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Some new stuff
11 years ago
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Thursday, 1 September 2011
The New Magazine is OUT
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Within the Compost Piles Spring Rustles Her Restless Hands - SundayFeatures - 13/03/2011
As promised, I’m pleased to present PPM’s ALL POETRY Sunday features.
Spring is pushing and pulling her way out of slumber, and with her rustling ways she’s stirring up all kinds of things. Mixed amongst the compost piles, along with thoughts of blossoms and rebirth, are the unforgotten things that are finding the light again.
I hope you are all moved by this week’s poetry features as much as I was. Congratulations to all of our featured writers.
It has been an elongated and worthy day. I have had time to contemplate. Not the in between distraction sophistry. A brain striptease.
hook and eyes
pop halleluiah
revealing the secret door at the top of my spiralling spine staircase
the door is not pearly
the door is the colour of Demeter’s tears
dead centre of the door is a knob fashioned out of Noah’s Ark
a bouquet of peacock, lyrebird and siren boa feathers is knotted around the knob
above the door is a stained glass window undressing the seven deadly sins
there is light passing through the waves of coloured glass that waltz at the foot of the door
honey holds anise, cumin, myrrh and cassia in the air
beyond the door strings of a harp are being perfumed
the sound feels like lush green grass through toes
a Sunday when you wake next to love that stays a lifetime
mathematical notes square root your outer and inner the only equation is
turn the knob.
The night is thick with memories
Cinching, thicker and tighter
Coils around her heart
Love a thread that wouldn’t stay
Put, unraveling time and time
Again
She felt as if her heart was encircled
By an invisible barbed wire
Words recoiled in her brain
Like the fence’s metal barbs
Causing her heart to bleed
Invisible tears that leave no trail
As they slowly ebb and flow
Down her face
She wipes but nothing is felt
Upon her hand
Time stalls, taking her down
Familiar paths
One’s she has walked over
And over
Love has played such a fickle
Game
Leaving her alone and empty
Except for her memories
Memories that enfold her in
The sweet heady mixture of
Passion’s elusive pursuit
She recalls arms as they
Held her
A cocoon embrace sealing
Her within the moment
Kisses that rained down, devoid of
Tenderness but blazing
Hot boldness as passion
Rose
The night is shrouded in folds
Of voluptuous velvet
Wrapping her in a sensual
recollection of spent desire
She longs to feel the touch
Of skin on skin
Of sweat slicked bodies
Entwined in mutual gratification
She longs for the promise of
Forever
For the words of love to have
Meant something other than
A prelude to another sexual
Encounter
Another one night stand
Another night of broken dreams
She longs for the youth that
Seemed to disappear with
Each disappointing encounter
She was so naive, so lost
In the fairy tale of love
And happy ever after
Now in the twilight of her life
She dwells on stolen moments
Brief touches with the elusive
Prince of her dreams
And facing the delusion filled
Life she has lived
Why was love not meant to
Find a place within her heart
Someday she hopes that
She will be granted
An encounter with Love
Until then she will continue
To live in the shadow of what
Was dreamed of and what
Was reality
Time is ticking down
Each tick tock another wrinkle
Upon her face
Each day another sad reminder
That she lives alone
With her hunger
Love as fleeting and elusive
As a touch of a butterfly’s wing
Eludes her, dancing just out of
Reach
Slipping by her yearning
Aching soul
Someday, perhaps it will slip
Effortlessly , quietly into her
Waiting heart
If I could write,
I would not draw.
I’d let these melodramas
be told
through whichever format
best fit.
I would box haiku,
or bind circumlocution,
to carry with you
on the bus.
Many years ago,
when more emotionally mute,
I made vessels of pain.
I speak better now,
but when faced
with so many words,
I draw blank.
Therefore I draw.
How to measure the breadth of a word?
I learn a Russian dancer’s name
and roll it over and over
like a lozenge in my mouth.
Can darkened space
on light compare?
These lines I leave
talk louder than I.
Their cadence is
the tug and pull
of my wrist on pulp.
As with so many lines,
it is best to read between them.
I have discovered
Recently uncovered
Buried deep
In the minds of men
In waking sleep:
Secrets.
That death is the passage of wonder
That life is the fountain of power
Seeping blood and tears on Eden’s bower.
In the beginning
Man was mad
He must have been
He is now
So I wonder how
Evolution is fixing this.
Death’s cool embrace in life’s mad kiss.
I have discovered
A world where everyone I am
Drawn to is damned
To mental sickness and disease
To tumors and waters and leakage of
Secrets
Aged and wise and cunning
Powerfully deceitful in innocence
Underestimated by the rest of the world
Harmless in acts and dangerous in thought
They have sought what I sought:
To understand and discover
Sanity
Lunacy’s infertile lover.
Life is
To behold the grace and force of legends deep
To dance in the threshold of pain and beauty
Where we stand, you and me
Eyes locked and knowing
Understanding flowing from iris to iris
Color to color
Until your pond water eyes
And my forest glades
Collapse into one rich and vibrant hue
Of green and blue:
Green for nature and blue for sorrow
My experience in life:
Here today,
Swiftly fled tomorrow.
Let it not be you whom the angels seek
Let it not be me that the heavens keep
Let me be
Alone with my intrepid dreams
Alone with my torturous fears
No one else here.
Lost so many, found so much
Lost an embrace, found gentle touch
Lost to such
Realms of laughter and butterfly lives,
Short and swift, so tender and alive
But once gone, once frost has come
They tell their tale with broken wings
Scattered on the bedewed ground
Muted colors fading with each breath I take
Finally understanding why the one who walks
Angelic and placid
Can never know my Soul
And why it is they who sit
With passionate eyes and fiddling fingers,
Busy in their minds, lost in morbid daydreams
Or endless fantasies
Every bit as afraid
Every bit as passionate as me
-Why it is they who so entrance my spirit
And lure my secrets as I lure theirs!
Because we are the Old Spirits,
We know too much
We know the nature of dreams is such:
That each man wakes, alone and pale,
Longing to hang on to one moment more
Of that sleep-heavy wonder
To stand before death’s veil,
Immortal.
Our souls are torn asunder
But still we smile and know this much:
Life isn’t thus.
Life is the dance of dreams, fanatical and raw
But dying is innocence
And death is the road to awe.
© Sunrisegirl’s Emotion
On the edge…. I feel it there….. Will it fall……
It sits; a big ball,
Changing colour.
Mainly Blue it stays,
holding existence in its ether.
My body relies on it,
for protection, / security,
comfort,
I hope it won’t break.
For then the knock on effects will be too big…
please don’t
I whisper
Only after it has been placed
upon a large cushion
in a padded room
with no windows
or doors,
Only then will it be safe…
A knock on my door,
A man… with bad news
and harsh words…
I listen,
I absorb,
I hurt…
The ball moves,
rolls over the edge,
whizzing fast towards the floor,
the speed increases, suddenly…
... it lands,
CRACK
It is damaged.
So am I.
I fall to the floor.
I have shattered.
It is too late.
Mother Earth is…
Paint by number
heaven and Earth
swimming in colour
Drowning in tears
consumed and raped
destruction for years
Beauty with grace
land and water
our sacred place
Full of rage
neglected and abused
confined by cage
The human race
past, present, future
time and space
Choking on pollution
blind and helpless
without a solution
Every living creature
great and small
our bountiful teacher>
Looking for blame
man and war
a crying shame
pieces of me lying on the side of the road
my flesh is now shredded
by the footsteps of inhumanity
a heart which carried a song of love
blackened by the tar of lies and deceit
of those I once loved
eyes which only saw the beauty of life
were pulled from their sockets
thrown onto the roadway by the racism and intolerance
of those who preach their hate in the name of god
my lips once red and pursed
now lie in a pool of blood, the blood of the homeless
and hungry who are cast aside
the scents of lavender which tickled my nose are
now gone from my nostrils
and the stench of death permeates
pieces of me
I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.
Your presence made me feel alive.
Warm with memories, I still feel your embrace but the cold absence tends only to an unsealing wound.
My haven, my adventure, my muse, my love…
I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.
