Being Orange

May 5, 2018

Being Orange I think I shall become a painter,
And luxuriate in the world of
textures and shapes,
perspectives and hues

If I were a painter, I could say,
“Today feels like an orange day!”
And then spread broad bands of
tangerine, persimmon,
and burnt sienna
across a crisp, white sheet
One colour melting into the next

And I would float and flow along with them,
Blending, merging…emerging,
Alive and ravenous, out of the depths
of my fruity, bright core –
Orange, just for today,
Just for the sheer pleasure of it

Lisa Wersal

kinda odd

May 5, 2018

A coffin

I know a woman who keeps her coffin in her front room. Her boyfriend made it. I’ve seen photos of him lovingly planing the wood before presenting it to her as a gift. It now sits in her lounge, ready for the day she dies, and she doesn’t see it as a threat. She loves it. The lid is open and a mannequin stands inside, wearing a black dress, while a stuffed raven sits perched on top.

When I told her that having a coffin in the lounge was, how can I put it, kinda odd, she just laughed and said it’s the rest of us who are truly strange. ‘We’re all going to die,’ she told me. ‘Facing that, is the most natural thing you can do.’

Peter Laws
Sinister Minister
The Irish Times 10th April 2018

a cent

My pawing over the ancients and semi-ancients has been one struggle to find out what has been done, once for all, better than it can ever be done again, and to find out what remains for us to do, and plenty does remain, for if we still feel the same emotions as those which launched the thousand ships, it is quite certain that we come on these feelings differently, through different nuances, by different intellectual gradations. Each age has its own abounding gifts yet only some ages transmute them into matter of duration. No good poetry is ever written in a manner twenty years old, for to write in such a manner shows conclusively that the writer thinks from books, convention and cliché, and not from life, yet a man feeling the divorce of life and his art may naturally try to resurrect a forgotten mode if he finds in that mode some leaven, or if he think he sees in it some element lacking in contemporary art which might unite that art again to its sustenance, life.

Ezra Pound
Pavannes and Divagations

Baubo2

Once the goddess Demeter learned that her daughter Persephone had been abducted by Hades with Zeus’s permission, the pain of her loss was even sharper. She left Olympus and withdrew from the company of the gods, and wandered on earth, hiding her divine beauty disguised as a woman beyond childbearing. One day she appeared in Eleusis and sat by the well where the daughters of Celeus, the ruler of Eleusis, came to draw water. Curious about the stranger in their midst, they talked with her and found that she sought employment as a nursemaid. They led her home to meet their mother Metanira who had given birth to a baby boy. When the goddess put her foot on the threshold and touched her head on the ceiling, momentarily the doorway filled with divine light. Awed, Metanira, who had been seated with her infant son in her lap, immediately offered Demeter her own splendid couch and finest wine, which the goddess declined. The sight of a mother and child must have stirred memories and longing for her missing daughter because Demeter became mute and stood with her eyes downcast, until the servant Baubo brought her a simple chair. She then sat in grief-stricken silence from which no one could draw her out, until Baubo cheered the goddess with her bawdy humour. Her jests brought a smile, and then, when she lifted her skirt and exposed herself, Demeter laughed and was restored. Then she accepted a simple drink of barley water and mint, and agreed to become the baby’s nursemaid (a temporary solace in the mid-portion of the myth).

Winifred Milius Lubell
The Metamorphosis of Baubo: Myths of Woman’s Sexual Energy

an old lady

Aging is a rigorous daily battle against all manner of crap we could never have imagined in our more youthful days.

As time progresses, various parts of the body begin to sag and droop, lose function, fade away, and finally, are surgically removed. Over the last decade, I have personally lost my senses of taste and smell, a gall bladder, a uterus, part of a heart and some visual acuity. And I recently made the interesting discovery that, when you reach a certain age, you apparently start to leak.

As for physical depredations, the runway saunter of my flaming youth has become a slipper-shod shuffle, mostly to the bathroom. The nipples with which I used to make eye contact now point directly at the bunions adorning feet that were once the toast of New Orleans; portraits of my formerly elegant tootsies had, for years, attracted fetishists from the world over to pre-Katrina Jackson Square, along with paintings of various other parts of my anatomy.

In short, the luscious body I used to inhabit, the very one that had men all over the world weeping with desire, now strongly resembles a freeway map, complete with off ramps. In fact, following my most recent surgery, I took a good look at what is now my body, and decided to plot a route to the Hidden Grotto, ala Mapquest. It read like this:

“Go due south on Bypass Boulevard, through Long-tit Valley; follow the Cholecysectomy roundabout, exiting on Appendix Avenue. Continue southwest to the twin tunnels of the bifemoral bypass, then merge with the saphenous vein tracks. When you come to the fork in the road, take it.

This will lead directly to the entrance of the Love Cavern, once covered by lush bush, now fallen into balding disrepair. Although long deserted, this roadside attraction became the central theme of several books, and is now an historical landmark, having been explored by many notable spelunkers in former years. Visitors are now rare, but still welcome.”

Ruth Dickson
Life, Death, and Other Trivia