Marks in The Dark by Bec Clarke

Marks in the Dark
My first little E-book – a collection of some poems & sketches

from the late 90’s to 2005
By Bec Clarke
© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

May 2009
I was inspired to pull this little collection
together for a few reasons:
1. love of life
2. love of poetry and art
3. love of sharing
4. love of new technologies
5. i was inspired after seeing other people on the web doing

their own version of this type of thing
6. life moves fast and I’m not 19 anymore. what did that girl
feel and how has that changed? if I don’t reflect is there a
risk I won’t learn?
7. honestly, some days I feel distinctly un-creative. I feel I get

wrapped up in energies that aren’t feeding my creative soul
or identity. I used to sketch more and doodle in the world of
ideas, feelings and empathies. now I’m 31 and writing my
second play and so much of life/art is outcome focussed,
but what of those tiny, brief, playful, not-heading-anywhere
impulses. how can they be honoured?
8. life is short and so short poems are needed!
9. these poems and sketches came from a time when I was

making ‘marks in the dark’ really - before my first play when
I could pull it all together and create something tangible.
this remains a special time and way of being, and I hope I
can continue to return there always… lost/found.
lonely/connected. terrifying/inspiring
Much love to all. x

Late 90’s –
Poems by the teenager

Love is
not elite
it
encompasses
all.
At last,
when I least
expect it,
peace.
When I think
I could not love
the world with any
more of me…
another sunrise!
Music
began
when
someone
discovered
Nature’s
voice
It’s strange
when your
dreams make
more sense
than your reality!
Travel
sharpens
your eyesight!
It teaches you
to see
beyond familiar
horizons.
Magic
exists.
A shiver.

Some guy, some guy with a
beer in his hand
comes up to me
and says
“You look lost.”
Hell yeah.
I’m lost as a girl
can be,
lost between hell and ecstasy.
Feeling ugly.
But I say, I say nothing

with my words.
instead I shake
and look away.
Persistent, he says,
“Then you must be found.”
I give a mute smile,

the smile you give
to strangers.
I wish he’d let me be.

Lost between hell and ecstasy.
Feeling ugly.

Where is love?

Pain cannot
be solved
dissolved,
consoled.
It must be heard,
and rocked to sleep.
Safe
If I touch you
(when your head is turned)
will you know?
If I dream of you
(when the lights are dim)
will it show?
It I laugh with you

(when the music plays)
will it sound?
If I give my love
(when you walk away)
will it be found?
Bittersweetheart
What happened to
the plans you made
for you and me?
Who will tell me

they
cannot love me
now?

Laughing, through tears.
Loving, through doubt.
Living.
No more hiding
little girl
(no more secret wants
no more love restrained
no more tears in the dark)
you’ve been found
little girl,
you’re up…
I want to hold you;

to throw away my
crazy fears
and hold you
to reach on out and
kiss your face
and hold you
to open up your
clouded eyes
and hold you
to feel your soft, warm
breath on mind
and hold you
to show you gifts
of hidden soul
and hold you.
Now I’ve told you.

Ode to the special stuff
Oh chocolate
Oh love
Oh flowers
Oh sex
Oh art
Wahh- wahh – wahh!
You are the special stuff
of which my life is made.
I dedicate my ditty to you.
Now I have
found it.
Before, I wondered,
I guessed, I hoped;
sometimes I thought
I glimpsed it in my dreams
but
now it resides in
a cavern in my body.
Before, I speculated,
I theorized, I sorted;
perhaps I even
assumed I knew
a little bit about it
but
now my breast
knows its secrets.
Before I scattered,
I groped, I leapt,
but
now my fists have
closed around it
and my feet have
never been so steady.
I have found it,

I cannot name it,
but it is becoming mine.

Late 90’s –
Poems by the new girl in
the city

When I was little
I came to Sydney and
I saw a water fountain
in the Cross
that was
round and pretty
and the only thing I remembered
and now
I go past it
every day.
So what I’m saying is

that a far away memory
is currently my reality
and that
confuses me
no end.
Turn you back

for a moment
and the next thing
you know
“Truth is GREEN
this season.”
Life is
choosing
your religion
and
trying
not to
lose faith.

