Josephine Corcoran


Under your body, my language of floors
your belly and hips reading small dips
and gradients, your fingertips
writing worlds on my walls

You translated television into me
made my bedrooms cells at Colditz
and convent cells, rooms at the Walton’s
and the von Trapp mansion

gagged with paint, bound with wallpaper paste
subsided, infested
I still taste the insides of your nightdresses

Roads, rivers and years between us
it’s strangers listening, cold in their beds
to voices calling from room to room
keys turning, murmuring
in German, singing

Copyright © Josephine Corcoran 2013

Josephine Corcoran lives in Wiltshire and is a member of BlueGate Poets.  She runs a poetry blog called And Other Poems

About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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3 Responses to Josephine Corcoran

  1. Reblogged this on Josephine Corcoran and commented:
    A poem by me here. Looking at it now, I think it needs some more work – the line breaks aren’t quite right, for one thing. But it’s out there and a nice site of poems to explore, in any case!

  2. Valerie says:

    There’s a lot I like about it. It’s haunting. There’s a longing in it too – the ‘gagged’ house for the child’s imagination, refusing to let it go. At least that’s what I got from it 🙂

  3. Deniz says:

    I thought it’s interesting the point the poet chooses to break the lines. Eg. The way the lines descend on stanza 4

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