stdClass Object
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    [ID] => 19732
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2018-12-19 16:35:03
    [post_date_gmt] => 2018-12-19 16:35:03
    [post_content] => A t the start it felt like a clock.
T he rhythm too steady. The tap (drip) you for
G ot in the kitchen, or the key in the lock

T urning over (and over). And still, we could no
T work out the time, no rhythm to it, but still we
T ried. The drips on the window sometimes were

C rying, and still the church tower spoke in
C himes, but other times we could not hear it
A t all. Because sometimes we were tired. And the

C ode– The code was trying to be quiet. 
T hough sometimes it was a dance and we
G ot caught up in the hand of it and fou

G ht over who would lead in it (rise),
T he pattern of autumn leaves (fall)ing
T oo hard to predict but still we tried,

T hrough the night, dancing (rise)
A s though following candles (and f
A ll) like embers, to realise it was nothing more

T han smoke against smoke, and so we
C hoked. Sometimes it was just a look at
A nother pair of tired eyes across a room or

A nother cup of black coffee the
C olour of sky, whilst the rain against the window
C ried. Sometimes it was just the poem in: bu

T still we tried. Even then the words shattered. Some
T imes that didn’t matter. And sometimes it was everythin
G . Then later it became the ghost around the

C orner, as we trailed our way onwards, the stair
C ase turning like a spine as if to say: Now you are mine.
T he body and the mind, waiting on opposite streets, jus

T out of reach. But still I watched my hands r
A ce as if I was somewhere else, and dreaming (now you
A re mine) The machine falling away like ticker

T ape or the sweetest music, to say: here I am, the eni
G ma beneath. So I became the crescendo and it became the bea
T . Blasted unrhyming rhythm, just out of reach, in the ver

T ebra of the staircase, or the clack of the keys, or the
C lock in the corner, or the click of my teeth against the run
G of the cup, or the chime of the church behind the window (shu

T ) out the rain, but come in! Because that’s how you win.
A nd after, when we had broken it, and found the fallen le
A ves had landed silently, softly and unapologetically 

G old in the gutter, there was time to wonder what equation writes
T he shadow race of typing hands, or what second, hidden
C ode was whispering beneath; coding me to break a code. 
    [post_title] => Codons
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => codons
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2018-12-19 16:35:03
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-12-19 16:35:03
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=19732
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2018
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Bletchley Park poetry challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN).

So Mayer, who wrote and judged the challenge, said, “A complex and thoughtful poem that brings together the intellectual and emotional experiences of decoding in its clever use of acrostic form (based on DNA) that breaks words and creates enigmas so that readers feel the code inside their bodies.”
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, Bletchley Park challenge
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 17073
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Amy Wolstenholme
            [slug] => amy-wolstenholme
            [content] => Amy is the 1st prize winner in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2016 on Young Poets Network and is commended in the Bletchley Park challenge. She is also the 3rd prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge , and a winner in the Ways to be Wilder Poetry Challenge, in association with People Need Nature.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17073
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Amy Wolstenholme
    [slug] => amy-wolstenholme
    [content] => Amy is the 1st prize winner in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2016 on Young Poets Network and is commended in the Bletchley Park challenge. She is also the 3rd prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge , and a winner in the Ways to be Wilder Poetry Challenge, in association with People Need Nature.
)

Codons

Amy Wolstenholme

A t the start it felt like a clock.
T he rhythm too steady. The tap (drip) you for
G ot in the kitchen, or the key in the lock

T urning over (and over). And still, we could no
T work out the time, no rhythm to it, but still we
T ried. The drips on the window sometimes were

C rying, and still the church tower spoke in
C himes, but other times we could not hear it
A t all. Because sometimes we were tired. And the

C ode– The code was trying to be quiet. 
T hough sometimes it was a dance and we
G ot caught up in the hand of it and fou

G ht over who would lead in it (rise),
T he pattern of autumn leaves (fall)ing
T oo hard to predict but still we tried,

T hrough the night, dancing (rise)
A s though following candles (and f
A ll) like embers, to realise it was nothing more

T han smoke against smoke, and so we
C hoked. Sometimes it was just a look at
A nother pair of tired eyes across a room or

A nother cup of black coffee the
C olour of sky, whilst the rain against the window
C ried. Sometimes it was just the poem in: bu

T still we tried. Even then the words shattered. Some
T imes that didn’t matter. And sometimes it was everythin
G . Then later it became the ghost around the

C orner, as we trailed our way onwards, the stair
C ase turning like a spine as if to say: Now you are mine.
T he body and the mind, waiting on opposite streets, jus

T out of reach. But still I watched my hands r
A ce as if I was somewhere else, and dreaming (now you
A re mine) The machine falling away like ticker

T ape or the sweetest music, to say: here I am, the eni
G ma beneath. So I became the crescendo and it became the bea
T . Blasted unrhyming rhythm, just out of reach, in the ver

T ebra of the staircase, or the clack of the keys, or the
C lock in the corner, or the click of my teeth against the run
G of the cup, or the chime of the church behind the window (shu

T ) out the rain, but come in! Because that’s how you win.
A nd after, when we had broken it, and found the fallen le
A ves had landed silently, softly and unapologetically 

G old in the gutter, there was time to wonder what equation writes
T he shadow race of typing hands, or what second, hidden
C ode was whispering beneath; coding me to break a code.