There’s a door down there I keep circling. A closet door in the deepest floor, and these stairs like optical illusions. Or as my mother liked to say, optical collusions.
These stairs of chalk.
the end of drawing
Month: May 2018
She was driving to this song. Her CD player was broken, and kept playing it over. Or maybe she was just controlling that with her mind. Who knew? She didn’t care. She had spent the morning reading and listening and watching and drinking and barely eating, she realised for a moment. She pulled over to get a healthy sandwich or salad, it didn’t matter really because she was only tasting the words of her day, which were stretchy like bland. So the chocolate muffin was perfect.
She laughed to herself when she saw the naked, silhouetted tree. Fact is stranger than fiction, after all.
Her head was full of clever people’s recycled words. And she, silent more often than not, confused the clever people. Why did this tree have no leaves?
Full of memories of echoing words, in canyons, on lonely family holidays, she got back into the car. On one of those trips, she had stopped yelling into the canyon, and had started throwing leaves instead. It was autumn, the tree was beautiful like everything you never had, and well, she wasn’t sure why. Or, she just couldn’t remember.
Tears were falling now, as the harvest moon was rising in front of her. She started driving faster, because darn it, she was going to drive through it this time.
dehydration
He wanted to insert the right words, but they were deftly eluding him, and he was weary of the chase. So he started tracing the outline of the knots of his depletion. They were particularly prominent this time.
He knew he was full of them and it would take time and effort to untie them, or rather, to hydrate them again to loosening. He wondered long and hard about it, as he tried instead, to un-knot your words.
I mean, the ones in your silence.
POETRY FROM THE LADIES
So Nigel, has done a lovely thing of reading a few poems, including a couple of mine, to honour the contribution to the poetry world by women poets. I love how he does his readings, and feel moved to be a part of this beautiful post (with a dignified giggle at the end 🙂 )
My dear friends, I have today for your delectation something rather special. It struck me how many wonderful, famous and celebrated poets are women compared to say artists in the world of painting.
This is something I’ve also noticed within our own circle, and so I feel both honoured & privileged to have been given permission by the following poets to recite their work. Below is just a small sample of the amazing art to be found and enjoyed.
If you’ve a favourite piece you’d like read I’m always looking to expand my ‘Alchemists of word’ section. Don’t be shy or humble for I’m not a critic or academic, just someone who loves the written word.
VIKTORIA AT MY BLEEDING WORDS
Ashes Ashes – by Viktoria
The dimming cinders of my spirit
Lay glowing feebly in the night
The smoke escaped my every merit
The arsonist: life’s pain and…
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