Three Poems by A.K. Blakemore



there is no intellectual pleasure.


i caught the large moth

with my bare hands –


like a kiss blown in from marshland, that

old bad mama



when my boyfriend spanks me my inner feminist weeps


reading Proust

Swann’s Way

the Moncrieff and Kilmartin translation


insect-bitten legs swollen out

to cloisonne, pure coral horn –


poor Mlle. Vinteuil! performative sadism

belies her good heart.

and the wasps botanising.


i hate poems where something is realised

on a holiday on a rope swing


i realise nothing explain

i know i don’t deserve to be hurt


later the cheap beer in the bar off the Old Town square

and the life-size wooden gypsy

with the varnish worn off her breasts


like a talisman

of predictability –


in bed i place your hands saying

you like it like this don’t you

you like it here



making it in the art world


can’t say if i skip meals

to keep my cost down and

that second rib showing –


like Jennifer Lawrence post-

photoshop, all

authentic pale lip and


missing the days when heat would rise

from someone else’s home


below me



A.K. Blakemore’s work has been published in magazines including Poetry Review, Poetry London and Ambit. She was anthologised in Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century and The Best British Poetry 2015. Her debut collection, Humbert Summer, was published by Eyewear in 2015. 



Image credit: Brennen Bearnes

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