Author Archives: Mika Kohli

About Mika Kohli

www.mikakohli.com Born and bred in Birmingham, England in 1982, Mika has been living in Madrid, Spain since 2007. She works as a freelance English language teacher and writes modern poetry “when the words write themselves”.

New Shoes

Standard

Funny how shoes are fine in the shop,
funny how later they pinch, and you stop
and think “Why didn’t they do this before?”
New shoes feel nice, on the shop floor.

You don’t dare take them back the next day,
they’re pretty; the agony might go away.
A painful pact with your blistered skin:
“I’m sure that walking will wear them in”.

Then one night they feel just right:
no rubbing no aching, they don’t feel tight,
they’re nothing like the ones you bought;
they’re comfy shoes -who would’ve thought?

Now you hurry down the high street.
Funny how the heels, now part of your feet
stand still at the window of the shoe store.
You don’t love your old shoes anymore.

White Noise

Standard

Although I swore I saw red sky that night,
an army of rain came marching: every pace,
each beat, cheating the shepherd of delight.
I spoke to eyes in the even trapezium of your face,
your motorbike ticked, an impatient timer, warning
us, while we – oblivious – discussed nonsense in detail;
an embarrassing prelude to your body that morning,
lying under the oak tree, bare, a martyr in the hail.
I think about what I said to you, you to me
but cloudy sounds drown out words and voice,
and leave me slave to my lazy memory;
beaten by the supremacy of white noise;
I wish, though many winters have passed
those empty words hadn’t been my last.

Hablé con ella

Standard

Quiero viajar por tu cuerpo,
navegando de lunar en lunar;
caerme por las dunas de tu pecho
y en tus lágrimas bucear.

Quiero dormirme en tus ojos,
y sumergirme en tus sueños;
tus pestañas las rejas de mi cobijo,
tus párpados mis únicos dueños.

Quiero ser libre para estar encerrado
en tu mano. Tu latido mi reloj, mi guía,
y con cada pulso descubrir que
he llegado donde viajar más me gustaría.

Quiero tumbarme en tu cuerpo:
cada vena un río azul profundo,
y así mismo viviré en mi tierra
fuera de este, y cualquier, mundo.

Iceland

Standard

Summer’s gone and winter’s come,
No autumn in between.
The cuts and scars you’ve left me with
Now nowhere to be seen:
Enveloped in layers
And layers of lukewarm heat,
But those lovers know, like you know
They simply serve as self-deceit.
Your creeping cold always finds me,
Snaps and slaps my burning skin
So cruel how they lose
So unfair how you win.

Your icy hand holding mine
Chilled kisses on my neck.
You impose on any exposed
Part of me
Leaving my body a shivering wreck.

And I can’t make the cyclone end
I don’t know how it ever begins
So cruel how I lose
So unfair how you win.

Sun Bleached Jeans

Standard

I thought I saw you, and almost said “hi” but stopped
In time, because I realised, like you do
That it wasn’t you, just the unlucky fool
Who had bought your clothes from the charity shop.

At once, he and I were united it seemed,
Not because we’d both had our hands
Undo your jeans,
But rather because we’d both had
A choice, yet stupidly chosen you.

Unknowingly we let you into our lives
(and our bedrooms) and close
To our innocent skin.
Unaware of how close
To hatred we’d been.

We try and throw memories away
But they just follow us anyway.
Like chewing gum on the sole of your shoe
Tainting each step we take, to
Try and make a better life
Accumulating filth
Embarrassing us along the way.

Until one day
They’re so old and rotten
That they almost become forgotten,
Like a night full of bad dreams
Just like those sun bleached, blue jeans.

Weeping Window

Standard

Maybe if it hadn’t been raining,
I wouldn’t have got out of bed.
to cut and slice
Deep into green rivers,
making them turn red.
I’d think twice, if I’d seen the sun
Instead of puffs of hopeless grey.
I might have made
My last breath come to life
On a different day.

But the wind just kept on whistling,
Taunting me away from sleep.
And the sound of water
Haunting me
As it made my windows weep.

I didn’t feel cold anymore,
But then
My blood ran away from my brain
And red drops reminded me
With irony
Of how I said
I hated the rain.

D = 2-1

Standard

Why do 1100 miles seem more to you
than 2,000 kisses between us?
How can 7.5
hours by my side
mean less than 45 minutes on a bus?

Why are 2 hours on a plane
too many
against 2 years of me and you?
I just don’t understand,
how holding my hand can’t be
enough reason to see it through.

You see, to me,
those 1,523
times you held me tight
I adored, and they mean more to me
than those 100 stupid fights.

It was you that gave me 405 dreams.
What gives you the right
to end the distance
and give me
an infinity of sleepless nights?