Many of my poems are about a girl called tulip. tulip is sort of my alter ego, or perhaps who I'd like to be. If I were younger, she'd be my imaginary friend.
I chose tulip's name because it's unusual, and my own name is common. Everyone's called Susan - I call myself Susie because it's as much as I can do to get away from the awful commonness of my name without actually changing it.
tulip's name is always spelled without a capital letter, by the way. She prefers it that way.
Some of my poems about tulip are a lot sexier than the ones you can see here. But I don't think I'd want them on the web.
always the first to laugh
and if she wants to cry
flies to a secret place
usually wins, but doesn't care about it
always takes a dare and doubles it
peels potatoes for hours without
complaining
prays to her gods joyously
is carefree, careless, has a good voice
but can't sing because there are
so many other things to do
delights in sharing food, privileges,
secrets
can skin a rabbit, climb the mountain
out of the following, which do you think
tulip cannot do
(tick all that apply)
In the place of the lions, Tulip dares
to walk barefoot, careful of thistles, looking
for something that will catch her
oh so sparkling eye.
A ragged castaway runs towards her,
waving matchstick arms and asking
if she would be so kind,
he's been alone for sixteen years.
Tulip pauses, considers her options.
Her genes, anxious to propagate,
are in a quandary. The man is
not prepossessing.
There's nothing to suggest he'd be
an adequate protector of the body
the genes inhabit now, nor the one
some of them would colonise.
He's not pulsating with obvious muscle,
oozing conspicuous wealth,
adorned with skulls of competitors,
and he's rather smelly.
On the other hand, his loins
are modestly covered with a lion's skin
and he's survived here
for a considerable length of time.
The genes are undecided. Some urge
that tulip should take this chance
to perpetuate them; others argue
she's capable of a much better match.
A few suggest a trial period,
during which tulip's candidate lover
is encouraged to prove his suitability
in arbitrary and ridiculous ways.
These fence-sitters find themselves
holding the balance of power.
Thousands of years later,
they're in control:
humans can no longer reproduce
without performing elaborate rituals
of wooing and flirtation
extended over months or years.
All this time, the genes
are laughing uproriously.
This refusal to take things seriously is,
ultimately, their downfall.
tulip is five feet eight inches tall
wears black a lot,
though rarely stockings or tights:
she prefers her legs bare.
her phone number's ex-directory
she has a tattoo of a bluebird on her left ankle
and two sets of earrings
she drives a small car very fast
in her past, there's something sad
she never talks about.
when tulip's around,
the sun shines a little bit brighter
tulip writes haiku
paints flamboyantly
but never takes enough care
to be really good
but she's better than she thinks
though if you told her so, she'd laugh
tell you not to be so silly
that it's only for fun...
phase two began. tulip opened her eyes
and tried to remember. she startled herself,
realising what she was doing: even the concept of
remembering was strange. as was that of memory.
(just in time she stopped herself finding
the concept of strangeness strange in itself)
she was, after all,
a practical and optimistic woman.
and the bed was comfortable,
in an old-fashioned sort of way.
Iron, functional and institutionally
ugly, but its mattress was soft.
She was lying on the flat top
of a glassy rock, jutting
some ten feet above the sand.
The sides were smooth, almost sheer.
Getting down would be difficult,
and what, precisely,
would be the point of getting down?
There was nowhere to go.
Nothing to see but sand. This was silly.
tulip rose from her bed of bracken,
brushed off her dress,
and made her way down to the stream.
tulip affects nonchalance
as she flounces into
the mud hut/back street/high tech parlour
explains what she wants,
discusses the details,
submits not without a little apprehension
(the practitioner smiles secretly)
and emerges later with
a bluebird tattoo on her left ankle
One day, tulip will die, childless. In the end,
Her genes will have failed to transport themselves
To a new colony. No one will concern themselves
Much with her genes as they prepare for her funeral.
How old will tulip be when she dies?
How high will her pyre be? How deep her grave?
How many will line the streets or stand mute on the battlefield?
Will flowers carpet her journey to the graveyard?
Or will the church be empty, except for
The crazywoman who coughs all through the service?
These are some of tulip's haiku. I wrote them really, of course, but I pretended that tulip was writing them about me! I don't seem to come out very well in tulip's poems, I'm afraid.
my name is tulip
susie is my friend
susie runs slowly
susie is boring
i have the feeling
one day i shall drop
i'm sorry susie
susie? who's susie?
i met someone new today
her name is susie
when we are out together
people look at me
elephant to my gazelle
she cannot catch me
she catches the 23
bus to the suburbs
susie doesn't admire me
as much as she should
that dumpy, lumpy, susie
like a lump of lard
I didn't mean to hurt you
(crossing my fingers)
i don't know anyone called
susie. never have.
Here are some other places you can visit at my site.
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