Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Morgan Ray, wallpaper

Feed my ego, Google, and
report back to me
at the end of each day
just how many people are reading my words:
My small, insignificant words.
Analytics reports show
that during the week beginning 22nd March 2010
I had 42 hits all sourced from Google searches.
My show-off heart flutters with pride.
People are GOOGLING ME.
They want to find me, source me, read me.
This continues to excite me.
This is what it is all about;
writing my words
so that people read them, like them,
respond to them.
I've still only got a small 15 followers
if we're following Blogger's own statistics,
but this is good news.
I decide to find out how they found me:
how do they google me?
'Ray Morgan poet, Southend on Sea?'
'Ray Morgan, wonder poet, inspiration to thousands?'
Ok I'm getting carried away.
The first one is Morgan Ray, wallpaper.
Ok, that's interesting.
I wrote a dark, quite depressing poem called Wallpaper.
How do people know about it?
I re-read it.
It's nothing spectacular.
I notice that an awful lot of people
have clicked their way to my blog
using these same search terms.
Hmm.
I try it myself.
Morgan Ray wallpaper.
Oh.
Morgan Ray is a...
porn star.
And people are looking for screen wallpaper,
screensavers,
downloadable
pictures.
I am a little deflated.
I am not a popular poet.
I am one wrong click away
from a busty MILF.
I hope they enjoyed one of the poems,
at least.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Sleepy Orange

Hello!

Two of my poems, 'Mist' and 'New Years' Resolution Gone Wrong' have been published on the delightful website magazine Sleepy Orange.

Many thanks to the Sleepy Orange team; you can check out the link here:

http://sleepyorange.wordpress.com/2010/03/22/poetry-by-rachel-morgan/


Ray x

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

I promised

Pick your way
through the copse of second-hand clothes,
gloves and
camisoles like fallen leaves.
Undone laces
shrew away like
mouse tails,
burying themselves.
Cleave apart the trunks
of butter-soft leather,
fifteen suitcases or more
displaying some chaos.
Half-read books are teepee tents
fanned out and face-down,
spines bared
to a vulnerable sky
of scarf-swathed lamplights
and dusted bulbs.
I am not here,
my breadcrumb trail
of notebook leaves
and ticket stubs
makes barest clues
so sit awhile
on silken sheets of greenest moss.
Coat-hanger branches
muddle and knot,
bend the metal
to find your way back.
The half-drawn blind
suggests a sunset
and I promised you I would be home.
A clock lies on its side,
time stood still,
and you hold it in your hand
and you wait for me
and you wait for morning,
because I promised you I would be home.