writer
The Dancer
She waltzes into our home,
after school, ballerina beautiful
spine stretched taut,
each vertebrae pushed
apart and braced
by strength of character
despite heavy burden
of adolescence.
Her head, ballroom high
held by dignity
and resilience
of Black Swan.
Skilled in cool, she checks my eye,
seeking me, seeking her.
I gaze in hope, she’ll accept
my invite to dance,
with me.
Not today.
Shrinking her way towards sagging sofa,
vertebrae, one by one, with each step,
collapsing, in relief.
No need to perform here.
Silver Springs
Myriad droplets bounce, at giddy altitude,
trickling magnets scurry to gather
in plateau pools, clear as mountain air.
Eager reservoirs burst from hard rock fences
not strong enough to contain, glistening
exuberance of youth. Season of birth,
dawn of streams, they leap and skip,
tumble, cascade, building momentum
to gush all day, tripping and tumbling
in vital pilgrim, to explore vast oceans,
immediately. Impetuous impatient,
startlingly bright, for your naïve
optimism, I thirst.
May I baptise in your crystal flow?
My weary soul, a stagnant puddle.
Eve’s Dream
And by His dark materials, curious encounter,
of woe or wist I cannot say, memory perplexed,
a strange expression did my slumber pierce,
with temperate tones familiar not, as waves on Caspian shores,
beat a gentle call to rouse, from slumber startled
I with furrowed brow, within a dream awoke.
Yearning itch beneath my virgin flesh did burrow,
flesh to gut to heart to limb, as Indus slowly wormed,
behind mine eyes a murky vision smeared, a dream valid
as blood and bones, as valid as the breath of grace,
in harmony with this charmed voice that in my realm of sleep
did whisper, the sweetest birdsong garnish, blazing refrain of
heavenly constellations sung, sounds clear as a deity’s lute.
Fresh radiance upon our gardens, foreign moonlight cast,
on grass of emerald sheen, on sapphire pools of cherubim
glassy eyes, velvet petals unwrap and brush
my mortal skin caressed, sent sensations,
perhaps the sovereign saviour’s blessing?
O Adam, birthing drops of dew before dawn,
pearlsheen holy water, by gentle nature’s blessings kissed,
a perfume heightened vigour scent did my senses fill,
a voice enthralling, ‘This nature’s splendour, swallow!’,
and unwillingly willing, enticed, coerced to highest pleasure reach,
I, entranced, arose, and upon silver sands of seraphdust, I followed.
And a tree of awe, verus of infinite expanse branched,
lightning bolts through worlds reaching, man’s desires they whip and jolt,
there, before my eyes of vacant moons, appeared.
And I, so small, a tiny flea before a mighty beast,
salivate and moisten lips, in wondrous awe
of fleshful filling feast that could not drought;
of this resplendent tree of glory, I wallowed.
Peculiar angel, winged and worldly, his invite to my mouth
he breathed, and from my lungs the lust he sucked.
Avarice eyes by golden crops of God entranced,
a succulent fruit as ripe as cherub cheeks, tint of rose
swollen in prime, he made claim to glorify man, as he plucked.
In exuberance and Godly flavour, elated to the Heavens,
before me in supreme royal robes of purple hue,
winged creature, his lustrous mass across the sky did rise and dance,
my eyes deceived, my senses dissolved,
and I, at the fruit that lit the night did gaze, was to partake enticed,
to Goddess state from earthly being hauled.
Cunning winged shapeless spirit to my longing lips
did press the perfect fruit and I, Eve, to taste desired,
within the core the holy spirit, but alas! the bite succeed did not.
His dark materials my soul did steal,
and to the heavens sent me soar, yet as upon the lesser world
below my eyes I set, my Godly feet in earthly blankets wrapped,
He from my pedestal did pluck and drop, and I, small,
a tiny flea before a mighty beast, in curious dawn awoke.
Boy
My boy is vast and can’t be reduced.
