Being watched

Image by Manon Bellet

Pleased to have this poem pubished recently by the lovely ekphrastic anthology Visual Verse (see links at bottom of this post)

Being watched

her chemise
lands in a whisper
        of silk on slate

clear shadows slant on the wall
where afternoon sun finds
       gaps in blinds

       she knows he watches
       so she spins

turns in a whirl
       of sun and shadows

dust motes drift
        her skirts swirl
              and fall

her hands snake in a rhythm
only she can feel

heat pricks her neck
       the blush of her knowing
       shows in her face

and sweat cools
       making a dampness
               on her back




http://visualverse.org/submissions/being-watched/


http://visualverse.org/about-visual-verse/

@visual_verse

The quickening

I love this time of year – when the darkest time is behind us and the days get lighter and longer.

At the end of January/beginning of February we are at the halfway point between the darkest days of the year and the spring equinox. This time is known as the quickening. February 1^st is also Brighed’s day and the first day of the Celtic spring. Brighed  is the Celtic patron of poets, bards, healers, creativity and fire. In this poem I mention some of the traditions associated with her and with this time of year.

The quickening

Hang sprigs of rowan

from the quickening tree,

decorate the doors;

bring branches of willow

to signal this time of change –

and of dreaming.

Collect leaves of blackberry to

attract prosperity and healing;

coltsfoot to move us

toward love and peace;

ginger to raise the fire within

and guide the serpent.

Snowdrops are her first gift of spring,

the lambs’ cry the first sound.

As blackthorn blooms

and the owl’s call fades,

now comes the quickening.

Welcome returning light,

this feast of torches.

Light the flames,

set every lamp, raise all the candles.

Brighed stands at the halfway.

Cloaked in white and silver

she shimmers like a flame on the bridge –

at the precise point between

the darkest day and equal night.

Patron of poets and Bards,

she brings the fire of creativity

and stirs the serpent’s energy.

Let her dismiss the darkness.

Breath

(January 1, 2017)

Up here on the hill, a north-easterly

with ice on its edges

                cuts through

all the way from the Arctic into my bones.

Cold bites in corners — there is no nibbling;

teeth go deep,

                clear sharp bites

sink into the core  to catch the breath.

A bitter sting in the face hardens shivers on skin,

pulls hairs on end as she hauls and thrusts

                her currents

through the layers of my body.

Fresh new air, the cool of new year air,

is driven into my lungs.

And old clouds of grey vapour

                disappear into distance.