Slowly waking, half conscious, I remember my new title and adaptations.
Watching the sunlight play on a cold shapeless pillow that misses your form.
Strong and focused on the outside,
Shattered splinters on the inside.
Constantly barricading the bulging archway, verging on the breaking point.
Altering my appearance as penance, all the whilst praying for the phoenix.
No elixir could cork the bleeding, even if I were into such things.
One of the hardest lessons to recognize and swallow is to love more than to be loved; everything else is bearable, adaptable. We can not have it all…or can we?
A nagging longing,
Held firmly by a will-power that is stoic, persistent, and selfless.
My roots run deep but they are expansive. They are a network of wonder.
And all the while, I can not forget, will not forget, to be true to myself.
The distance between leads us on our own journey,
With our screenplay’s to write,
And our soul’s to feed.
This shall be our connection.
I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.
How can I not?...With all my love…
Even when
I lift them up,
there are still invisible roots—
like gum on a shoe
on a day when the sun
is most high
like diamond
elastic violin strings playing
the sweetest song.
Ask the earth,
she will tell you the same:
how we are all long hearts
through the soles of her feet,
eternally bound
and in love,
A love
more precious than fruit
on a planet
full of starving men
who have never
even felt
the sun.
We are dancing,
each day we are
dancing!
at opposite ends
of the same
diorama,
in the space
between a butterfly’s wings
flying in the face
of heaven.
Your face tattooed
With invisible ink
To the inside of my lids
A name echoing
In the halls
Of lost hope and
Buried fantasies
A fervent promise,
A silent wish
Never come true
The scent of a
Blown out candle
Ripe berries
And abject failure
Gone
Carried away
By the wind
A ghostly touch
Cold and frightening
From a past
Dead and buried
Relegated
To the graveyard
By a butterfly’s wing.
Spring is pushing and pulling her way out of slumber, and with her rustling ways she’s stirring up all kinds of things. Mixed amongst the compost piles, along with thoughts of blossoms and rebirth, are the unforgotten things that are finding the light again.
I hope you are all moved by this week’s poetry features as much as I was. Congratulations to all of our featured writers.
to turn or not to turn by © Lisa Jewell
It has been an elongated and worthy day. I have had time to contemplate. Not the in between distraction sophistry. A brain striptease.
hook and eyes
pop halleluiah
revealing the secret door at the top of my spiralling spine staircase
the door is not pearly
the door is the colour of Demeter’s tears
dead centre of the door is a knob fashioned out of Noah’s Ark
a bouquet of peacock, lyrebird and siren boa feathers is knotted around the knob
above the door is a stained glass window undressing the seven deadly sins
there is light passing through the waves of coloured glass that waltz at the foot of the door
honey holds anise, cumin, myrrh and cassia in the air
beyond the door strings of a harp are being perfumed
the sound feels like lush green grass through toes
a Sunday when you wake next to love that stays a lifetime
mathematical notes square root your outer and inner the only equation is
turn the knob.
© Lovelyrita’s Goya
© Rhenastarr’s Elusive Love
The night is thick with memories
Cinching, thicker and tighter
Coils around her heart
Love a thread that wouldn’t stay
Put, unraveling time and time
Again
She felt as if her heart was encircled
By an invisible barbed wire
Words recoiled in her brain
Like the fence’s metal barbs
Causing her heart to bleed
Invisible tears that leave no trail
As they slowly ebb and flow
Down her face
She wipes but nothing is felt
Upon her hand
Time stalls, taking her down
Familiar paths
One’s she has walked over
And over
Love has played such a fickle
Game
Leaving her alone and empty
Except for her memories
Memories that enfold her in
The sweet heady mixture of
Passion’s elusive pursuit
She recalls arms as they
Held her
A cocoon embrace sealing
Her within the moment
Kisses that rained down, devoid of
Tenderness but blazing
Hot boldness as passion
Rose
The night is shrouded in folds
Of voluptuous velvet
Wrapping her in a sensual
recollection of spent desire
She longs to feel the touch
Of skin on skin
Of sweat slicked bodies
Entwined in mutual gratification
She longs for the promise of
Forever
For the words of love to have
Meant something other than
A prelude to another sexual
Encounter
Another one night stand
Another night of broken dreams
She longs for the youth that
Seemed to disappear with
Each disappointing encounter
She was so naive, so lost
In the fairy tale of love
And happy ever after
Now in the twilight of her life
She dwells on stolen moments
Brief touches with the elusive
Prince of her dreams
And facing the delusion filled
Life she has lived
Why was love not meant to
Find a place within her heart
Someday she hopes that
She will be granted
An encounter with Love
Until then she will continue
To live in the shadow of what
Was dreamed of and what
Was reality
Time is ticking down
Each tick tock another wrinkle
Upon her face
Each day another sad reminder
That she lives alone
With her hunger
Love as fleeting and elusive
As a touch of a butterfly’s wing
Eludes her, dancing just out of
Reach
Slipping by her yearning
Aching soul
Someday, perhaps it will slip
Effortlessly , quietly into her
Waiting heart
© Cynthia Lund Torroll’s Statement
If I could write,
I would not draw.
I’d let these melodramas
be told
through whichever format
best fit.
I would box haiku,
or bind circumlocution,
to carry with you
on the bus.
Many years ago,
when more emotionally mute,
I made vessels of pain.
I speak better now,
but when faced
with so many words,
I draw blank.
Therefore I draw.
How to measure the breadth of a word?
I learn a Russian dancer’s name
and roll it over and over
like a lozenge in my mouth.
Can darkened space
on light compare?
These lines I leave
talk louder than I.
Their cadence is
the tug and pull
of my wrist on pulp.
As with so many lines,
it is best to read between them.
© Lilynoelle’s Frantic Life
I have discovered
Recently uncovered
Buried deep
In the minds of men
In waking sleep:
Secrets.
That death is the passage of wonder
That life is the fountain of power
Seeping blood and tears on Eden’s bower.
In the beginning
Man was mad
He must have been
He is now
So I wonder how
Evolution is fixing this.
Death’s cool embrace in life’s mad kiss.
I have discovered
A world where everyone I am
Drawn to is damned
To mental sickness and disease
To tumors and waters and leakage of
Secrets
Aged and wise and cunning
Powerfully deceitful in innocence
Underestimated by the rest of the world
Harmless in acts and dangerous in thought
They have sought what I sought:
To understand and discover
Sanity
Lunacy’s infertile lover.
Life is
To behold the grace and force of legends deep
To dance in the threshold of pain and beauty
Where we stand, you and me
Eyes locked and knowing
Understanding flowing from iris to iris
Color to color
Until your pond water eyes
And my forest glades
Collapse into one rich and vibrant hue
Of green and blue:
Green for nature and blue for sorrow
My experience in life:
Here today,
Swiftly fled tomorrow.
Let it not be you whom the angels seek
Let it not be me that the heavens keep
Let me be
Alone with my intrepid dreams
Alone with my torturous fears
No one else here.
Lost so many, found so much
Lost an embrace, found gentle touch
Lost to such
Realms of laughter and butterfly lives,
Short and swift, so tender and alive
But once gone, once frost has come
They tell their tale with broken wings
Scattered on the bedewed ground
Muted colors fading with each breath I take
Finally understanding why the one who walks
Angelic and placid
Can never know my Soul
And why it is they who sit
With passionate eyes and fiddling fingers,
Busy in their minds, lost in morbid daydreams
Or endless fantasies
Every bit as afraid
Every bit as passionate as me
-Why it is they who so entrance my spirit
And lure my secrets as I lure theirs!
Because we are the Old Spirits,
We know too much
We know the nature of dreams is such:
That each man wakes, alone and pale,
Longing to hang on to one moment more
Of that sleep-heavy wonder
To stand before death’s veil,
Immortal.
Our souls are torn asunder
But still we smile and know this much:
Life isn’t thus.
Life is the dance of dreams, fanatical and raw
But dying is innocence
And death is the road to awe.
On the edge…. I feel it there….. Will it fall……
It sits; a big ball,
Changing colour.
Mainly Blue it stays,
holding existence in its ether.
