Peel me like a grape.
Expose my flesh, split me in two.
Take me in your mouth.
Tongue and taste
my sticky sweetness.
Find the seed,
that precious knot at the heart of me . . .
Showing posts with label Scribblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scribblings. Show all posts
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Kirsten Dewar
Words. Roll them on your tongue. Swirl them around your mouth. Breathe them in. Taste them: the rich vibrant golds and greens, the colours of jealousy and fealty; the yellows, friendship distilled, bottled sunshine; the seething, vengeful reds; passionate plum; the shy and retiring grays. Pause. Close your eyes. Study the pictures on the inside of your lids. Look at them closely. Do they whisper, and nudge and call out to be spoken? Consider their sound. Tease out each each syllable. Do the nerves grate? Can you feel the muscles in your back tense? Check your hands. Are they cold and clammy? Hot and sudoriferous? Are your palms open wide, or fisted balls? Would these words tease, tempt, tantalise, sending a frisson of what could only be sheer delight down the receiver’s spine? Or are they sharp, jagged, meant to hurt and harm? Are they royal orchid, or common garden variety? Were they nurtured in love, or deceit? Can they, should they live an existence independent of their speaker? Remember: words once spoken, cannot be recalled. Finally, having considered all these things, exhale: breath them into life. Speak. Give them voice.
(c) 2008 all rights reserved.
(c) 2008 all rights reserved.
Kirsten Dewar
When you think of love, what comes to mind? A feather? Butterfly kisses? A colour? A scent? A particular person or place? A particular time, or season? A particular song?
To me love is a composite of all of these things, and more, an ever shifting, multi-faceted kaleidoscope, of light, and sound, and taste and feel. The smell of the earth after the spring rains. The blue of the sky on a cold Highveld morning. The sun reflecting off of an azure blue sea. A fiery sunset. A baby’s gurgle. A nightingale’s song. Puppy’s breath. Baking bread. A field of wild flowers. A daisy chain. The crisp, freshly minted smell trapped between the pages of a new book. The silences between the tick and the tock of the clock. The spaces between words. Jasmine in bloom. The green of water hyacinth. Snow. The way a genuine heartfelt smile reflects not only on the mouth, but in the eyes. Ice. Chilli. Feeling full, like there’s a ribbon, a river, a rainbow of colour and light waiting to escape from inside you. Happiness so vast, it’s more than your heart can hold. The sound of children laughing. The way your heart skips a beat when he says your name. How soft it sounds in his mouth. The heat and glow from a banked fire. Humility. Respect. Camaraderie. Rose petals scattered by a summer breeze. Crosses carried, burdens shared. A kitten’s purr. The whisper and sigh of the wind. The rasp of his stubble on your cheek. Cocoa beans. Marshmallows roasted on an open log fire. Kisses stolen. Kisses freely given. Ballet shoes. How, when he laces his fingers through yours, you can’t tell where he ends, and you begin. The lace trimming on a wedding dress. Old sepia photographs, taken long ago. Loyalty. The clamour of passion, the roar of blood through the veins, hunger, release. Friendship. The tremulous sparrow beat of his heart against your chest. Seeing a man’s eyes fill with tears on his granddaughter’s wedding day, because she reminds him of the bride he married fifty years before. A scattering of stars, nestled in velvet. Devotion, unceasing, unrelenting. Unconditional acceptance. Old love letters, carefully preserved, tied with a scarlet satin bow. Secret places. The knowledge that here, you belong. The smell of his scent on your skin. The oh so familiar contours left by his head, on your pillow. Comfortable silences. The whispered refrains of love.
There’s so much more to love than just a red heart.
(c) 2008 all rights reserved.
To me love is a composite of all of these things, and more, an ever shifting, multi-faceted kaleidoscope, of light, and sound, and taste and feel. The smell of the earth after the spring rains. The blue of the sky on a cold Highveld morning. The sun reflecting off of an azure blue sea. A fiery sunset. A baby’s gurgle. A nightingale’s song. Puppy’s breath. Baking bread. A field of wild flowers. A daisy chain. The crisp, freshly minted smell trapped between the pages of a new book. The silences between the tick and the tock of the clock. The spaces between words. Jasmine in bloom. The green of water hyacinth. Snow. The way a genuine heartfelt smile reflects not only on the mouth, but in the eyes. Ice. Chilli. Feeling full, like there’s a ribbon, a river, a rainbow of colour and light waiting to escape from inside you. Happiness so vast, it’s more than your heart can hold. The sound of children laughing. The way your heart skips a beat when he says your name. How soft it sounds in his mouth. The heat and glow from a banked fire. Humility. Respect. Camaraderie. Rose petals scattered by a summer breeze. Crosses carried, burdens shared. A kitten’s purr. The whisper and sigh of the wind. The rasp of his stubble on your cheek. Cocoa beans. Marshmallows roasted on an open log fire. Kisses stolen. Kisses freely given. Ballet shoes. How, when he laces his fingers through yours, you can’t tell where he ends, and you begin. The lace trimming on a wedding dress. Old sepia photographs, taken long ago. Loyalty. The clamour of passion, the roar of blood through the veins, hunger, release. Friendship. The tremulous sparrow beat of his heart against your chest. Seeing a man’s eyes fill with tears on his granddaughter’s wedding day, because she reminds him of the bride he married fifty years before. A scattering of stars, nestled in velvet. Devotion, unceasing, unrelenting. Unconditional acceptance. Old love letters, carefully preserved, tied with a scarlet satin bow. Secret places. The knowledge that here, you belong. The smell of his scent on your skin. The oh so familiar contours left by his head, on your pillow. Comfortable silences. The whispered refrains of love.
There’s so much more to love than just a red heart.
(c) 2008 all rights reserved.
Kirsten Dewar
Farthing Wood
Quilled hirsuteness,
hard, spiky, brown.
Solitary, nocturnal, pin cushion
barbed, bristling ball at sudden sound.
Hedge-grown, caliginous rodent,
bashful, and bowed.
Soft, silken centre,
Nature’s mohawk, avowed.
Quilled hirsuteness,
hard, spiky, brown.
Solitary, nocturnal, pin cushion
barbed, bristling ball at sudden sound.
Hedge-grown, caliginous rodent,
bashful, and bowed.
Soft, silken centre,
Nature’s mohawk, avowed.
Kirsten Dewar
The grapes of wrath [bitter, acrimonious]
do a poisoned chalice infuse.
Malicious magenta orbs, crushed and whole-heartedly consumed:
zealous testimony: our foe’s destruction, assumed.
Kirsten Dewar
do a poisoned chalice infuse.
Malicious magenta orbs, crushed and whole-heartedly consumed:
zealous testimony: our foe’s destruction, assumed.
Kirsten Dewar
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