Hope everyone had a happy solstice and Yule, and wishing you a very merry Christmas with everything beautiful for 2023! Here’s a little poem I wrote!
The sun has slipped below
the monarchy of the moon
its cool, harsh Winter glare
clings on, a moment longer
From here, the days have turned
The daylight stretches out its
icy respiration, Pagan gods
and goddesses scatter
blessings on the crackling
the sparking lanterns
lifting jovial voices into
balmy, freeze-breath skies.
We merrily turn our faces
upwards, praise the solstice
pray for hope reborn.
© Sarah Drury 2022
after John William Waterhouse
Be thou as chaste as ice: as pure as snow:
your purity a catechism.
Flowers grace your palms, in repose.
Get thee to a nunnery:
a virgin? Can we know?
Anoint your flame hair -
thou shalt not escape
calumny: your visage:
your chaste lips, a phantom kiss
cheeks smarted rose with denial.
The trees are vessels of your sorrow.
Ophelia, love is a dead Hawthorn.
Waterhouse, J.W. (1910) - Ophelia [Online] Available at: " https://arthive.com/johnwaterhouse/works/255253~Ophelia"
Shakespeare, W. - Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1 (Hamlet to Ophelia)
Today I could cook my breakfast
on the pavement, spitting there,
between the doc ends and
discarded cheap-lager cans. Save
on the energy bills, al fresco
cuisine – dine with the homeless. The
eggs would gaze up at me like that
woman’s breasts sweating in her
Lycra, skimpy top. The sun has
hit pasty limbs hanging from
cheap shorts, chests bared to
the air – Men thinking that is
what we women want to see, as
we point, and ponder unbaked
baguettes. 39 degrees and we
are pink cuts on a butcher’s slab.
My son is struggling at the moment with school anxiety. This is for him...
Another photo – kid in school uniform -
new ribbons in plaits doused in nit repellant
Smart hair £8 at the foreign barber’s in town
*Insert shop label* (elitist?)
*Insert school* (abbatoir?)
*Insert toothpaste brand* (fake toothy smile?)
I am not allowed to refer to *it* (school) - that hellhole
I am screamed down, sworn at; *it* demonised
*it* is not a quirky grin on your face when you get home
*it* is not a spring to your heels as you see the bus
*it* is not a babble of news about your day of learning
Maybe you will stream through the door
This morning, like the sun yawned til you woke
Maybe chirp, ‘love you, you loon’…
Put on your uniform, slick your hair
Guzzle pop-tarts for breakfast, cup of cha
Smile, ‘bye mum,’ as you hop on the bus
I missed you this weekend. I missed the feel of your pasty, doughy body curled up beside me on the crumpled sheets. Wetness between my legs, deluded dreams in my hoodwinked head. You, my inebriated trainwreck, breathing asthmatic whisky fumes, and stealing my innocence. My red lips had bled onto your cheek, seeking words, seeking I love you. But I don’t think you did.
I only wanted to see what was on the disc. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but when your father was a cheat, all men are manipulators. I am not a misandrist, but I know you have parked your car in many places. You disappeared, flew off to Dublin, left my bed cold and barren. Carelessly left this disc lying around, next to the single dirty plate beside the empty spirits glass, and the tear-stained tissue.
I didn’t know what to say, really. My tongue had cleaved to the roof of my mouth, and I felt nauseous. I don’t know why I was surprised. Fidelity was never your strongest virtue. A naked woman screamed out at me through the computer screen, poised like a seedy hooker, flesh spilling out from lacy bras and French knickers. I couldn’t hear her voice, but she was American, you said, and the silence of her dissonance screamed at me.
I am not inhibited or prudish, but I don’t want to feast my eyes on another woman’s genitals, I am not sleeping with the enemy. “Perfect pussy’ you said, and you may as well have shot arsenic arrows into my heart. You didn’t know the meaning of pain, as you never did hurt. You just went on collecting broken hearts in jars, and notches on the headboard above your bed. I still loved you.