My body relies on it,
for protection, / security,
comfort,
I hope it won’t break.
For then the knock on effects will be too big…
please don’t
I whisper
Only after it has been placed
upon a large cushion
in a padded room
with no windows
or doors,
Only then will it be safe…
A knock on my door,
A man… with bad news
and harsh words…
I listen,
I absorb,
I hurt…
The ball moves,
rolls over the edge,
whizzing fast towards the floor,
the speed increases, suddenly…
... it lands,
CRACK
It is damaged.
So am I.
I fall to the floor.
I have shattered.
It is too late.
© Lisameryl’s Mother Earth
Mother Earth is…
Paint by number
heaven and Earth
swimming in colour
Drowning in tears
consumed and raped
destruction for years
Beauty with grace
land and water
our sacred place
Full of rage
neglected and abused
confined by cage
The human race
past, present, future
time and space
Choking on pollution
blind and helpless
without a solution
Every living creature
great and small
our bountiful teacher>
Looking for blame
man and war
a crying shame
© Sally Omar’s Pieces of Me
pieces of me lying on the side of the road
my flesh is now shredded
by the footsteps of inhumanity
a heart which carried a song of love
blackened by the tar of lies and deceit
of those I once loved
eyes which only saw the beauty of life
were pulled from their sockets
thrown onto the roadway by the racism and intolerance
of those who preach their hate in the name of god
my lips once red and pursed
now lie in a pool of blood, the blood of the homeless
and hungry who are cast aside
the scents of lavender which tickled my nose are
now gone from my nostrils
and the stench of death permeates
pieces of me
© Electriclstorm’s Mother Why Does It Hurt so Much
I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.
Your presence made me feel alive.
Warm with memories, I still feel your embrace but the cold absence tends only to an unsealing wound.
My haven, my adventure, my muse, my love…
I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.
Slowly waking, half conscious, I remember my new title and adaptations.
Watching the sunlight play on a cold shapeless pillow that misses your form.
Strong and focused on the outside,
Shattered splinters on the inside.
Constantly barricading the bulging archway, verging on the breaking point.
Altering my appearance as penance, all the whilst praying for the phoenix.
No elixir could cork the bleeding, even if I were into such things.
One of the hardest lessons to recognize and swallow is to love more than to be loved; everything else is bearable, adaptable. We can not have it all…or can we?
A nagging longing,
Held firmly by a will-power that is stoic, persistent, and selfless.
My roots run deep but they are expansive. They are a network of wonder.
And all the while, I can not forget, will not forget, to be true to myself.
The distance between leads us on our own journey,
With our screenplay’s to write,
And our soul’s to feed.
This shall be our connection.
I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.
How can I not?...With all my love…
© Kristen Reynolds’ There Is an Earth Attached to My Feet
Even when
I lift them up,
there are still invisible roots—
like gum on a shoe
on a day when the sun
is most high
like diamond
elastic violin strings playing
the sweetest song.
Ask the earth,
she will tell you the same:
how we are all long hearts
through the soles of her feet,
eternally bound
and in love,
A love
more precious than fruit
on a planet
full of starving men
who have never
even felt
the sun.
We are dancing,
each day we are
dancing!
at opposite ends
of the same
diorama,
in the space
between a butterfly’s wings
flying in the face
of heaven.
© Sybille Sterk’s Echos
Your face tattooed
With invisible ink
To the inside of my lids
A name echoing
In the halls
Of lost hope and
Buried fantasies
A fervent promise,
A silent wish
Never come true
The scent of a
Blown out candle
Ripe berries
And abject failure
Gone
Carried away
By the wind
A ghostly touch
Cold and frightening
From a past
Dead and buried
Relegated
To the graveyard
By a butterfly’s wing.
Midweek Features - Strength and Weakness - 16/03/2011
Looking at the art that has come in over the past week or so, I found there were many portrayals both of the strengths and weakness that we all feel from time to time. I thought it would make the perfect theme for this week.
I am starting with this powerful portrait, full of fire, passion and confidence.
But what if it is all for show, or even worse, delusion?
One Woman Show by © wordthrift
Once,
at dinner,
you showed me,
the “proper” way to steep my tea.
“Not like that,
like this”, you said.
And as selfish proclamations go,
they’re only a small part
in your endless one woman show.
You will never know all the things I know.
The next image struck me like a woman looking at herself VERY closely.
Followed by this fab poem about a woman trying to avoid mirrors altogether.
Her bits and pieces ….. by © SimplyRed
pretty as a picture so young and so firm
all of the fellows they did confirm
she was a looker and that was for sure
until age came knocking at her door
first thing she noticed was her lovely bust
no longer looking pert , a bra was a must
swimming in water was such a delight
the breasts went all pert again
even stayed upright!!!
a nice taut tummy was what she once had
a little swelling there wasn’t sooo bad
best viewed front on rather than the side
must start walking or take a bike ride
fooled herself for a while indeed
no full length mirror did she need
sideways glances were not on her mind
she hadn’t noticed that thickening behind
her firm butt was as hard as cement
lots of pinching, for men it was meant
still no long mirror for this ageing duck
if it got broken seven years bad luck….
next thing she noticed these small little crinkles
under the eye there where most folk get wrinkles
a small crease it was…not noticeable at first
another appeared it was a damn curse…
those few lines looked cute for a wee while
her face paralysed she didn’t want to smile
I swear each night as she went to bed
a new crease would form right there on her head
so crows feet she had and this she was to accept
new lines started forming she really could o’ wept
one day she did noticed it caused her no harm….
when she read the phonebook she’d stretch out her arm
smaller and smaller the writing was getting
off to th eye doctor she now was a sweating
for it seemed that the print wasn’t shrinking
she needed glasses oh what was she thinking
after a few years she adjusted and felt clever
breasts pert and firm …gone now forever
tummy not flat and butt not so hot
even liked her specs which she wore when reading
a hearing aid she would surely not be needing
for her ears they worked well for many a year
nothing else could go wrong surely not Dear!!
in her forties and the top lip felt hairy
into the mirror for a look that was scarey
for upon the top lip lay a tale of woe
hormones were going she now had a moe…
so to the chemist shop she did scurry
raced home with a waxing kit now in a hurry
what’s next she thought as she made her lip bare
Oh Fuck it all …..is that a grey hair!!!!
I think we’re all guilty of lying to ourselves now and again, be it about that wrinkle just being a laughter line or the big red elephants…
However, here’s a poem asking for the truth to be faced, and, personally, this totally resonated with me.
mortal by © Cynthia Lund Torroll
I’m an inconvenient
truth -
a girl who
passion ate
I’ve a heart that
runs
on fumes -
and is rarely ever
neat
You had said
I came for you
but tell me
are
you sure
that you want
a girl like me -
who arrives
without
a
cure
Courage is one of those strengths that is hard to achieve and even harder to maintain. Maybe this should be on every fridgedoor and next to every bathroom mirror?
It is so much easier to deny what’s happening to yourself and others…
Denial by © singerchick
Disregard the naked truth
Evading its cloying taste
Never mind compelling proof
Instead, present your bogus case
And trust whatever fills the hole
Little lies, warm milk for the soul
What more truth than a self portrait, especially one like this where you accept yourself inspite or maybe because of your weakness?
Twilight Moments by © AnniG
couldn’t resist this poem. Someone discovering a new aspect of themselves. Perfect to end these features, something to think about.
exercise by © Lisa Jewell
The atom living in breast foam that desperately clings to a pure squeaky shore is lonely.
My pace slows as I approach a simple restaurant on a less than simple street. This slowing occurs each workday. Time is 5.15 pm. He is always there. An elderly man seated at the same table at the same window. He is eating soup. Each day I slow my pace that bit more, so that I might catch his eyes. My craving to know him is escalating. I have thoughts racing through my mind. But the most significant I think is. Is he alone out of choice or is he alone because his wife (partner) has left him, or has died.
You don’t miss what you don’t know. Is that really true? The logic seems sound but what of rumour? Or a vivid imagination. Or that little ache that bubbles into an eruption of wanting a one. And what of the living after death. Gone. Sugary life goes on clichés are plastic. Plastic might last but what of aesthetics and character? It can’t be the same. It is not. I see it in the way he places each spoon into his mouth. There is ache and lonely.
