Poems By Emma Plunkett

Expectations released into the atmosphere, gone.
Completely invisible now.
No more, “I have to”,
Just, “what ever will be, will be”.
Maybe I will win, complete the race, reach the top!
Maybe I won’t.

Now I don’t, “have to” anymore,
I feel less frantic.
I can just relax and get on with what’s in front of me,
In my own time.
I look up at another 200m climb to the top of the mountain in front of me,
whilst forgetting why I’m up here.

One tremendous step after another brings me closer to the goal.
I’m exhausted, I ask the mountain for support.
It’s alive! and moving very, very slowly on a collision course,
crashing at the speed of about one inch per year.

I see a wild goat and wild flowers,
when I reach the top.
What a surprise,
I reached the top!
I didn’t really expect that at all.

Hauling my rather ample frame 2910m above sea level.
What a hike, uphill struggle.
Why did I do that?
Why do other people bother to climb mountains?
Surely not just for the view?
Which is spectacular.

I ask the mountain to show me a gentle way down,
After one of those superb, well deserved cups of tea,
at the top of course.
Pathways reveal themselves to me,
as I scramble down the scree.

I breathe in deeply, right down to the bottom of my lungs,
The cleanest, freshest air, I have ever felt touch me.
I stop and look at everything on the way down.
Will the fairies come back to play in the fairy ring they left behind?

I see one tree with a bow around another,
like an old, married couples dieing pact.
To be reincarnated, together again, as two trees.

I walk and climb down.
The descent is never ending.
The snow melt causes deep running streams,
I follow them down.

Does the mountain need to be climbed?
Does it get tickled when we clamber all over it?

I anxiously anticipate the next turn of the bend in the track,
to reveal the final home straight.
To reveal at least the car park.
It never comes.

My muscles tired and my feet aching
On and on, I climb down.
It is so far,
There and back again.
I’ve never been so high,
Whilst having my feet firmly set on the ground.

The next day.
I look up to where I was and think to myself,
“How on earth did I reach the top of that huge mountain?”
Now I know what it is to be down here looking up and
up there looking down from the peak in this picture!

11th June 2009

Receive the energy, let it flow.
Balance the input and output levels.
Meteoric rise from the ashes of hell
to maintain a sensible manner.
Riot gear to control my thoughts,
psychosis of the never ever again scenario:
Arse-shitting, sleeping, vomiting,
figure eight to fold the whole.
Left together, right together,
charming electromagnetic fields of golden mist,
consuming ribbons for the funfair.
Cold, early, virtually fat-free,
remember me, I’m sort of alright.
Trading celebrities for orphans,
melted ice cream on my breasts.
Aeroplanes under the bed,
anchors for hands and she sank.

31.05.00

Lethal.
Silent permission granted;
take control.
Auto take
The decision’s made.
BANG!
FIRE!
The show is axed
and the dancing girls all disappear! Aaaah. (more…)

In the slightest thing,
imagining another moment long.
Fascinated by being;
exuberant lover.

Bubble-gum face
marching forwards
not looking, lights go off.
Keeping strong calm waves intact, (more…)

A sufficient error in the data palm recorder
allows us to go back to the beginning.
Unhappy memories re-mastered and re-catagorised
to bring another happy moment into the centre of the earth’s gravitational pull.
Spirits cooperate and line up nicely.
Less dangerous situations vacant than before
attract lovely young thing in red
to live out crazy but satisfying life.

29.03.03

Remote control believer,
a new emotion to try,
to try and hide.
Astro-biological birth control,
counting the moons back,
to your mother’s first breath,
because she says so.
A time to embrace,
a time not to embrace.
Preparation for the performance,
sleeping, (more…)

The sumptuous notion of how,
resistance is futile.
Simplicity twists,
further sounds are made.
Cosmetics forgiven,
shiny bright gleams,
super shiny bright things.
Always telling myself how
and why it does this.
Plastic sideboard tears,
the changes occupy a different space. (more…)

Knightsbridge Station is closed,
because it’s having some tender loving care.
The escalators going down towards the Northern Line
and the up escalator from the Piccadilly Line at Kings Cross
have just got married.
The platforms are all making love at Victoria.
Please make your journey using an alternative route.
We hope this doesn’t cause you too much inconvenience.

05.10.00

The cathedral in the sky;
squatted for a party this weekend
(a full-on energising cultural event).
Entering through an open door,
the sunshine lures me outside again.
Slowly disintegrating daffodils;
the power of sprouted-wheat juice;
I confirm my anxious state.
Remaining on this planet too long again
I change and climb into a new suit of armour.
I love everything about you.
We exchange suicide notes.
No boss today;
my love has gone away. (more…)

A clown was born,
an eight-year-old fairy clown.
Drinking a thirteen-year-old cup of tea,
she’s a fairy.
Of course she can fly:
she flutters her wings.
She’s a ballerina:
she knows all the right moves,
pirouettes and everything.
Releasing the inner clown,
she’s magic.

(more…)