Poetry Submission - Natalie Crick
Natalie Crick
To the Editor,
I enclose some poems for your perusal for possible publication.
Natalie Crick
has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing
when she was a very young girl. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic
confessional Women's poetry. Her poetry has been published in a range of
journals and magazines including Cannons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne's Thread, Carillon and National Poetry Anthology 2013.
My address and contact details are:
Miss Natalie Crick
6 The Stamp Exchange
Westgate Road
Newcastle Upon Tyne
NE1 1SA
07342856180
Hope you enjoy reading my work.
I look forward to your response.
Best wishes,
Natalie Crick
Dear Sister
It is Winter here.
Snow has fallen.
“I am afraid”, said the moon.
She is beautiful tonight.
Now it is darker than December.
What is dead is a different colour.
My dead sister is neither a man nor a woman.
She is a ghost.
We do not speak of her
Anymore.
I turn away from mirrors
When I see her reflection.
The dead can no longer see
I no longer care.
O Lord of darkness,
I want my innocence.
Night’s End
Snow had fallen, I remember,
At the night’s end.
Do you hear his voice?
I am never alone.
And at the end?
I do not live.
It is forbidden to die.
The winds are changing.
Our dead brother waited
Undiscovered,
But very dark, very hidden,
As the earth became black.
The field was parched and dry,
Filled with death already.
You walk through it.
You see nothing.
Young Love
When you were five
And I was six,
We would hold hands
Just like this.
When you were nine
And I was ten,
We made a pact
To never tell, and then:
You began to tell me every word
That escaped from your lips, with cold secret stares.
A look or a glance through long
Fingertips. Your beautiful face.
I see you sitting by the stair, your body
Tight in hot sun, a sad lamb
On stage. And when I have passed you
Flushed red raw, I want to remember
How young we were.
Splayed out across the pitch
Like baby starfish, pink and pinched
As tongue's blood.
Our father and mother are in silent reverie,
With knotted wrists and electric hair,
Nodding and clapping, as dumb waiters do
To our games. When we are together we are together.
Today we are family as the ill
Walk in lines, with shaken smiles that marry us.
Mother, to me you are a figure of fun.
Father, you are a child when you wake up each morning.
When you were five
And I was six,
We would hold hands
Just like this.
When you were nine
And I was ten,
We made a pact
To never tell, and then:
You began to tell me every word
That escaped from your lips, with cold secret stares.
A look or a glance through long
Fingertips. Your beautiful face.
I see you sitting by the stair, your body
Tight in hot sun, a sad lamb
On stage. And when I have passed you
Flushed red raw, I want to remember
How young we were.
Splayed out across the pitch
Like baby starfish, pink and pinched
As tongue's blood.
Our father and mother are in silent reverie,
With knotted wrists and electric hair,
Nodding and clapping, as dumb waiters do
To our games. When we are together we are together.
Today we are family as the ill
Walk in lines, with shaken smiles that marry us.
Mother, to me you are a figure of fun.
Father, you are a child when you wake up each morning.
The Garden Outside The House
She was out there again that morning.
Talking, laughing, singing,
The garden filled with sweet birdsong
And the aroma of summer.
The sunset leaked red blood,
Annihilating him.
A love gift or a
Romantic invitation.
She had one eye, he had two.
He was waking from a fitful dream.
It soon became dark,
The sky full of storms.
He saw her solemn death dance,
Wet and electric,
An Autumn widow wearing grey.
It was starting to happen again.
For You
This month her depression began.
He obsessed her.
She tied her heart with ribbon like a present,
Licking his fingers and kissing his feet.
Words failed her.
She breathed him in like a terrible secret,
A childless woman beneath the ivory moon.
But what about his eyes, his eyes, his eyes.
Walking in the Winter trees
Were his shadows in the fog.
He was innocent as a lamb.
Sleep, my Angel,
Deaf and dumb
As the drugged summer sun.
My Love,
I want you.
This Dark Thing
This dark thing that sleeps in me,
It steals from me so I am left with nothing.
I am blameless, Godiva.
The murmurings are alive.
Watching you dully from my bed
I have taken the pill to kill.
I mourn my own death,
Drowning into the night.
My tears could devour
The ocean. I want, I want.
I have lost myself. But that is not enough.
This dark thing that sleeps in me,
It steals from me so I am left with nothing.
I am blameless, Godiva.
The murmurings are alive.
Watching you dully from my bed
I have taken the pill to kill.
I mourn my own death,
Drowning into the night.
My tears could devour
The ocean. I want, I want.
I have lost myself. But that is not enough.
Natalie Crick