The sadness is building in me. It is the type of sadness that brews from that deep part. No metaphor, analogy or symbology to convey. You know it. And what startles me is that I can feel the sadness building and it is me but I am living and happily so. Life is so fucking peculiar. There are times I feel I must be living two lives concurrently. I can’t possibly be happy and sad at the same time. Can I? And what of this man?
I hope you enjoyed these features. Please let the artists know if you did. :-)
Sybille xo
I am starting with this powerful portrait, full of fire, passion and confidence.
Firefly by © skye oshea
But what if it is all for show, or even worse, delusion?
One Woman Show by © wordthrift
Once,
at dinner,
you showed me,
the “proper” way to steep my tea.
“Not like that,
like this”, you said.
And as selfish proclamations go,
they’re only a small part
in your endless one woman show.
You will never know all the things I know.
The next image struck me like a woman looking at herself VERY closely.
Followed by this fab poem about a woman trying to avoid mirrors altogether.
Her bits and pieces ….. by © SimplyRed
pretty as a picture so young and so firm
all of the fellows they did confirm
she was a looker and that was for sure
until age came knocking at her door
first thing she noticed was her lovely bust
no longer looking pert , a bra was a must
swimming in water was such a delight
the breasts went all pert again
even stayed upright!!!
a nice taut tummy was what she once had
a little swelling there wasn’t sooo bad
best viewed front on rather than the side
must start walking or take a bike ride
fooled herself for a while indeed
no full length mirror did she need
sideways glances were not on her mind
she hadn’t noticed that thickening behind
her firm butt was as hard as cement
lots of pinching, for men it was meant
still no long mirror for this ageing duck
if it got broken seven years bad luck….
next thing she noticed these small little crinkles
under the eye there where most folk get wrinkles
a small crease it was…not noticeable at first
another appeared it was a damn curse…
those few lines looked cute for a wee while
her face paralysed she didn’t want to smile
I swear each night as she went to bed
a new crease would form right there on her head
so crows feet she had and this she was to accept
new lines started forming she really could o’ wept
one day she did noticed it caused her no harm….
when she read the phonebook she’d stretch out her arm
smaller and smaller the writing was getting
off to th eye doctor she now was a sweating
for it seemed that the print wasn’t shrinking
she needed glasses oh what was she thinking
after a few years she adjusted and felt clever
breasts pert and firm …gone now forever
tummy not flat and butt not so hot
even liked her specs which she wore when reading
a hearing aid she would surely not be needing
for her ears they worked well for many a year
nothing else could go wrong surely not Dear!!
in her forties and the top lip felt hairy
into the mirror for a look that was scarey
for upon the top lip lay a tale of woe
hormones were going she now had a moe…
so to the chemist shop she did scurry
raced home with a waxing kit now in a hurry
what’s next she thought as she made her lip bare
Oh Fuck it all …..is that a grey hair!!!!
I think we’re all guilty of lying to ourselves now and again, be it about that wrinkle just being a laughter line or the big red elephants…
However, here’s a poem asking for the truth to be faced, and, personally, this totally resonated with me.
mortal by © Cynthia Lund Torroll
I’m an inconvenient
truth -
a girl who
passion ate
I’ve a heart that
runs
on fumes -
and is rarely ever
neat
You had said
I came for you
but tell me
are
you sure
that you want
a girl like me -
who arrives
without
a
cure
Courage is one of those strengths that is hard to achieve and even harder to maintain. Maybe this should be on every fridgedoor and next to every bathroom mirror?
It is so much easier to deny what’s happening to yourself and others…
Denial by © singerchick
Disregard the naked truth
Evading its cloying taste
Never mind compelling proof
Instead, present your bogus case
And trust whatever fills the hole
Little lies, warm milk for the soul
What more truth than a self portrait, especially one like this where you accept yourself inspite or maybe because of your weakness?
And here it is, all the protection and haven one could ask for.
Twilight Moments by © AnniG
Serene is the twilight hour
when I wait for you to wrap me up
in wordless conversation
comfort me with your calming presence
inspire me with your ethereal aura
simply sit with me as we share the silence
staring through shattered windows
of an erstwhile existence
patiently waiting with firm intent
for swift transportation
to a sacred place in infinite space
exalted, untouched
when I wait for you to wrap me up
in wordless conversation
comfort me with your calming presence
inspire me with your ethereal aura
simply sit with me as we share the silence
staring through shattered windows
of an erstwhile existence
patiently waiting with firm intent
for swift transportation
to a sacred place in infinite space
exalted, untouched
from the mysterious nebulous shadows
I atone for multiple sins
as you wash the grief from my heart
with clear crystal tears
readily spilling from angel eyes
revitalizing my weary mind
with jubilant rhapsodies
effortlessly dancing upon your lips
sweep me up, raise me on high
to glide along wispy skies
slowly restoring trust
in the truth of kindred spirits
I atone for multiple sins
as you wash the grief from my heart
with clear crystal tears
readily spilling from angel eyes
revitalizing my weary mind
with jubilant rhapsodies
effortlessly dancing upon your lips
sweep me up, raise me on high
to glide along wispy skies
slowly restoring trust
in the truth of kindred spirits
in the crepuscular dimness of dusk
you shelter me as I curl into you
finding safety in your guarded haven
while countless shimmering knights
appear in primordial heavens
the mellifluous song
of raven skies and babbling brooks
lull us into gentle slumber
twinkles picked from effulgent dreams
of sanguine encounters
and lucid memories conceived
under a twilight tree
you shelter me as I curl into you
finding safety in your guarded haven
while countless shimmering knights
appear in primordial heavens
the mellifluous song
of raven skies and babbling brooks
lull us into gentle slumber
twinkles picked from effulgent dreams
of sanguine encounters
and lucid memories conceived
under a twilight tree
satisfied magical memories
of twilight moments
of twilight moments
However, in the end we are all a secret to be discovered, made up of our own unique strengths and weaknesses.
Secrets of My Soul You Will Never Understand…angry red, passion blue, but mostly shades of green by © CarmenHolly
couldn’t resist this poem. Someone discovering a new aspect of themselves. Perfect to end these features, something to think about.
exercise by © Lisa Jewell
The atom living in breast foam that desperately clings to a pure squeaky shore is lonely.
My pace slows as I approach a simple restaurant on a less than simple street. This slowing occurs each workday. Time is 5.15 pm. He is always there. An elderly man seated at the same table at the same window. He is eating soup. Each day I slow my pace that bit more, so that I might catch his eyes. My craving to know him is escalating. I have thoughts racing through my mind. But the most significant I think is. Is he alone out of choice or is he alone because his wife (partner) has left him, or has died.
You don’t miss what you don’t know. Is that really true? The logic seems sound but what of rumour? Or a vivid imagination. Or that little ache that bubbles into an eruption of wanting a one. And what of the living after death. Gone. Sugary life goes on clichés are plastic. Plastic might last but what of aesthetics and character? It can’t be the same. It is not. I see it in the way he places each spoon into his mouth. There is ache and lonely.
The sadness is building in me. It is the type of sadness that brews from that deep part. No metaphor, analogy or symbology to convey. You know it. And what startles me is that I can feel the sadness building and it is me but I am living and happily so. Life is so fucking peculiar. There are times I feel I must be living two lives concurrently. I can’t possibly be happy and sad at the same time. Can I? And what of this man?
I hope you enjoyed these features. Please let the artists know if you did. :-)
Sybille xo
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
Midweek Features 22/12/2010
There is so much wonderful art and writing coming into the group at the moment, that choosing just six of each is proving all too difficult. All of these are great examples of strong and powerful feminist art. I hope you will enjoy them.
Feminist Art Evolution of Woman by Maggie Vlazny
“Evolution of A Woman by Maggie Vlazny” is an image so full of vitality and hope, that I could not resist it. “Our mouths and bodies speak for us in a new language, as the trees shake loose a rain of petals that stick to our slickness like skins we will wear forever. And just like that, I am changed.”
