Today is Brigid's day, and in terms of virtual observances, I can't think of anything better than an online poetry reading. It's also the perfect post to inaugurate this particular blog. My contribution follows.
In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Tea with Honey
He rolled over sonnombulant,
a private action that hadn't
a meaning. I was only
the book he fell asleep
reading the night before.
Something soporific between
the covers. I was boring him
again. A too-heavy tome,
it was my pleasure to put him
Warming Her Pearls
Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I´ll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,
resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.
She´s beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.
I dust her shoulders with a rabbit´s foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.
Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head.... Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way
she always does.... And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.
-Carol Ann Duffy
Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn't you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?...
4 hours ago