Still blighted by writers block, I've decided to share some of my pics captured during my search for inspiration. Not my usual update, but pretty nonetheless. Enjoy!

One of Gormley's finest, suspended in mid-air
Manchester Art Gallery













Pretty pink petals
Tropical World, Roundhay Park

          Ten of my five a day :)
               Before & after

Birdhouse... Snapped at a distance due to my fear of pigeons!
York Maze

A burst of orange
Tropical World, Roundhay Park. 

Fabulous exhibit
Manchester Art Gallery

One day

Well hello :) It seems June escaped without a single posting. I hope my unintentional absence wasn't noticed...!

I sat down with grand plans to write a poem about Icarus and this next post appeared... I'm not quite sure what happened along the way, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.


One day


One day I’ll press a paper heart
And place it in a small gift box
So you have something to look back on
And know you were loved…
A lot.
I’ll squeeze in all the memories
And dry out all the fears
Just so you can hold the paper heart…
But don’t revive it with your tears
Or one day you’ll feel that fragile heart
And notice all the cracks
Then watch it crumble to confetti
And realise time cannot turn back.


© Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

Respect for the roses

Quite often when I sit and write, I don't know where my inspiration comes from. This latest one however follows the trend I seem to be developing for linking life, nature and the environment. I hope you enjoy.


Respect for the roses

When she speaks, petals burst from her
to fill the air;
Raspberry wisps that curl and float,
and with a shower of softness, rest
upon those dear to her.
Her hums help to shake the cloud
in to a blanket of delicate armour
that crisps, and protects
when exposed to sun. Every perfumed breath
an encouragement –
to step out of the shadow,
and dodge the thorns.
As they grow and shed the brittle flakes
of love, the shards – that are ground into dust
under their feet – nourish the buds that now spring from them,
and heaps delight
unto the Rose that borne them.


(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

Sewn

As usual, anything that catches my eye usually inspires me to write… Though I have gone off on a tiny little tangent!


Sewn

We each have a ragdoll;
a tiny little clone,
patched from our experiences,
stitched with colours of our hopes.

Mine is sitting quietly on a dusty, comfy chair,
between pink ink and paper,
with eyes of blue glass-buttons
and cherry-yarn bunched hair.

My seams are yet unfinished,
large stuffing-tufts on show,
as for little bows of happiness –
they wait patiently in row.

Some stitches are imperfect,
some material threadbare,
my fabric skin not peppered near-enough
with yellow darned here or there.

So, if your doll is tinged with purple,
or a little bluish-green,
leave your model in the sun
and fade until unseen.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

Still

Still

I carry it with me.
It’s dog-eared and tea stained, but always with me.
Though, it’s faded by sun as I cannot bear for it to be starved of light;
As you.
The muted colours still dance on the paper and kindle its silhouette into my eyes;
As you, in life.
When some days it stays hidden in the shadows, I know it’s there; scratching around with crumbs and an old button for company in the confines of my purse.
Those are the days I’m most sad.
When remiss, I lose the chance to say ‘Hello’, and find only my regret at 'Goodbye'.
That’s when I lose it again.
And find paper kisses no longer revive its breath;
As you.
It’s still with me, until I can bear to share it with others, in a frame on the hearth;
As we did, in life:
For the ones we loved.


(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

Nothing's in its place

Sometimes, when my eyes sting,
I see most clearly
When shadows shift and bring the day,
My choices,
lit in gloried sunshine,
But why is nothing in its place?
The stars were charted,
(childhood wisdom)
By certain times;
specific dates,
My outcome,
plotted; predetermined,
So why is nothing in its place?
Fulfilment's just around the corner,
I'm just one step away from grace,
My checklist,
blank;
to be filled in,
And that's why nothing's in its place.


(c) copyright Jane Edwards 2011

The Ghost Trees

I came across this interesting Daily Mail article yesterday: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1370181/Millions-spiders-crawled-trees-creepy-effect-Pakistan-floods.html

It describes a phenomenon I've never seen before, and even though slightly freaky (I would not like to be sat under that tree) it amazed me and inspired the following words. But, however inspiring, I recognise that my inspiration is as a result of some of the worst floods in eighty years and serves a timely reminder (at the end of climate week) that any change I can make which reduces the impact I have on the environment is worthwhile.