10 ways
1 begin to think like a poet again

2 relearn crying without the expectation of comfort
3 watch the skies
4 sing more
5 dream more
6 draw more
7 love myself more
8 forgive quicker
9 open the door and step outside
10 run to the end of the street, admire the city view and keep running,
until, I stop

I want to be an angel artist,
like I asked.
That was the deal.
When the world is moving too fast

and old friends appear like statues of sand
and there’s a strong wind blowing
and Home is a matching doona set
and I am forever arriving somewhere with my bags,
when I can’t see the highway below me,
nothing can touch me,
except You.
When I am lying on my back, bliss,

waiting for the next breath to come
and the luminous night is watching me
when Home is two arms around me and peace dreams
when I am forever travelling the paths to the better place
with my strap on wings and my portable hope,
nothing can touch me,
except You.

Late 90’s to early 2000 -
Poems by the 21 year old

Inner Gardens
Nothing can be better than

the inward journey.
You may be challenged,
you may be questioned,
you may feel like the only soul
awake in the night.
Never be stopped by the water
that runs too swiftly
or the stepping stones
that make you slip.
When air turns frosty and
your heart is aching for home,
eyes closed,
see your oasis
and feel the footprints you are leaving;
A Pioneer of Truth.
And know, if you ever need
a journey’s partner…
I will carry part of your load
and
I will sit with you
along the way
and listen to you dream.

Kid
I see her through the play gym.

She spots me when she
glimpses my pink bumpy top
and stretches her neck even further.
I’m wondering what her story is.
Just some kid I’ve seen across a sandpit.
She is standing tall

in pants that don’t cover her ankles and
she has new shoes.
She has the demeanour of someone with new shoes.

I see that when I squint my eyes.
We move toward each other.
She claps down hard on her black square heels
and listens to the echo in the cement.
I feel it in my feet.
She watched the faces of people around her.
New shoes!
She comes closer and I see her teeth

are large, separate, protruding from
under her top lip
and her hair is cropped.
She lunges at me all gangly and wide-eyed,

puts her head right near my heart
and breathes me in. All of me.
Hey carer says, “Don’t mind her. She sniffs.

She is saying hello.”
“Hello,” I say…. “New shoes.”

Unshared Intercourse
Nearly cared,
not quite smiled,
almost hoped,
was this close to giving a shit,
momentarily trusted,
virtually initiated my undoing!
(Thank god I didn’t turn and say hello).
Caricature of a Villain
He leaves evidence
He knows what he is
He likes to see bits of Thursday’s fatty dinner
stuck to his desk Friday morning
He likes to yank the cleaver
out of the backs of those
young and efficient Clark Kent types,
drip their blood across the office
and leave the knife against the elevator door.
He likes the smell of his own salty sweat,
when he’s skippin out to suck a cigarette down,
to permeate the space with his essence of lie.
He loves his kids

He fears he is dispensable
He leaves evidence
He knows what he is

The Art of the Economics of Truth
Model of a man,
pretend for me.
I can construct what you conceal.
take some simple trusts and
blend their limits,
claim you own an acre of the sky,
steal pennies from my hand you’re holding,
as you’re crying that you just can’t lie.
Truth is painted,
so why not make the colours bold.
Dazzle me.
One last stroke,
I’m sold.
Sleep of the Creative Impulse
There is a silence here,

a kind of death,
as if dirt and a door
cover a phrase of sweet music.
There is fear.
It scratches around the rim of eye.
It taps, persistent, and without noise.
The mourning is without company.

It is unseen and repeated.
As the coming, is the going
and nothing…
Must
trust
the miraculous rebirth.

