Food of love…

July 30, 2014



Une caresse de musique

I looked, and looked…

July 30, 2014


“I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth.”

(Vladimir Nabokov)


I love these people.
I want to dab them on,
perfume always in my flesh,
my wrist wafting their scent.

Can I dive deep, deep
into their gentle pools?
(play dolphin,
nose touching water as the tail leaves,
rolling under and under
loving how these people make me feel.)

I have no words for oneness
with people not loud, not frozen,
who stir life awake in me.

It’s late now and
I am too sleepy to sleep.
I cannot bear to leave the softness.
Drift sweetness slowly from my head
fill the room, hold still around my bed.


It ain’t you…

July 28, 2014


The Lost Part of Me

July 28, 2014


I can still sense you when I’m alone,
When shadows of memories tease me
Daring me to remember,
I can still taste your kisses
As you kissed away my doubts
That others had left behind and abandoned,
Feel your sweet warming caresses
As you moved and seduced me with promises,
But the words the gypsy spoke as she turned over the cards
Break through the dream-like barrier,
The stupid childish romantic image
I created inside my head,
When I thought I heard your voice
Or saw your face in a crowd,
For you were not what you seemed
Your eyes were empty
Not even full of lies,
And when I held you close
You felt more like a ghost.
You left me weak –
Vulnerable to the elements,
But that weakness has finally come to pass
And the old strong self I lost
Is finally resurfacing . . . gasping for breath.

Degrees of Difficulty

July 28, 2014

There is something in the thaw,
found where he fell, carved by cold,
the face a map from somewhere
to somewhere, or else the skin
blackening as it warms.

In these mountains, centuries pass
like mist in a spring so brief
the birches lay half in one life, half
in a season best forgotten, trunks stooped
and leaves a weak show in thinning air.

If there was a road here
it was in the mind, a hard route in any year
for a foothold hacked with axes.
There was trade beyond these ranges,
home perhaps, or strangers to a stranger.

A quiver’s mush of arrow spurs, leggings
and leather jerkin stuffed with straw –
he climbed into the age of ice
to settle like a debris in our lives.
Our breath lifts out before us on the chill.

These ridges announce the boundaries
of the world, knuckles of vertebrae
beneath a haze of alpine flower,
everything connected each to each
for a life reclaimed from zero.

We are met in these remains,
climbing with little and too late
into a place without name, deep as years,
under a sun the ice tames, a sustenance
in the frozen passes when we return.

(Estill Pollock)


July 27, 2014


She sits up straight and taps her long red nails,
Impatient, tap-tap-tap, for me to go.
Not wiles nor wit nor flattery avails –
My dress is quaint, my jokes not apropos.
A biased friend had boasted of my charm,
And so she left her card embossed with gold.
She calls me “darling” but she means me harm.
Her face is young, her heart is eons old.

Immaculate and chilly is her palace;
The furnishings reflect a cultured taste.
She hears my compliments with gracious malice.
Some tea? I spill it in my nervous haste.
She smiles at me, a glassy, brittle smile,
A crack that spreads across a china plate.
Her wet white teeth are gleaming like the tile.
She yawns with meaning. “My, the hour grows late.”

Ejected guests: I hear their footsteps fade
And faintly echo, endless, through the halls.
She nudges me to join their dim parade,
Where mirth and music stop, where starlight palls.

She signals I must go – I give offence.
Time is a woman humourless and cold,
Fanatical and full of stiff pretense;
Her face is young, her heart is eons old.
She’ll rid herself of me, make no mistake.
I’m stubborn, though. I nibble at my cake.

Several ghosts…

July 27, 2014



Good advice is hard to come by…!



“I can see no reason to be bound by chronological time. As far as we know, the universe is not bound by it; as far as we know, it is yet another construct of ours, this worship of the clock and the idea that there is a past and a present and a future which trot along obediently in line and never swap places. In our own lives we know that that’s not true because human beings seem capable of moving imaginatively, backwards and forwards, of pushing out of the body. I think of it really as an out-of-the-body experience – that’s not something that only shamans and New Age hippies have. It’s something that we all have quite often in our lives. And I wanted to bring that into fiction because it seems to me to be a more honest reality than the rather dull reality of the clock.”

Jeanette Winterson