— Libba Bray (The Sweet Far Thing)”
Mandy Oversees A New Recruit’s Haircut by Margaret Bryant
The whole Mandy series by Margaret Bryant, are images that are filled with fun, yet each one has a poignant and strong message. I love the whole take -off of Barbie who is being given a whole new persona in this wonderful series. Here, “Mandy watches as a new recruit to the Inner Circle of Mandytude recieves her initation buzzcut. Mandy does not believe that hair makes the woman.”
Alone by Anita Inverarity
“Alone” by Anita Inverarity, is a poignant view into a woman coming to terms with disability. Part of the ‘Style Stealer’ series, Anita illustrates a range of emotions so beautifully. This one moves me to tears.
To the light… by m-mission
“To The Light” by m mission takes us on an abstarct journey from darkness to light. I love the way she uses her precious gems to describe so well a whole range of emotion. here, it is a depiction of ‘fragments of a woman’.
Unspoken by Lacey Scarbro
“Unspoken” by Lacey Scarbro is a lithograph on bright white rag paper.This image portrays the deep, dark, haunting feeling that comes with the inability to free what is secretly kept inside the soul. The dramatic black and white abstract really does convey the whole range of feelings of not being able to express yourself.
I Can Take Care of Myself by Katz Karma
A feminist, fun-filled Red Riding Hood which I could not resist. I just love her attitude and the strong message that accompanies it.
The poetry featured this week is moving, emotional and strong. I love every one so much.
Congratulations to you all, and thank you for submitting such wonderful work to Pink Panther.
Feminist Art Evolution of Woman by Maggie Vlazny
“Evolution of A Woman by Maggie Vlazny” is an image so full of vitality and hope, that I could not resist it. “Our mouths and bodies speak for us in a new language, as the trees shake loose a rain of petals that stick to our slickness like skins we will wear forever. And just like that, I am changed.”
— Libba Bray (The Sweet Far Thing)”
Mandy Oversees A New Recruit’s Haircut by Margaret Bryant
The whole Mandy series by Margaret Bryant, are images that are filled with fun, yet each one has a poignant and strong message. I love the whole take -off of Barbie who is being given a whole new persona in this wonderful series. Here, “Mandy watches as a new recruit to the Inner Circle of Mandytude recieves her initation buzzcut. Mandy does not believe that hair makes the woman.”
Alone by Anita Inverarity
“Alone” by Anita Inverarity, is a poignant view into a woman coming to terms with disability. Part of the ‘Style Stealer’ series, Anita illustrates a range of emotions so beautifully. This one moves me to tears.
To the light… by m-mission
“To The Light” by m mission takes us on an abstarct journey from darkness to light. I love the way she uses her precious gems to describe so well a whole range of emotion. here, it is a depiction of ‘fragments of a woman’.
Unspoken by Lacey Scarbro
“Unspoken” by Lacey Scarbro is a lithograph on bright white rag paper.This image portrays the deep, dark, haunting feeling that comes with the inability to free what is secretly kept inside the soul. The dramatic black and white abstract really does convey the whole range of feelings of not being able to express yourself.
I Can Take Care of Myself by Katz Karma
A feminist, fun-filled Red Riding Hood which I could not resist. I just love her attitude and the strong message that accompanies it.
The poetry featured this week is moving, emotional and strong. I love every one so much.
“Understatement” is a sparse, emotion filled poem that manages to say so much in so few words. I love it.
I am such a fan of Beautifuldreamer’s poetry. I think she has so much to say about growing up in an abusive environment, and she says it with a voice that we have to heed. Here is another very short but emotion packed poem that is incredibly powerful and moving.
I chose ‘Helua’ for its originality and power, bringing new insights into the goddess. Although I am still not convinced that if God had been a woman she would have allowed so much badness in the world!
I think that ‘The Lucky Country’ is Valentina at her best, reminding us of the differences between what happened to the early immigrants into the US and our current views and mistreatment of the immigrants who want to arrive now. It is a triumph.
“My Ever After’ is a stunning reflection of a woman coming towards the end of her life. Full of musings about life and how she would like to be remembered. It is moving and powerful.
A gentle and haunting poem, bjeliMis reminds us of those beautiful moments of first meeting. Using few words to leave us with the haunting beauty that was first love.
Congratulations to you all, and thank you for submitting such wonderful work to Pink Panther.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Midweek Features 1/12/2010
All the featured images and poems this week have been inspired by Tammara’s wonderful image ‘Compassion’.
Compassion, by Tammera
Sadness by Agnès Trachet
Clandestine by Linaji
Odessey by m-mission
Headlight Sale by Geraldine Maddrell
Ice Queen by MagpieMagic
The poetry this week also contains the theme of compassion. Compassion, ( or lack of it) for oneself and for others. Do read these poems - they are fabulous.
Anorexia by © Charmiene Maxwell-Batten
You think you know me- but all you see are your own ghosts by © Kristin Reynolds
A Treasure – © A Tribute by Betty Smith -Voce
The Ballad of the Ice Queen by © MagpieMagic
Aug San Suu Kyi: A tribute to a beautiful woman by © moonlover
Cry Rape by © Rebecca Weston
Monday, 29 November 2010
All Things Considered
One of the sayings that I remember from my childhood is “all things considered.” The phrase is used to punctuate the explanation of why a bad event or a setback in life is not so bad, “all things considered.” So I learned to look at the world from a larger perspective and to examine my life with “all things considered.”
When I was 2 years old I experienced an epiphany. I found out that Santa Claus was a poor, hard working coal miner. I also learned that life in the Mountains of Eastern Kentucky was not so bad, all things considered.
My parents were quite typical in many respects. Like every typical American parent, they lied to their kids. They told me the story of a delightful, jolly old elf that lived at the North Pole. They told me that if I was a very good little girl, ate my vegetables and did not talk back I would be rewarded with gifts. On the other hand if I was a bad girl, I would find no gifts under the tree and lumps of coal in my Christmas stocking. I knew all about coal because my father was a miner. His fingernails had a seemingly permanent buildup of coal dust underneath and he always smelled of the creosote that was used to coat the wood timbers that held up the roof of the underground mine. I wanted no coal in my stocking!
One day in December 1963 my mother asked me, “What would you like Santa to bring you this year?”
Weeks earlier I saw a doll on the shelf in the store that served as a grocery for sugar, flour and coffee, a hardware store, and an auto parts store. The store was owned by an elderly couple and for many years was the only place in town where we could buy things as we needed them because they would extend credit. I asked my mother to buy the doll for me. She scolded me.
“We don’t have money for foolishness Helen!” she hissed. “Don’t ask again.”
I hushed about the doll and unlike today’s 2 year old kids, I knew better than to attempt a tantrum.
Later when mother asked me what I wanted Santa to bring for Christmas, I hesitantly asked for the doll. It was a beautiful doll! I can not now remember the name of the doll that was emblazoned across the front of the pink and white box, but I remember she had the longest dark brown hair, brown glass eyes that closed when you tilted her back and she was nearly as tall as I was. If you held her hand and ever so gently pulled her toward you she would walk forward in a stiff legged march across the floor. I thought she was the most beautiful doll in the world.
Christmas morning came and went and the doll was not beneath the Christmas tree. There was a nice stack of coloring books and a new box of wax crayons. My grandmother gave me a package of frilly panties with the days of the week printed on the front of each – “because you are a big girl now” she told me since I had learned to hold my bladder and go to the toilet. The evening wore on, and as darkness crept up on the Eastern Kentucky hollow where I was born and where I would live until my 30th birthday, I was convinced that Santa Claus would not be bringing the doll I wanted. Relatives came and went, and each brought a small present of books, and hair ribbons, and paper dolls, but no Santa and no walking doll. Then there was a knock at the door and a tall skinny man dressed in a “Santa suit” entered the house. I immediately recognized him. It was my great uncle Bill.
