Quick excuse for inconsistant poems

There are submission deadlines for poetry mags and lit journals I’d like to submit to fast approaching, so I’ll be composing original work for them and thus not be posting them here. If I do scribble down the odd line or two that doesn’t make it to the submission pile, then I’ll post.

In short: writing stuff for other people. This blog gets the backburner.

Wish me good luck!


christine DINGLEY

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hunting dogs

The wind hushes through
the tall grass and dry reeds
of the frozen marshland.

My father and I walk
along tire-worn furrows
that the dogs ignore.

We pass under towers
thundering to feed
our electric hunger.

The sun hovers low
over the horizon’s
ridge of trees.

We trace the woods
until the dogs dart in
on the ghost-trail of deer.

The woods are splashed
golden Lothlorien
untouched by winter.

We follow the remains
of a stone farmer’s wall
and rotting fences.

The earth is muddy
but the cold air still
makes my cheeks sting.

© christine DINGLEY 2011


This grimoire we entrust
between us –
stained-red leather burned
with gold foil –
creaks when pried open.

The pages are pristine
(pearl white)
and we grin as we bleed
(page by page)
the ink from our minds.

It’s a sort of bloodletting:
pen leaches
that lance the dark boils:
all the thoughts
we ought not to dwell on.

We write back and forth
– a loom
of secret cruelty and suffering
– but quietly now
or this book will burn with us.

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it’s a fragmented, jittery feeling
like my nose floats in the air
and one eye is on the ceiling
and my mouth disappears into scissors

it’s a frightening dissociation
like i’m twenty shades of green
that will not blend
and i am lost in the in between

i have become the giant that sits
one-eyed, forging weapons for kings
that free me from the Tartarus pits
as I spy the ships of Aenaes

who am i? what am i?
a jumble of coloured “said”s
a canvas of scented “would have”s
in a dreamscape that fades

© christine DINGLEY

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First Year Science Lunes/Haikus

Ideal Gas Law

due to compression
we dance around eachother
one two three one two


infinite glassware
their contents clear, colourless
which ones are poison?


waiting patiently
for water to turn to ink
the hands crawl slowly


© christine DINGLEY 2011

*as these are not about nature, I consider these more as lunes rather than haikus.

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Image by Ann Douglas via Flickr

I live in a world of half-formed things –
half-words, half-thoughts, half moons
digging into my calloused palms.

I’m full to the brim with glasses half empty
words that I toss back in my gut
to plumb the empty depths.

I see light filter in past a curtain of fish
the tub is clogged half full to my calves
I shake as I wash off the soap skin.

My lips taste like salt.

© christine DINGLEY 2011


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Mushroom Soup


messy bed 

We start this story with a turbulent night,
one plagued with an incessant plight
of faceless terrors that do excite
the nerves.

We wake from the bed on the wrong side,
and still – eyes blurred it can be spied
the ghost writing is there scryed
on the wall.

We make our way to the kitchen below –
the sky is curtained for a no-show –
is chilled in the lack of the glow
of the sun.

We note that the hour is almost noon,
there is cold soup ’round a spoon
congealed – best still be cocooned
in bed.

© christine DINGLEY 2011

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