fresh, head-over-heels innocence

and slight soft sadness

remarkably steady and

remarkably quiet like



Shuddering beneath

burning sweat and quick breath

scratching with nails.

Our friction-sparks fall into fade

they cannot light our way, or fuel us

but they look so aaaah

when they pop like Catherine wheels

under our hands


Keats was right about the urn, frozen

dancers, perfectly symetrical

running roundandroundandround in a frieze infinitely still

but their eyes don't return your looks

so there is more ye need to know.


Your beauty lies.



For Him & For Her


I am trying to get a sense of you

But my image keeps popping

 into racing-heart fragments


I know you are of scattered rose-petals

On a shattered-mirror pond

But what about this sense of

“form” and

“structure” and

“symetry” and


“adorable”. N’aww. It is, sometimes,

The silliest things which are hardest to grasp

Anyone can say “I love you”

But I don’t feel the need to mention love


Just to paint a sky of stars and signs for us to see

And to hear you breathe, quietly

Like a petal, shimmering

On the surface of who I am.


Saxophonism, or On Hearing the Girl Across the Road Practise the Saxophone


twists of silken lust hang

in the air outside, trembling

like reeds tongued under supple lips.

intricate fingers on elegant keys

conveying narcotised tranquility

over darkling hum-thrum tarmac.


Your art is truly pure;

a song-caress which dissolves






I want to be air like your deathless song

that ceases to be and thus never was

I want to be your song

kissing you through the mouthpiece


Comments (5)

Michael Hughes said

at 10:31 pm on Dec 11, 2012

Well done, James.

Michael Hughes said

at 10:30 pm on Dec 11, 2012

Noah, never 'nice'; not nearly novel 'nough. No?

Noah Carvajal said

at 8:45 pm on Dec 11, 2012

Very nice.

doug taylor said

at 1:22 pm on Nov 7, 2012

Mad props.

Alfie Green said

at 9:29 am on Nov 2, 2012

Particularly liked 'Saxophonism', supple language.

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