He will not be chiselled down or locked in a box of As and Bs and ‘aim to please’. Please who? Please you with your narrow sight that barely stretches beyond your nose. Are you an A? A what? So What?
In your brain, only A. Nothing beyond. Nothing more to say.
My boy’s brain has lots to say.
Look into him; look beyond your A frame. There is light born of a burning core, unique, powerful as the sun. It scorches you A seekers; blister and char.
Through long curved corridors of my boy’s mind, he surges, filling flourishing space, gathering momentum. A Tsunami of him.
Hallways of infinite possibility where endless doors emerge, one after the other, as sure as tick after tock. Tick, tock. Each door designed by notions, opening into rooms that stun. No two the same, gifts of him.
There are rooms without walls where arms stretched wide, you’d never reach him; some rooms floorless where you can fall deep into him; there are rooms where no roofs limit ascension- you can fly with him upward.
There are regal doors of solid oak and proud gold open into chambers of royal hues, rich tapestries line the walls telling his story, each blink of eye and breath of life.
My boy reigns in these rooms.
There are soft slipper rooms with walls of cashmere, dim lit, thick incense air. Cuddles and whispers and sighs. Cradled in arms and milky full.
There are rooms that buzz fast and loud; you can zoom with him at breakneck speed along ever-twisting tracks.
There are doors that open onto tranquil beaches, where free birds fly in unbreathed air; soft sand slips through fingers marrying the heart and earth, earth and heart.
Rooms with more doors and more doors with rooms.
Garden rooms with different blooms; spring rooms, of new beginnings; summer rooms of happy haze; autumn rooms of shedding leaves; and winter rooms where red breasts heat the chill.
Hope rooms full of feathers where joy invites you to sit at its table.
There are rooms tender as motherly touch; as sure as fatherly justice; accepting as sibling mercy.
Doors open into silence and music and colour. Colours not in the rainbow I know.
Beyond the doors, beyond the rooms, a world of him.
There are no As. A what? So what? My boy is vast outside your box.
King of him.
Stigmella Maya
Stigmella Maya, flutters by fire, a moth to a flame.
Time burns untold tale, born to die, a moth to a flame.
No mother’s milk or soothing tones nurture curious me
But the warm soup books, satisfy, this moth to a flame
Ceaselessly beating, worn out wings in a wordy wet wind
What chance for the unread? Futile try, a moth to a flame
My Father ordered me to write. So I wrote nothing.
And now I write to spite his ire, a moth to a flame
Am I the moth that beats relentless at the light shade?
Elusive truth, in my poems, a moth to a flame?
What am I without voice? A passing breeze, unnoticed.
Mute for this blank page. Write, my cry! A moth to a flame
Blind in lust, woozy daze of your promise of poems
Read me Donne, recite me high, a moth to a flame
As moon chases the heat of sun, my pen will scrawl the
words in me, until the ink runs dry, moth to flame
Spread on pages. Scalped bare, ogled, but written at last
Victorious, I defy, I am moth to a flame.
Pitiful Poison
Dark alleyways are where you lure, a moth to a flame
Piss stink crannies, making girls cry, a moth to a flame
Drumbeat pulses of pain, stab at the trembling insides
Bottle’s dregs draw sicko’s sad eye, a moth to a flame
Pallor of one not dead, yet. Yellow nails, won’t scrub clean.
What’s your poison, Black Lungs? Fag high, a moth to a flame
Shivering heart tremors in your sad body, gently
warmed by spirits, ruin disguised, a moth to a flame
You don’t sleep with me, your sorry heart a burst balloon
In dreams you kiss and terrify, a moth to a flame
Sweet juice of jam, ripe red, untasted, a perfect bait
but not yet set. Prey for your eyes, a moth to a flame
There’s no bogey man, snatching from the park. Just your charm
Flattery grooms. Venus traps the fly, moth to a flame.
Black lungs, dreg man, soiled and sick. You’re dead now, anyway.
Victress I, did not comply. You the moth, I the flame.
@ VICTORIA LOTHIAN