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Best Poems Written by Han Marlowe Turner

Below are the all-time best Han Marlowe Turner poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

Disruptive Pattern Material

I was first picked up
In a cast-off shop in Liverpool; 
Surrounded by racks of seasoned shirts
Bearing names of old soldiers.

“Draper” draped on an immature frame
In a collage of brown and green, 
Overlapping and enveloping
Any semblance of a past self.

Baby-faced and militant,
The paradoxical camo in an urban warzone.
Slogans painted from shoulder to shoulder
In pungent, nuclear-white bathroom paint.

The smell is burned to memory,
Singeing nose hairs with chemical vigour,
Of dance-generated sweat, upturned pints,
A lover’s aftershave, the sting of cigarette smoke.

Washed once, maybe twice,
But anxious eyes watched the spin cycle,
Fearing specks of dislodged paint
Covering my muddy canvas.

Now “Draper” drapes a matured frame,
The only scent that lingers is
The petrichor of Northern summer
Tie-dyed deep into my fibres.

I bare a name that isn’t mine,
Memories of a life I did not live,
Scars from battles I never saw,
And honours that aren’t mine to claim.

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

Flux Eterna

“That body is female!”, they tell me.
At the turn of the moon
It purges itself of its sins,
Washing away what lives could have been,
Punished for failing biological duties.

“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Forever marked with the scarlet letter,
The big, bold, burning red “F”
Branded on the legal document
Of my consciousness.

“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Its identity is not recognised by law;
A renegade, a libertine, toeing the 
Tightrope lines between the accepted
And the unfathomable.

“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Unconventionally painted in black,
With cellulite scars and deep tiger stripes
Permeating every inch of
The skin’s breathing surface.

“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Not delicate, not loving, not pocket-sized,
Not built for the purpose of carrying
The weighty expectations of others,
Thrust upon it unwillingly.

“That body is female!”, they tell me.
It's not shameful to own these Himalayan curves,
Cupids bow lips, blue eyes full of secrets;
Except, of course, when these parts
Are fetishised, demonised, criticised.

“That body is female!”, they tell me.
The timbre of its voice
Gives way to conjecture,
Its name forms the image of a doll-child;
Porcelain, with golden curls cascading.

"That body is female!", they tell me.
Rebelling against it is a cardinal sin
In the religion of female empowerment.
Denying its femininity, the body
Is a traitor to the cause.

"That body is female!", they screech.
The brain does not work that way;
It binds its breasts pridefully, 
Shears away trestles damaged by bleach, and, 
In defiance, paints on a brave face.

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

The Old House

I visited my grandparents today.
Their home has never changed
in all the years I’ve visited
since my life began.

The white ceiling is stained
in shades of orange and peach
from the tobacco pipe
Jim puffs on with grandeur.

The smell put me off
the idea of smoking, but 
as an adult, there is comfort
in that sweet, smoky fragrance.

Anne is forever shrinking, 
and has been for as long as I can remember.
She is small, but her spirit
and her heart are huge.

I sneak off amidst adult conversation,
as I did in my youth,
to admire the trinkets
hidden away in the dining room.

All brass and silver,
marks and dents from years 
of seeing children grow 
and bring grandchildren home.

There’s a small bell,
resembling a bobbie’s hat.
Its ring is less impactful
than years ago.

A merry-go-round, ornate horses
frozen mid-leap for decades, and 
the little mouse I would hide
in a pinafore pocket,

And the candlestick
I would hook my finger into
and become Scrooge
for an evening.

Nothing moves in their home,
everything is static, frozen in
a place, a time,
well before my own.

I find comfort in the familiar,
in Anne’s cardigans and fairies,
in Jim’s old movies
that played on loop.

Forever thankful that,
while they age, their home
is a constant reminder
of childhood bliss.

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

Sunflowers

From tiny seeds
you sprouted; Tender
green shoots, so new

and impressionable.
Shoots that I serenaded 
and watered with love,

albeit only on occasion.
Then, you had bright petals
blooming from your cheeks.

With every smile and
dash of sunlight,
you stretched and you grew.

You’re not quite complete yet;
there’s much more growth
ahead of you.

Though I’m no longer
by your sides
to see you progress, 

I know when every petal forms,
when another inch is
added to your height,

And when you reach
a new, important milestone
in your sunny lives.

From tiny seeds
you sprouted; now,
with every passing day

you bloom more, and
from the stable ground, I
look up and watch you grow.


For K.O.K and K.Y.K

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

Nine Shorts - Hana, Dul, Set

Crabs
Small feet pounding the pebbled path,
Desperate to escape
From imminent danger.
Eight legs and two claws
Advance in their thousands
Upon their prey; the child.
Refuge is sought in an adult's arms,
High up and away from
The frightful crustacean march.


Roman
Crimson red and blinding gold
Balanced upon ber small head.
Blonde hair cascades from beneath
In trestles of tight curls.
She leads her troops around ancient streets,
With a smile as bright as the rays
Of the almighty Sol's coronet.
Her lips uttered words of old
That soon resigned to memory.



Hong Kong
The humidity of warm daytime
Gives way to icy harbor air of nighttime.
Man-made neon dances on the water's surface
While natural moonlight seems to target her,
Illuminates her.
Tsim Sha Tsui's streets are hectic,
But its back alleys provide shelter,
And shaved ice with its sweet, milky taste,
Melts on her tired tongue.

