Childbirth poem by Chris Canham

Childbirth poem by Chris Canham


Victory to me,

this is an interstellar reminder that I am going to be big in this world.


As giggly females crack softly up,

I sojourn through this dark space

vying for your golden attention.


And praying as the chorus roars,

and a split appears in the seam of human understanding…


Who me, a good samaritan?

All I did was the best I could with that provided.


Things are lifting now -

I’m progressing upwards on a social conveyerbelt…

at least, inside this stonefruit of a reckoning place.


Pardon my disgust, but I waited three hours just to hear you mumble that you love me.

And now, all that’s been built in my honour,

shall stand on as a testament to my ambivalent pain.


Trust is here - we’ll discover together.

I feel and need your feeling.

Do you desire my bath tub ring personae,

and ambidextrous four finger emotional state?


Things are gliding now -

I built a paddle pop stick castle,

a veritable mansion from things once sucked and discarded.

Sucked and discarded like you,

sucked and discarded like me.


Time is turning – it’s a brilliant orb.

My ranging desire came and ate you up for the sake of it.

I want to start sleeping together – waking up to savour your

fragile feminine psyche, and weepalot eyes.  

Tasting you straight out of the garden,

has got to beat having you canned.


All over my back like a paint spattered canvas in speckles of red and purple -

A time to wake up smiling and one to die sleeping.

Groaning in the background like a slow-turning death,

rising up from the shadows like ephemeral joy.

Anxiety beat me – I was a gun.

Fourth time in and I could smell imminent defeat,

Gliding across the story board – enter and exit lubriciously like

a dandelion cinderella.

Dressing gown – a sure fire passage to instant comfort.

Turning now – turning away from everything we’ve become accustomed to.

Running on beaches manic like street preachers,

dedicated to a purpose

as a glove is to insulation.

Bargaining for security, me and carlo

caught in a partial rainstorm.

His time is split now between something infinite - like money,

and something inconsequential like the universe or child birth.

 Chris Canham (taken from my book ‘Tired eyes search for sunrise’)

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