Zmiana sposobu prezentacji
This idea of the child that we all are – stripped of our vanities and self-delusions – comes through strongly in my poetry.
And although I love to dip – like the bird – into the world of art and literature, I remain on the outside, rather like a girl peering into a crystal ball. It attracts me and I gaze into its realms, but I am aware of its ability to swallow one up as Venus Flytraps do.
I find, in any case, that I am too lazy, whimsical and kinetic to be a serious student of or indeed, participant in the literary world. I sing - and let those who have ears.
When Death calls
at the casements of this mortal home,
He’ll not scythe my soul
into the black unknown;
No!
With
feathered feet and honey-breath
Will
dance my lucent Lord of Death,
Aaah!
In
bright and velvet arms
I’ll
breathe,
Here
you are - my Prince –
At
last.
in half-curl languid on the couch
(the mother chides her not to slouch)
they chit to her the usual chat
(she edging back from doggy pat)
this child who is like secret cat
(a faint impression left on sands,
will o’ the wisp with china hands)
to mute music
in union we move
(but say no word)
yeah
we two curious birds
(in rooms like these where others cough
and bump their knees)
dream
of arc-high sky
sing
(...)
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ill winds
tangle tresses
my heart all twisted
through with thorns
jaded eyes flash truth and lies
heart-bud bleeds where hate is born
I skitter up to fling the stars!
my black affairs with chocolate bars