Rockhampton Carols Night 1999
Dawn is coming.
The earth hissed tonight
when the rain fell upon it.
Then the stars burst through the clouds
and thousands of voices
sang of a hope bigger than their knowledge.
Now dawn is coming,
and the earth holds onto
scattered paper cups, as mementoes.
The moon watches our

ache
with her cold eye. Protecting
but not helping.
All we have is each other

and the sunshine of
a new day.

Lucas
I bet you were quiet

when you popped your vein
and your head cracked back
soft in the sofa.
I reckon you wouldn’t have said a word

the first night
you slept in a hazy box
and licked the rain.
And are you still silent?

Bouncing private prayers of walls
and scratching notes
in the border of a bible.
It’s just,
I remember you were
a real quiet kid…
A real quiet kid,
that’s all,
like me.
Judy
Because you are not here, Jude,

because the last time I remember us
I was a ten-year-girl standing in the centre of the universe,
flipping ABBA tapes bear the poker table,
ignoring all but the force of your laugh
and the way you made me feel so tiny
when you told the jokes I didn’t understand
and the way you threw your money in the middle
and how I thought you secretly loved Ron
and the way you could booze and swear and make your bets
and be as a man, but with dark thick hair to your shoulders and
big soft boobs,
because I couldn’t grieve – I just grew older and left it all behind
and then you died –
tonight I thought of you and thanked you.
Plus, I need a favour Jude.
Could you please be the angel at my grown-up poker table?
I need some courage,
and a laugh.

Me, Mine, and This
This belongs to me.

It is my thought.
You can judge it.
It’s mine.
You can steal it.
It’s mine.
You can take it on a trip
and show it Paris.
It’s mine.
I birthed it.
Sure, one day I’ll set it free,
But it belongs to me.

2002 –
Sporadic poems of the
striving girl

Is anyone going to say it?
Dammit. Start the music.
Bless this world’s eye.

Too soft in crouches
in the folds of our blanketing.
So tenderly wrapped
in the cool of our sorrow and peeping.
Someday I may pull the curtain back
with a light to shine upon it.
Frightened still, but with no god to lose.
Such a sigh is in me.
Who is safe
in the airiness of skin?
The bounty of soul.
We hide its worth
in the safe of our bodies
and watch the keyhole
day and night
and in between.
Stood upon a pattern of our squares,

still we feel random,
unhooked,
heaven sent.
Look down.
we made the shoes we walk in
with two hands guided by a thought.
Have you more grace in you
than you could bare to imagine?
Pray the divineness reaches outwards
and things are made for us to see and hold and march upon.
Pray you speak the sentence that drops everything in its place.
There.

Projections
The girl with the patched-up soul

The lovable wanker
Kid with a lot to learn
Tough man with a past
The one who wore the socks and sandals
My accidental best-friend
The one who sees me as strong
The one who sees me as weak
The one who sees me as a work in progress
The one who’ll never see me
Poor little rich boy
My favourite under-dog
Secret sister
Sweetie with a habit
Boogie-woogie Betty
Injured Playboy
Needy but cute
Unrequited lover
The one I can’t quite put my finger on
Person from my hometown
Person from my heartland
Extraordinary angel-boy
The one I gave my heart to

Cabbie
The cab is sailing me home.
A high pipe sings.

Tranquillity sways
from a mirror
on a smelling pine tree.
Stops the car

and I count my coins
onto his palm.
“Nice music,” I say and
he seems very pleased to have heard a voice.
“Nepalese”, he says.
“It’s nice.”
And again he sails into the night

and I tie my fear
to the boot of his car and watch it
bounce behind him,
unnoticed.
I left an extra coin with him

as payment for a dream
I wedged into the seat.

2005 –
Poems by the 25 year old

But
I had to move into the next phase
And after looking at him

for many, many years
I began to know
I could never take him with me
Not this one. Not now
And that’s the pain of it.

That’s the shame of it.
Forgiving that
new learning
is the hardest

My life is moving in circles of late.
Great, lingering, loopy circles,
in no hurry to be explained.
Their rhythm sedates me, calms my heart.
I pretend I am the maker,

I pretend I own my radiance.
I pretend I hold the end of the circle in my hand.
I pretend my footsteps are leaving gullies.
But I’m pinned by the rotation.

