DAVID HANLON - POEMS

David Hanlon is age 29, from Cardiff in Wales. He began writing poetry two years ago as a result of exploring his own personal history and life experiences. He began regularly reading at open mic nights in Cardiff and has recently moved to Bristol, England - aiming to immerse himself in its thriving arts scene and explore this further. He finds the writing process both fascinating and cathartic. He has poems published at Fourth & Sycamore, and forthcoming on Ink, Sweat & Tears and Amaryllis, online.

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                                               The Heart
 
If you could be inside
all your veins
at the same time,
flow through
cylindrical
tapestries,
the rhythmic beating
motion
circulating you
towards
your
vital organ,
what would you find there?
 
An organ donor?
A thief?
A life-support machine?
A car?
 
 
 
                            A Portrait of Love as a Forest
 
First, love was born--
the orange hues of a sunrise,
the two of us entwined
in the transparency of water.
 
Later, love grew--
from a stream to a river,
rich with life;
we stood tall as trees,
side by side,
producing oxygen.
 
Then, love abandoned us--
like those fleeing from wildfire;
bodies left as wastelands,
minds toxic.
 
Now, love is lost--
a bird with no wings,
song-less;
a dried-up river,
and our heads hang,
endure the drought.
 
 
 
                                     A Space for Us
 

Living in hope
for so long,
that we’ll get better,
see each other again
like we used to,
that it will be
like it used to be.
 
There were moments,
but it never got better--
shut out
from one another;
the frustrations,
the pain,
took their toll,
and now we
are no more.
 
All that feeling,
all that getting through
on optimistic attitude,
has vanished--
there is nothing
left to get through,
to try to get back to.
 
Lamenting ‘Us’,
I am overcome
with anger,
bitter and bloated
with lost hope.
I carry with me
a stubborn sadness,
knowing
 
there was no
            space
                        left for             us. 





                                   Weathered Memories
 
Our memories are clothes
hung out to dry,
on a washing line--
not a ray of sunlight
shines
on any of them,
 
instead, they are battered
by barricading winds,
unpegged by pelleting rain,
ripped
and torn away:
every one--
resurfacing as rags.
 
Now there’s nothing
but an empty
rope,
fraying,
thick
bristles scratching;
the pain
is thicker.
 
I grab it anyway,
hold on,
dangle from our lifeline,
my body thrashed
by the hurricane,
the rope
unravelling.
 
A lonely rag
hurtles towards me,
I reach out--
catch it,
clutch it
tightly,
cover my chest.
 
Hold on,
hold out for,
sunlight.