Great Uncle Bill had served in the Navy during World War II and was “shell shocked.” These days we call it “Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome” but way back then, it was considered a craziness caused by what he experienced in the war. I used to think that Great Uncle Bill was a giant. He was at least 6 feet 3 inches tall but thin as a rail. He had a long smiling face, but there was a deep sadness behind the smiling eyes if one had the ability to see beyond the surface. The fake Santa beard swung loosely beneath Great Uncle Bill’s chin and the suit hung on his body like scarecrow garb.
“Uncle Bill!” I shouted.
“That’s Santa Helen,” Mother corrected.
Great Uncle Santa Bill beckoned me forward and I approached him timidly. He knelt down and then reached into his gunny sack – no red velvet bag trimmed in white fox fur for a Mountain Santa. He pulled out a big pink and white box from his sack. It was the doll from the store. I was delighted, but I was very sad at the same time. You see, I discovered that there is no Santa Claus at the North Pole. He is not a kindly old elf that keeps his watchful eye on the naughty and the good, but a poor coal miner with dirty fingernails who always smelled of creosote. My father went back to the store that day in December 1963 when I asked for the doll and he bought it for me on credit. He asked his uncle, my great uncle Bill, to dress up as Santa Claus and to bring it to me on Christmas night.
Years later when I started school, I was surprised to learn that many children still believed in a jolly elf from the North Pole. I knew that my Santa was real and that he loved me. Even though he smelled of coal and he dirtied my dress when he picked me up, he cared about my happiness. Knowing the truth from a young age was not easy to take, but it has served me well, all things considered.
When I was 2 years old I experienced an epiphany. I found out that Santa Claus was a poor, hard working coal miner. I also learned that life in the Mountains of Eastern Kentucky was not so bad, all things considered.
My parents were quite typical in many respects. Like every typical American parent, they lied to their kids. They told me the story of a delightful, jolly old elf that lived at the North Pole. They told me that if I was a very good little girl, ate my vegetables and did not talk back I would be rewarded with gifts. On the other hand if I was a bad girl, I would find no gifts under the tree and lumps of coal in my Christmas stocking. I knew all about coal because my father was a miner. His fingernails had a seemingly permanent buildup of coal dust underneath and he always smelled of the creosote that was used to coat the wood timbers that held up the roof of the underground mine. I wanted no coal in my stocking!
One day in December 1963 my mother asked me, “What would you like Santa to bring you this year?”
Weeks earlier I saw a doll on the shelf in the store that served as a grocery for sugar, flour and coffee, a hardware store, and an auto parts store. The store was owned by an elderly couple and for many years was the only place in town where we could buy things as we needed them because they would extend credit. I asked my mother to buy the doll for me. She scolded me.
“We don’t have money for foolishness Helen!” she hissed. “Don’t ask again.”
I hushed about the doll and unlike today’s 2 year old kids, I knew better than to attempt a tantrum.
Later when mother asked me what I wanted Santa to bring for Christmas, I hesitantly asked for the doll. It was a beautiful doll! I can not now remember the name of the doll that was emblazoned across the front of the pink and white box, but I remember she had the longest dark brown hair, brown glass eyes that closed when you tilted her back and she was nearly as tall as I was. If you held her hand and ever so gently pulled her toward you she would walk forward in a stiff legged march across the floor. I thought she was the most beautiful doll in the world.
Christmas morning came and went and the doll was not beneath the Christmas tree. There was a nice stack of coloring books and a new box of wax crayons. My grandmother gave me a package of frilly panties with the days of the week printed on the front of each – “because you are a big girl now” she told me since I had learned to hold my bladder and go to the toilet. The evening wore on, and as darkness crept up on the Eastern Kentucky hollow where I was born and where I would live until my 30th birthday, I was convinced that Santa Claus would not be bringing the doll I wanted. Relatives came and went, and each brought a small present of books, and hair ribbons, and paper dolls, but no Santa and no walking doll. Then there was a knock at the door and a tall skinny man dressed in a “Santa suit” entered the house. I immediately recognized him. It was my great uncle Bill.
Great Uncle Bill had served in the Navy during World War II and was “shell shocked.” These days we call it “Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome” but way back then, it was considered a craziness caused by what he experienced in the war. I used to think that Great Uncle Bill was a giant. He was at least 6 feet 3 inches tall but thin as a rail. He had a long smiling face, but there was a deep sadness behind the smiling eyes if one had the ability to see beyond the surface. The fake Santa beard swung loosely beneath Great Uncle Bill’s chin and the suit hung on his body like scarecrow garb.
“Uncle Bill!” I shouted.
“That’s Santa Helen,” Mother corrected.
Great Uncle Santa Bill beckoned me forward and I approached him timidly. He knelt down and then reached into his gunny sack – no red velvet bag trimmed in white fox fur for a Mountain Santa. He pulled out a big pink and white box from his sack. It was the doll from the store. I was delighted, but I was very sad at the same time. You see, I discovered that there is no Santa Claus at the North Pole. He is not a kindly old elf that keeps his watchful eye on the naughty and the good, but a poor coal miner with dirty fingernails who always smelled of creosote. My father went back to the store that day in December 1963 when I asked for the doll and he bought it for me on credit. He asked his uncle, my great uncle Bill, to dress up as Santa Claus and to bring it to me on Christmas night.
Years later when I started school, I was surprised to learn that many children still believed in a jolly elf from the North Pole. I knew that my Santa was real and that he loved me. Even though he smelled of coal and he dirtied my dress when he picked me up, he cared about my happiness. Knowing the truth from a young age was not easy to take, but it has served me well, all things considered.
Goody Santa Claus - A light-hearted look at gender roles in thisholiday season.
A light-hearted feminist look at gender roles at this season.
Santa, must I tease in vain, Deer? Let me go and hold the reindeer,
While you clamber down the chimneys. Don’t look savage as a Turk!
Why should you have all the glory of the joyous Christmas story,
And poor little Goody Santa Claus have nothing but the work?
It would be so very cozy, you and I, all round and rosy,
Looking like two loving snowballs in our fuzzy Arctic furs,
Tucked in warm and snug together, whisking through the winter weather
Where the tinkle of the sleigh-bells is the only sound that stirs.
You just sit here and grow chubby off the goodies in my cubby
From December to December, till your white beard sweeps your knees;
For you must allow, my Goodman, that you’re but a lazy woodman
And rely on me to foster all our fruitful Christmas trees.
While your Saintship waxes holy, year by year, and roly-poly,
Blessed by all the lads and lassies in the limits of the land,
While your toes at home you’re toasting, then poor Goody must go posting
Out to plant and prune and garner, where our fir-tree forests stand.
Oh! but when the toil is sorest how I love our fir-tree forest,
Heart of light and heart of beauty in the Northland cold and dim,
All with gifts and candles laden to delight a boy or maiden,
And its dark-green branches ever murmuring the Christmas hymn!
Yet ask young Jack Frost, our neighbor, who but Goody has the labor,
Feeding roots with milk and honey that the bonbons may be sweet!
Who but Goody knows the reason why the playthings bloom in season
And the ripened toys and trinkets rattle gaily to her feet!
From the time the dollies budded, wiry-boned and saw-dust blooded,
With their waxen eyelids winking when the wind the tree-tops plied,
Have I rested for a minute, until now your pack has in it
All the bright, abundant harvest of the merry Christmastide?
Santa, wouldn’t it be pleasant to surprise me with a present?
And this ride behind the reindeer is the boon your Goody begs;
Think how hard my extra work is, tending the Thanksgiving turkeys
And our flocks of rainbow chickens — those that lay the Easter eggs.
Home to womankind is suited? Nonsense, Goodman! Let our fruited
Orchards answer for the value of a woman out-of-doors.
Why then bid me chase the thunder, while the roof you’re safely under,
All to fashion fire-crackers with the lighting in their cores?
See! I’ve fetched my snow-flake bonnet, with the sunrise ribbons on it;
I’ve not worn it since we fled from Fairyland our wedding day;
How we sped through iceberg porches with the Northern Lights for torches!
You were young and slender, Santa, and we had this very sleigh.
Jump in quick then? That’s my bonny. Hey down derry! Nonny nonny!
While I tie your fur cap closer, I will kiss your ruddy chin.