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

Iselder Ysbryd

So to the waterfront I go,
Heart heavy with the weight of feeling alone,
And there's  all Mcculloch & crew can do, I find,
To settle my soul, to ease my mind.

The world is at peace but my mind is hectic,
I wish
My mind were as copacetic
As the waves.
Still. Ordered. Beatific.

They have paved their place in the world
And I have paved mine.
What is it? You tell me.

My innocence forgone.
It left me long ago;
It packed up its memories, its sentimentality,
In a knapsack of stars,
Pulled on the cozy coat of childhood,
And escaped in the daylight.

At nineteen, I have hit middle age;
No prospects for the future but an early death.
I wish I had the will to thrive,
To shuffle on past the age of twenty-five.

And some days I do, and some days I don't.
The bad outweighs the good, you see,
No motivation to live left in me.

Perhaps if I were a Manic Street Preacher,
(And with a cynical heart I'm halfway there),
I'd turn these thoughts into a song -
But for that gift, my mind is bare.

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

I Stuffed Their Mouths With Gold

Convalesced amongst peaks and valleys,
Verdant and undulating over Afon Ebwy, 
I paid my way through the colliery
With but a baker's dozen of years behind me.

Seduced by the hanging-left red scare,
I rejected ancient teachings and scripture
For a life of advocacy, plagued with
This body, my ever-failing vessel.

Conscribed to compulsory service,
My anatomy owned by some Great War,
Though my eyes could not be stilled
And danced their way through court-martial.

My name was tarred with a rebel’s brush,
My voice a stunted stammer in the crowd,
Drowned out by ferocious, roaring, howling
Sounds of male anguish. 

“Ess, ess, ess” gave way to smooth sibilance,
And the hum of “muh” became thunderous.
“That is my truth! Now, what is yours?” 
Words now etched into history’s pages.

I entered this life mute and timorous;
But I left it an orator for the ages,
My legacy of community care now tarnished
By bad legislation and worker exploitation. 


The birthplace of my political opus
Is now nothing more than a building
Of sterile beds, and ghosts of a bright past
Floating aimlessly along lino corridors.

It is not this future that I’d foreseen,
The soul of Park frozen in eternal cold.
Is this what became of my life’s work
When I stuffed their mouths with gold?

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

Saturday Street Preacher

I venture out
For the first time in a while
And am met by a sight:

A Saturday Street Preacher,
His altar an upturned crate,
Voice amplified by a tinny megaphone.

He reads not from the Good Book,
But shames those who are not like him.
He calls their lifestyle sinful,

Their existence a contradiction.
His congregation is
The cacophony of furious, raised voices

Arguing against his every word.
Is it a perversion of faith
To force teachings onto the unwilling?

To twist the words
For your own bigoted narrative?
Saturday Street Preacher,

You are more akin to a pariah
Than the bargain-bin Messiah
You think you are.

You cannot hide your true feelings
In the pages of sacred scripture
And claim them to be gospel.

Saturday Street Preacher,
He dresses for his sermons in
Jeans and a t-shirt,

Bible brandished as a weapon
And that weakened upturned crate
Beneath his weary feet.

He performs his midday mass
To the masses who
Scream their retaliation in return.

His Sermon on the Mount
Is muffled shouting
In a busy city centre.

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

The Moon and His Lily

I have never known love like
the moon and his lily,

separated by immeasurable distance
but closer
than the cells that build their corporeal forms.

hearts intertwined tight
with akai ito,
the way lover's hands intertwine
in moments of passion.

tied so tightly with silk red string
that could cut off circulation
but not quite sever their bond.

The moon and his lily
are one, 
in the way nations join
to form another,

the way two halves of an apple,
with the hard, bitter core,
are forced together as a whole.

The moon and his lily
are innocent, pure;
kind hearts that cannot be tainted
by cruel intentions.

They follow their paths,
parallel but somewhere connected
in some cosmic junction.

The moon and his lily
are friends of mine,
always present 
though physically afar.

I will never know love like
the moon and his lily;
Nothing else catches the focus
or their heart's camera eye.

to know love like
The moon and his lily
is a rare treasure
preserved under glass.

Details | Han Marlowe Turner Poem

To All the Women Who Came Before

Dignity, purity, hope,
Entwined in a delicate rose.
These are the colours which hold
The futures of all women to come.

Run, run, run,
To the Free Trade Hall we run,
Eyes bright, souls lifted, the taste
Of excitement on the tip of our tongues.

Suff-ra-gette,
Was the name they gave us, scribbled
In every single newspaper, as if to say
"THESE WOMEN ARE TROUBLE."

Emm-el-ine
Pankhurst, her name. Equality, her goal.
The union, her child. The cause, her pride.
The name "SUFFRAGETTE" became our own.

Man-che-ster,
Where it all began. Where
The fires of change lit and stoked and
Spread their message in the dangerous smoke.

Da-vi-son.
Whatever became of poor Emily? I heard
It was she whose body trampled
Beneath the hooves of the King's horse.

Im-prison-ment.
Prison, the only place strong enough
To handle our emblazoned spirit. And so
They dampen it with poison down our throats.

One hun-dred
Years passed since our victory. I
am young but their strength runs through me.
My present is the history they endured.

To the women who came before,
We continue on your notion.
After all, it's "deeds, not words"
Which set the change in motion.