Never read…

February 9, 2015


“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.”

Sylvia Plath

Don’t need to talk…

February 9, 2015


“We need not talk at all, our eyes would whisper for us, and your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language.”

Emily Dickinson
letter to Susan Huntington Gilbert

A Great Mind..

February 9, 2015


“A great mind must be androgynous.”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge


February 9, 2015


She had intended catching the earlier bus,
but distracted by the flash of scarlet
behind the plate glass, she paused.
Her eyes ranged over the display
clothing impossible models, limbs
arranged in improbable angles.
In the half-light at the back,
other figures with manicured faces
thrust their thin lips forward.
She knows real women
are more cushioned than this
and smiles at her shady reflection.
She looks less meaningful, imperfect.

The clock in the market place
struck five forty five.
She turned and her feet
picked up speed, took her too late
through to the bus station.
The stand, numbered twenty seven
now empty, but red tail lights winked
from the bottom of Church Street.

Later, people remembered her
sitting on the small slatted seat, waiting.
The next bus, delayed by a minor
collision, made up lost time.
The driver recalled a lone woman,
whose stop was Abbey Green:
in his mirror she crossed the road.

The last person to see her
did not answer the appeal,
did not tell anyone how her eyes,
wide like a mannequin, fixed
on his face as she drowned
in a ribbon of blood
from her open throat:
how her limbs fell into
improbable angles as he wiped
the blade of his knife across her coat.

Margaret Speak


February 9, 2015


I’m thankful for all the different ways that exist to prepare and eat potatoes…


February 9, 2015


Guardian of the water shrine,
shouting head
among the Roman detritus
in the museum case,

I have five springs for you
who would fit exactly
the flat of my hand.
No doubt of your power –

it flares up fierce
behind the broken dishes –
even though your stone mouth
is no more

than the hole
a thumb would make in clay.
There are five springs
in need of you:

from under the road,
behind the sea wall,
they leak across the beach.
You sort of human snail

held back in your hood,
your head lapped in stone,
look out for these
built-over waters.

Annemarie Austin

You are the knife….

February 9, 2015


“You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.”

Franz Kafka
Letters to Milena