I’m so pleased I fall to singing, just as sleigh-bells take to ringing!
Are the cloud-spun lap-robes ready? Tirra-lirra! Tuck me in.
Off across the starlight Norland, where no plant adorns the moorland
Save the ruby-berried holly and the frolic mistletoe!
Oh, but this is Christmas revel! Off across the frosted level
Where the reindeers’ hoofs strike sparkles from the crispy, crackling snow!
There’s the Man i’ the Moon before us, bound to lead the Christmas chorus
With the music of the sky-waves rippling round his silver shell —
Glimmering boat that leans and tarries with the weight of dreams she carries
To the cots of happy children. Gentle sailor, steer her well!
Now we pass through dusky portals to the drowsy land of mortals;
Snow-enfolded, silent cities stretch about us dim and far.
Oh! how sound the world is sleeping, midnight watch no shepherd keeping,
Though an angel-face shines gladly down from every golden star.
Here’s a roof. I’ll hold the reindeer. I suppose this weather-vane, Dear,
Some one set here just on purpose for our teams to fasten to.
There’s its gilded cock, — the gaby! — wants to crow and tell the baby
We are come. Be careful, Santa! Don’t get smothered in the flue.
Back so soon? No chimney-swallow dives but where his mate can follow.
Bend your cold ear, Sweetheart Santa, down to catch my whisper faint:
Would it be so very shocking if your Goody filled a stocking
Just for once? Oh, dear! Forgive me. Frowns do not become a Saint.
I will peep in at the skylights, where the moon sheds tender twilights
Equally down silken chambers and down attics bare and bleak.
Let me show with hailstone candies these two dreaming boys — the dandies
In their frilled and fluted nighties, rosy cheek to rosy cheek!
What! No gift for this poor garret? Take a sunset sash and wear it
O’er the rags, my pale-faced lassie, till thy father smiles again.
He’s a poet, but — oh, cruel! he has neither light nor fuel.
Here’s a fallen star to write by, and a music-box of rain.
So our sprightly reindeer clamber, with their fairy sleigh of amber,
On from roof to roof , the woven shades of night about us drawn.
On from roof to roof we twinkle, all the silver bells a-tinkle,
Till blooms in yonder blessèd East the rose of Christmas dawn.
Now the pack is fairly rifled, and poor Santa’s well-nigh stifled;
Yet you would not let your Goody fill a single baby-sock;
Yes, I know the task takes brain, Dear. I can only hold the reindeer,
And so see me climb down chimney — it would give your nerves a shock.
Wait! There’s yet a tiny fellow, smiling lips and curls so yellow
You would think a truant sunbeam played in them all night. He spins
Giant tops, a flies kites higher than the gold cathedral spire
In his creams — the orphan bairnie, trustful little Tatterkins.
Santa, don’t pass by the urchin! Shake the pack, and deeply search in
All your pockets. There is always one toy more. I told you so.
Up again? Why, what’s the trouble? On your eyelash winks the bubble
Mortals call a tear, I fancy. Holes in stocking, heel and toe?
Goodman, though your speech is crusty now and then there’s nothing rusty
In your heart. A child’s least sorrow makes your wet eyes glisten, too;
But I’ll mend that sock so nearly it shall hold your gifts completely.
Take the reins and let me show you what a woman’s wit can do.
Puff! I’m up again, my Deary, flushed a bit and somewhat weary,
With my wedding snow-flake bonnet worse for many a sooty knock;
But be glad you let me wheedle, since, an icicle for needle,
Threaded with the last pale moonbeam, I have darned the laddie’s sock.
Then I tucked a paint-box in it (‘twas no easy task to win it
From the Artist of the Autumn Leaves) and frost-fruits white and sweet,
With the toys your pocket misses — oh! and kisses upon kisses
To cherish safe from evil paths the motherless small feet.
Chirrup! chirrup! There’s a patter of soft footsteps and a clatter
Of child voices. Speed it, reindeer, up the sparkling Arctic Hill!
Merry Christmas, little people! Joy-bells ring in every steeple,
And Goody’s gladdest of the glad. I’ve had my own sweet will.
This poem, and four other Christmas poems, were also included in Bates’ Fairy Gold (New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1916). See:
Poems of Christmas by Katherine Lee Bates
Santa, must I tease in vain, Deer? Let me go and hold the reindeer,
While you clamber down the chimneys. Don’t look savage as a Turk!
Why should you have all the glory of the joyous Christmas story,
And poor little Goody Santa Claus have nothing but the work?
It would be so very cozy, you and I, all round and rosy,
Looking like two loving snowballs in our fuzzy Arctic furs,
Tucked in warm and snug together, whisking through the winter weather
Where the tinkle of the sleigh-bells is the only sound that stirs.
You just sit here and grow chubby off the goodies in my cubby
From December to December, till your white beard sweeps your knees;
For you must allow, my Goodman, that you’re but a lazy woodman
And rely on me to foster all our fruitful Christmas trees.
While your Saintship waxes holy, year by year, and roly-poly,
Blessed by all the lads and lassies in the limits of the land,
While your toes at home you’re toasting, then poor Goody must go posting
Out to plant and prune and garner, where our fir-tree forests stand.
Oh! but when the toil is sorest how I love our fir-tree forest,
Heart of light and heart of beauty in the Northland cold and dim,
All with gifts and candles laden to delight a boy or maiden,
And its dark-green branches ever murmuring the Christmas hymn!
Yet ask young Jack Frost, our neighbor, who but Goody has the labor,
Feeding roots with milk and honey that the bonbons may be sweet!
Who but Goody knows the reason why the playthings bloom in season
And the ripened toys and trinkets rattle gaily to her feet!
From the time the dollies budded, wiry-boned and saw-dust blooded,
With their waxen eyelids winking when the wind the tree-tops plied,
Have I rested for a minute, until now your pack has in it
All the bright, abundant harvest of the merry Christmastide?
Santa, wouldn’t it be pleasant to surprise me with a present?
And this ride behind the reindeer is the boon your Goody begs;
Think how hard my extra work is, tending the Thanksgiving turkeys
And our flocks of rainbow chickens — those that lay the Easter eggs.
Home to womankind is suited? Nonsense, Goodman! Let our fruited
Orchards answer for the value of a woman out-of-doors.
Why then bid me chase the thunder, while the roof you’re safely under,
All to fashion fire-crackers with the lighting in their cores?
See! I’ve fetched my snow-flake bonnet, with the sunrise ribbons on it;
I’ve not worn it since we fled from Fairyland our wedding day;
How we sped through iceberg porches with the Northern Lights for torches!
You were young and slender, Santa, and we had this very sleigh.
Jump in quick then? That’s my bonny. Hey down derry! Nonny nonny!
While I tie your fur cap closer, I will kiss your ruddy chin.
I’m so pleased I fall to singing, just as sleigh-bells take to ringing!
Are the cloud-spun lap-robes ready? Tirra-lirra! Tuck me in.
Off across the starlight Norland, where no plant adorns the moorland
Save the ruby-berried holly and the frolic mistletoe!
Oh, but this is Christmas revel! Off across the frosted level
Where the reindeers’ hoofs strike sparkles from the crispy, crackling snow!
There’s the Man i’ the Moon before us, bound to lead the Christmas chorus
With the music of the sky-waves rippling round his silver shell —
Glimmering boat that leans and tarries with the weight of dreams she carries
To the cots of happy children. Gentle sailor, steer her well!
Now we pass through dusky portals to the drowsy land of mortals;
Snow-enfolded, silent cities stretch about us dim and far.
Oh! how sound the world is sleeping, midnight watch no shepherd keeping,
Though an angel-face shines gladly down from every golden star.
Here’s a roof. I’ll hold the reindeer. I suppose this weather-vane, Dear,
Some one set here just on purpose for our teams to fasten to.
There’s its gilded cock, — the gaby! — wants to crow and tell the baby
We are come. Be careful, Santa! Don’t get smothered in the flue.
Back so soon? No chimney-swallow dives but where his mate can follow.
Bend your cold ear, Sweetheart Santa, down to catch my whisper faint:
Would it be so very shocking if your Goody filled a stocking
Just for once? Oh, dear! Forgive me. Frowns do not become a Saint.
