Tuesday, 21 November 2017

Dragonfly
It was so beautiful,
gleaming huge and iridescent
gold and green and blue and black.
With wings that should have been clear,
filled with shining rainbows
not like this, twisted at strange angles
and dulled with sticky silk.
Not stuck there waiting
to be prepared for some spider’s supper.
I held it gently
and took it from the web.
I carefully removed the sticky silk
and saw the rainbows sparkle as they should,
saw it’s eyes brighten and gleam
with the prospect of freedom.
It took a while, this disentanglement,
a delicate task to free this fragile creature.
And when it was ready,
I opened my fingers and
let it fly away.
It bit me then.
No parting kiss,
but a bite that
left a bruise.
Such gratitude!

Sunday, 19 November 2017

Leaded Light
The glass is cut,
so carefully cut,
so carefully arranged
to break up the light
as it reflects it.
Smooth joints
enhanced
with curving strips of soft lead
to fragment the light.
Light cracked by lead,
bright white
or gilded by sunshine
or bent into rainbows
refracted
to paint colours in reflected shadows
to fall in straight shafts onto grey paving.
The reflection is fragmenting
as it falls
breaking up the grey,
so that even the shafts
of multi-coloured illumination
can make no sense of it.
There’s no sense to be made.
The paving is crazy
now,
simply crazy.

Thursday, 16 November 2017

Alien
They emerged from the cute blue eggs
of our Blue Araucanas.
With every one a cockerel when grown,
we decided to have one for dinner.
Under the grey blue plumage,
the skin was blue,
which was quite a shock,
a little alien,
but cooked it was fine, normal,
as expected
and the flesh was white,
as expected.
But when carved,
the bones were blue,
Disconcerting,
off putting,
a little alien.
And now these red feathered birds
have appeared as if from nowhere,
their eggs pink.
And when they hatched and grew,
all were hens,
each clutch carefully hidden,
each batch of chicks larger then the last.
A little strange,
a little alien.
And then, at last, there were cockerels.
They were too many and too large, so
we decided to have one for dinner.
Under the red plumage
the skin was pink,
which was quite a shock,
a little alien,
but cooked it was fine, normal,
as expected
and the flesh was white,
as expected.
But when carved,
the bones were pink,
Disconcerting,
off putting,
more than a little alien.
There are more of them now,
growing ever larger.
I think that soon,
the dinner tables
will be turned.
By Lynn White They emerged from the cute blue eggs of our Blue Araucanas. With every one a cockerel when grown, we decided to have one for dinner. Under the grey blue plumage, the skin was blue, wh…
OTVMAGAZINE.COM

Tuesday, 14 November 2017

Spanish Room
We were pleased when the smiling nun
shook her head.
They were full, the lorry driver told us.
He was disappointed.
He thought we’d be safer
in the out of town convent than in the city.
He’d grown concerned for our safety
on our long journey through France.
He was nice - ‘doux, comme la sucre’
my friend would often tell him.
But he didn’t understand her accent.
He said his lorry wouldn’t fit
the narrow streets, so
we took a cab to the pension he knew.
Our first Spanish room
and we were happy!
The tiles were cool, if dusty.
We covered the TV.
We didn’t need it.
Two single beds pushed together
with one mattress
to make a ‘cama matrimonial’,
normality in Spain.
The owner was nice,
‘doux, comme la sucre’
my friend told him.
But he spoke no French.
We shopped in the corner shop with
it’s curved window
and explored the streets
of clubs and cafes and bars and lively people
enjoying the night.
And then we returned home.
Home to a locked door that
no amount of banging or shouting would
cause to open.
A friendly passer by understood our plight
and clapped his hands loudly.
A man appeared with a bunch of keys,
enough to fit the locks of several streets.
Normality when Franco reigned.
He let us in with a smile.
He was ‘doux, comme la sucre’
my friend told him,
but he didn’t understand.
Forty years later we found the street.
The curved shop window gave it away.
It was all still there, though only in facade,
waiting for reconstruction.
It was our first Spanish room
and we were happy.
The facade of a memory that
is still there and remains:
‘doux, comme la sucre’.
And we understand.

Sunday, 12 November 2017

Sea Horse
It was on the first day of our seaside holiday
that I found him
washed up,
stranded,
spat out by the sea
and swimming alone in the rock pool.
I had never seen a sea horse before,
only pictures in a book.
I used my shoe to fish him out
and ran back quickly,
one shoe on and one shoe off,
before the water leaked out.
I put him in the sink
and watched him swim.
He didn’t seem quite right.
Or maybe it was the pictures that were wrong,
or my memory.
He couldn’t stay in the sink.
My mother made that quite clear.
So I found him a jar in the cobwebby shed
and put him in that.
I fed him on bits
of bread,
minced meat
and mashed banana.
He spat them all out angrily.
I thought he would die from lack of food
and my mother said he couldn’t come home with us.
So I took him back to the waters edge
and released him,
gave him back
to the sea.
The next day I found him lying on the pebbles.
The sea had rejected him,
spat him out,
just as he had spat out my food offerings.
I carried him back,
in my shoe again
and put him
back
in the jar.
I’m older now and when I look at him,
I’m wise enough to know
that he is no seahorse,
but not wise enough
to know his name.
Only that the sea rejected him,
spat him out,
as he had rejected me.
Words by Lynn White Image by Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com*Editor's Note: ​ This poem was first published in Visual Verse , June 2017.
QUAILBELLMAGAZINE.COM

Friday, 10 November 2017

Tell It How It is
“Tell it how it is,” the manager said,
when she asked me to write the sign
and design the promotional material.
”Something eye-catching
and straightforward.”
Well,
I generally knew the owners,
and the people who were once owners.
I’ve lived here long enough,
longer than she has.
So I should know.
Yes,
I knew they were no longer with us.
I didn’t know if their past possessions
were antiques,
or nearly new,
or even used
or slightly soiled.
But I knew the one time owners,
knew they were no longer with us.
So I did as I was asked.
It was a snappy caption,
I thought.
Certain to grab the attention of
potential buyers.
Yes,
I always follow instructions,
I explained at my next job interview
and I know how to tell it how it is.

Thursday, 9 November 2017

Chill
I close my eyes
and listen
to the birds.
I can’t name them,
but it doesn’t matter,
I can still feast on their song.
Song,
well some sing beautifully,
others need to learn.
I sympathise with them,
I can’t sing either,
but there’s no shame
It doesn’t matter.
There’s no one to hear me
if I join in.
I close my eyes and listen to the birds. I can’t name them, but it doesn’t matter, I can still feast on their song. Song, well some sing beautifully, others need to learn. I sympathise with them, I…
THEBEZINE.COM