My face is lit unbearably.
My dream shifts into reality
and the world spins into night again.
Goals
1 work with integrity at all times

2 give my best
3 stay alert and open – ready for opportunities
4 speak positively or say nothing at all
5 make a profit/ leverage rewards

We’re all
human
he says.
Yeah
Prove it.
No, he’s nice.

I like him.
It strikes me as I walk away,
like an afterthought.

I wish
to be
more
mindful.
I wish
to be
less
mindful.
Can you
see why
the universe
struggles
to provide
for me?

I stood alone
in a crowd
tonight.
the man beside
mentioned the name
of a movie
I’d just seen.
An impacting,
under-your-skin movie.
All at once
I was a part of him
and he was a part of me.
We live
in relation
to each other.
The string
of my life
is crossing yours
simply because
you’re listening now.
If we traced
and danced
and trusted
we might
find ourselves
unravelled
off the same reel.
Or not.
But the
tracing and
dancing and
trusting
would
be
fun.

This week
I’ve been
stretched.
It ain’t
poetry.
If you talk to him

as innocent
he responds.
If you talk to him

as hero
he responds.
It you talk to him

as drunk friend
he responds.
If you
kiss his cheek
as a lover would…?

Guy
curled up
in the sun
on the pavement
just outside of
the Casino
drawing all the world into
him or shutting it all out
or both
so much his own island
reminding me of something
I have felt like doing in
public places
when life gets
very hard
A Delight
Somehow
a little
delight
has settled into me
today
It came
within
the resting
and
the care-taking
It came
after
a long haul
in the dark
I can’t
ignore
the good
around me
I can’t
turn my back
away
Delight
has laid
her firm warm
hand upon my face
She has settled in

August 11
The cycles are so strange

they move
without me
I wish
I could prepare
for them
or hold
myself inside
the ones
that feel
the best
Like now
Reflective
Safe
Cold-snap-cleaning out
Feeling so
full circle
So full
I could
eat my own
tail
Planning
Storing
Swallowing up the world
with slow
deliberate
gusto
I’ve been here before
Here is where
I drop in
the big dreams
Here is where
I make huge pots of soup
Here is where
I lay it out for all
Here is where I start again

It gets really brave when
it’s on that large scale,
I’d imagine.
When you reach beyond

what you know and trust
and start talking to those
you don’t know or understand.
When you speak to people
who you could never really know…
When you commune.

Marks in The Dark by Bec Clarke

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Marks in the Dark

My first little E-book – a collection of some poems & sketches

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

2. love of poetry and art

4. love of new technologies

5. i was inspired after seeing other people on the web doing

7. honestly, some days I feel distinctly un-creative. I feel I get

8. life is short and so short poems are needed!

9. these poems and sketches came from a time when I was

Much love to all. x

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

But I say, I say nothing

I give a mute smile,

I wish he’d let me be.

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

It I laugh with you

Who will tell me

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

I want to hold you;

Now I’ve told you.

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

I have found it,

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

So what I’m saying is

Turn you back

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

1 begin to think like a poet again

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

When the world is moving too fast

When I am lying on my back, bliss,

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

Nothing can be better than

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

I see her through the play gym.

I’m wondering what her story is.

Just some kid I’ve seen across a sandpit.

She is standing tall

She has the demeanour of someone with new shoes.

She comes closer and I see her teeth

She lunges at me all gangly and wide-eyed,

Hey carer says, “Don’t mind her. She sniffs.

“Hello,” I say…. “New shoes.”

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

He loves his kids

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

Sleep of the Creative Impulse

There is a silence here,

The mourning is without company.

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

The moon watches our

All we have is each other

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

I bet you were quiet

I reckon you wouldn’t have said a word

And are you still silent?

Because you are not here, Jude,

© Rebecca Clarke 2009 http://www.rebeccaclarke-unspoken.com

This belongs to me.