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Rosie Allabarton
Rosie Allabarton

Rosie Allabarton is an English short story writer and poet who lives in Berlin. A postgraduate of the Birkbeck Creative Writing MA, her work has been published in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies. When she's not writing Rosie likes to run along the towpaths of the Landwehrkanal and swim in the lakes that surround the city, rain or shine.


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(http://ipickedthisforyoum yself.wordpress.com)
Rosie Allabarton Poetry


Munich

 

We slept in Poets’ Corner
under trees whose leaves
winked and turned
in the late afternoon light.
And I wrote nothing, despite
the apparent inspiration,
the grass, in squares, too business-like
for poetry.
Or mine, at least.
Complete and completed
curled around our bags
our hair intermingled, as asleep,
head-to-head on the green
we drifted;
lost and still amid the fray of the day.
Consumed in new ways
by the city around us
so different from ours
so smart
and humourless
dressed for dinner at all times
in soft suede shoes,
we were arrested by wealth and,
opaque as whole milk,
we walked.

 

 

 

Baking Song

 

I am baking again,

after scraping the pan clean

black with oil from last night's

disaster, chartering a boat across the grey

gravelly sauce that might have been edible had I not been so full

to forget it

toasting on the hob.

We tread carefully through the flour;

our feet, meet;

faces on the floor.

 

I am still singing as I throw in the rest,

some eggs and some salt

the radio on and the apron string chafing

my skin, under the hairs, I whisper along

the song

a reminder.

With tiny-mice-fingers I mix the butter in

'til it crumbles and rolls,

becomes soft and crumbles again with the sugar,

sweet white waves cascading, itching my palms.

 

 

 

Last Night

 

 Flat-tyred

 to match my insides

 I cycle

 stuttering along cobbled streets, smoothed by wind

 and tyres filled with more air than mine,

 shoe-shined by late Summer rain.

 I breathe in;

 holding the night before close

 to my skin, tickling belly-hairs

 under the loose-string cardigan

 you so coveted in photographs

 that I have thrown on

 thrown over

 to cover my embarrassment.

 Face tired and long

 from all night trying;

 smile woolly at the edges

 unravelling

 where it meets my cheeks

 I think about you.

 With each turn of my wheels

 shoes sticky from something

 and stuck on my pedals

 it jiggles above my ribs,

 gets caught in my throat

 that high-ceilinged room

 me, coat on and waiting

 for an answer

 and you standing there saying

 something, saying

 nothing at all;

 all your charms gone and

 you're suddenly, surprisingly small:

 all height lost to the walls.


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