I will peep in at the skylights, where the moon sheds tender twilights
Equally down silken chambers and down attics bare and bleak.
Let me show with hailstone candies these two dreaming boys — the dandies
In their frilled and fluted nighties, rosy cheek to rosy cheek!
What! No gift for this poor garret? Take a sunset sash and wear it
O’er the rags, my pale-faced lassie, till thy father smiles again.
He’s a poet, but — oh, cruel! he has neither light nor fuel.
Here’s a fallen star to write by, and a music-box of rain.
So our sprightly reindeer clamber, with their fairy sleigh of amber,
On from roof to roof , the woven shades of night about us drawn.
On from roof to roof we twinkle, all the silver bells a-tinkle,
Till blooms in yonder blessèd East the rose of Christmas dawn.
Now the pack is fairly rifled, and poor Santa’s well-nigh stifled;
Yet you would not let your Goody fill a single baby-sock;
Yes, I know the task takes brain, Dear. I can only hold the reindeer,
And so see me climb down chimney — it would give your nerves a shock.
Wait! There’s yet a tiny fellow, smiling lips and curls so yellow
You would think a truant sunbeam played in them all night. He spins
Giant tops, a flies kites higher than the gold cathedral spire
In his creams — the orphan bairnie, trustful little Tatterkins.
Santa, don’t pass by the urchin! Shake the pack, and deeply search in
All your pockets. There is always one toy more. I told you so.
Up again? Why, what’s the trouble? On your eyelash winks the bubble
Mortals call a tear, I fancy. Holes in stocking, heel and toe?
Goodman, though your speech is crusty now and then there’s nothing rusty
In your heart. A child’s least sorrow makes your wet eyes glisten, too;
But I’ll mend that sock so nearly it shall hold your gifts completely.
Take the reins and let me show you what a woman’s wit can do.
Puff! I’m up again, my Deary, flushed a bit and somewhat weary,
With my wedding snow-flake bonnet worse for many a sooty knock;
But be glad you let me wheedle, since, an icicle for needle,
Threaded with the last pale moonbeam, I have darned the laddie’s sock.
Then I tucked a paint-box in it (‘twas no easy task to win it
From the Artist of the Autumn Leaves) and frost-fruits white and sweet,
With the toys your pocket misses — oh! and kisses upon kisses
To cherish safe from evil paths the motherless small feet.
Chirrup! chirrup! There’s a patter of soft footsteps and a clatter
Of child voices. Speed it, reindeer, up the sparkling Arctic Hill!
Merry Christmas, little people! Joy-bells ring in every steeple,
And Goody’s gladdest of the glad. I’ve had my own sweet will.
This poem, and four other Christmas poems, were also included in Bates’ Fairy Gold (New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1916). See:
Poems of Christmas by Katherine Lee Bates
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Poetry Features 17/11 2010
In the shiny house that is my family
I have been
The spare room receptacle,
of the superfluous and chaotic.
In the healthy body that is my family
I have been
The liver, enlarged and diseased,
distiller of the toxic.
In the band of miners that is my family
I have been;
The caged canary sent in solo,
singing silent in the darkness.
In the small regiment that is my family
I have been
The loyal foot soldier with bayonet,
bludgeoned out of the trenches and over the top.
In the flock of geese that is my family
I have been
Forever flying last in formation,
tending to the fallen.
But today in the bright epiphany of morning
I am
the creator tenderly joining
each precious jigsaw piece of past,
and seeing for the first time how
each piece of who
I have been
is essential to my Zeitgeist
part of who
I am
© Valentina63 2009
See the woman.
See the face behind its age.
See the beauty of her form.
See the way her way becomes her.
See past her once taught skin, as it was
when it enflamed many a man.
See the way she holds her head;
the tilt of her neck, the ease
of her being.
See the strength that binds her jaw,
unrelenting in its flex.
See her hurt displayed as shadows
falling like night upon the earth,
eager for rest and resolution—
retribution for the ones
she could not save.
See her darkness—see it well.
See it shatter like glass glinting
when she giggles like a girl.
See her shine
as the shades of dark days rise.
See the years that grace her eyes,
like rays of her own drawn sun
exponentially shining forth.
See forgiveness in her patient hands
as they weave memories with a touch.
See the breadth of her breasts, unapologetic
for they have quenched her children’s hunger,
soothed their frantic cries,
and became the safe haven for her beloved
on his rough seas of broken days.
See her empty, scarred abdomen—
round and perfect in its imperfections,
once holding the essence of all things,
carrying creation within:
see the divine home of God.
See the innocent baby,
the impetuous youth,
the voluptuous woman,
the devoted wife,
the selfless mother.
See the wisdom of the grandmother—
the epitome of every moment lived
for someone else and at last
for her:
the realization of the circle.
Hear the acceptance in her sigh.
See the gifts she has given—
see the woman!
See the goddess!
The beginning and The End!
See the infinite that bares the name,
Woman!
See her for all that she is and isn’t.
Smell her scent and know you are home.
Taste the strength of her words on your tongue.
Hear her experiences like your own.
To touch her being is to touch perpetuity.
See her face in your mirror.
See the tears that fall proudly
upon the woman you’ve become,
and hope yet to become in time—
or the tears that fall upon the heart
who loves or has loved such
a woman, honoring her still with
your love.
When you have lived
through all that has been set before you;
when you enter that perfect union, and
timeless ancestry;
when you become,
when you come full circle
you will see yourself in all things,
and your journey
will see you
home.
© Kristin Reynolds 2008
violent invasion
humiliation
degradation
showering burning the skin
forcing each drop to seep in
to every molecule of the body
the soul cleaning
absolving
extracting the foul unfair nefarious dark intruder
of dreams
screams
into the infinite of why’s
spitting
gagging
regurgitating
eliminating that which blocks the sun
IT
cannot be undone
the barrage of pain
the thunder of anger
cannot be released
in an echo of cries
in the emptiness of when tears are done
and all seems numb
there are no answers
there is only time…
forgiveness
and healing
that never comes
© autumnwind 2010
Beyond our vision
Below the threshold
Of human perception
The Universe sings
You are 14 billion years old
Stars shine in your eyes
The fabric of the cosmos
Revealed in synaptic patterns
That expand exponentially
With each breath
One memory
One love
One life
at a time
© H.M.Bascom 2010
How it was.
You used to look at me in a way that made me feel warm inside.
Just to be around you felt like coming home.
The love in your eyes showed a soft tenderness and closeness to me,
it reflected the love we shared… which was so deep, pure, and true…
Your smile displayed an enormous relief for my company,
and yet you were just innocently happy…
Occassionally, I remember, you would be so overcome with joy in my company, emotions would bubble up from deep inside your self, and you would cry with happiness and joy…
I felt the same inside.
Although I could not show it as you did… I did…
Daily, I would experience the most beautiful feelings and emotions…
Constantly feeling a higher love and much deeper affection than I had felt before…
Now it is different.
Time has led you to grow weary of me.
You want me to be more like you, less like me.
When we fight, it is like hell.
When we don’t, we do not talk.
I am too much myself to change for another.
I still love you…
This is the end.
© sunrisegirl 2010
We went to see
Rocky Horror at midnight,
three women past our primes
convinced we were still
Oh.
So.
Cool.
But those
Damned Kids wouldn’t keep it down,
running amok in the aisles, acting out
scenes they didn’t know all the lines to.
A half-assed job of revelry—
We did it right in my day.
Boys in lingerie borrowed from grandma
forced us to do the “Time Warp.”
Again.
We glared, we hissed,
No means no!
as their insistent hands pried us
from our cozy seats,
one by one.
Was this ever fun?
A cowboy caricature
with pencilled-in sideburns
and a star around his eye
bummed a cigarette,
slobbered on our hands,
and called us each
“Ma’am.”
We are getting too old for this.
Mason, Rocky Horror at Midnight 2
Later I found the rice we brought
to throw at the wedding
in the movie
forgotten in the bottom of my purse.
How had we had missed that scene?
© Margaret Bryant
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