I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world, to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')
Some of these poems are autobiographical, some are entirely fictional, and some are a mixture of both. The intention is art rather than self-expression. I don't allow factual details to get in the way of poetry! (I do seek emotional truth.)
They are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here.
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your posts as much as possible.
I am panther, sleek blue-black, shinier than a blackbird’s
wing, more jet than a jungle night without a moon. I am deep in the jungle today, in a thicket of green hung
with vines, so the light itself is green, as if I am underwater. I know about underwater: sometimes I
romp and splash in hidden jungle pools; their light is also green.
Blue lipstick froths on her lips, pours from the
tube all zingy like champagne. She
loves applying it in front of her mirror, feeling the tang, the wetness, seeing
the strange colour paint all her face in its difference — her eyes purple, her
cheeks mauve, her hair faint green in the light — all in relation to the glow
from her thickly-blued lips.
looking for my dinner, and a mate.
Dinner is more urgent just now.
I leap through my thicket, listening for possibilities. My ears twitch and swivel to all
directions. I am alive to the
sounds of my home forest; I know it for miles by sound and smell — can detect
both the beautifully familiar and the tiniest alteration.
She wonders if the unusual texture is to do with
the dye, and why this lipstick is so unlike others from more conventional
sources. This colour is ALL blue,
not just red with a blueish tinge.
She loves to encrust her mouth with it, layers of frothy blue on frothy
blue until it looks matted, indelible.
an old bullock tethered right at the edge of the jungle, east of here; I catch
the scent on the wind. At once I
know everything about this beast.
It belongs to a poor farmer who is trying to find extra grazing land
there on the dangerous edge of the jungle. It is fat enough to make a meal, but weak and slow, which is
all the better for me.
She runs her fingers through her hair to spike it,
and puts on huge loop earrings of an alloy that looks like heavy metal. She drapes a fishnet stocking over her
hand, stares a moment, then tosses it back on the bed. Tonight she will leave her legs bare. High on her thigh, just below the hem
of her black satin skirt, is tattooed a tiny mouth — a laughing mouth, lips
parted, showing teeth.
of the jungle — the border where
two worlds meet — is dangerous to
those of either world. The danger
is in the encounter with the other side.
For me, there is risk in getting this easy meal. It may bring men into my green thicket
after me, with guns. For the
farmer and his beast, I am the danger.
I might kill the beast. Also,
I might kill the man. I sneak
nearer. I am panther, hungry
panther, choosing my game.