The ghost trees

Grey candy stands, resolute;
a webbed-ode
to survival. Spun-salvation,
pulsing...
breathing...
contracting, with life.
Leaves, host to a silken jacket
- warmed against standing water –
chilling,
to the eye. Vibrations;
a silent knell to the perpetrators
of disease. Synchronised spinnerets
dancing,
to bring life, to
The Ghost Trees.

(c) Poem copyright, Jane Edwards 2011

The dancer

For some reason (maybe watching one too many BBC adaptations over recent months) I have early 1900's Tess of the D'urberville-esque characters tootling around in my head. Maybe it's the simplicity of 20th century life I crave, maybe it's just subliminal influencing... Either way, give them a warm welcome :)

The dancer

Somewhere in-between those strings
and dancing fingers,
that melody was made;
as she moved slowly – in his shadow –
he closed his eyes and played.
Dressed in lace, and floating cotton,
she drummed bare feet upon the glades;
her rhythmic, warm and kindly welcome,
to the dusk at end of day.
But when his loving tune of tribute
sends dehydrated tears along her face,
then he hums,
a thousand heart-string memories,
and remembers dancing days.


(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

Synthetic synthesis

Yoohoo... I'm back!

This latest offering has been rattling around in my head since November. It started out as lines 5 & 6 and remained that way until today. Not frustrating in the slightest! Enjoy :)


Synthetic synthesis

Fibre-optic strands of blonde,
ribbon tied and helix-long,
dust-pink cheeks of innocence,
and velveteen unease.
Whispers unconditional,
of love, and sugared vitriol,
with petals blue, her blood runs cold;
and smile contrived; diseased.
Cardice stem of shattered green,
on scattered silk looks so obscene,
a reflection’s rarely what it seems:
my perfect English Rose.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

Expensive

Searching for ‘Ink Champagne’ on Google (or other such delightful search engine) will bring up a number of results. Mainly, it asks: ‘did you mean to search for Pink Champagne?’ And, if the answer to that is ‘yes,’ then I wouldn’t blame you – I’m quite partial to a few bubbles myself! But another popular search returned, is: ‘Ink more expensive than Champagne.’

All that led me here: 45 million ink cartridges hit UK landfill every year… 45 million in the UK alone! (I thank http://www.cartridgeworld.co.uk/ for that stat.)

This reminded me about the WEEE Man. Over 7m tall and built from 3.3 tonnes of electrical waste that an average person produces in a lifetime, I want to go and see him some day. For the time being I visit him here: http://weeeman.org/ or on Google images to remind myself I am a consumer and, like it or not, I’m nurturing one of these babies of my own.

Intro over… Here it is:


Expensive

Why are we building giant robots?
over seven metres high!
An electronic, silent army,
being assembled out of sight

How can we create monsters?
who feast on Mother Earth
And in payment for her sweetness:
we plant our metal seeds in dirt

When they rise up from the ashes
those piles of rust and solder might
Just stand and watch us from the shadows;
soldiers blocking out the light

Who calls time on all this madness?
Three tonnes turns so quickly into four...
Our ‘disposable’ generation
can surely take no more


(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

Armistice

Every year; humbled.

Armistice

Viscid in dreadful sentiment,
with badges tacked upon his sleeve
Medals fixed unto his breast,
through history books we grieve

Though history’s not forgotten;
time, no opiate for pain
Our eyes may not have witnessed,
but we do not take in vain

To those we owe our freedom;
those now, and long since gone,
I’ll pin, with pride, my poppy,
at the setting of the sun.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

Thank you

‘Thank you’ is a simple phrase
But to me it means so much
I want to let you know right now
Your kindness left me touched

Take this as a token
I’m sending this to say
‘Thank you’ seems so simple
When you really made my day!

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

Twitter

It’s amazing what a 10 minute free-write can produce!

Now the pumpkin pie is mouldy,
and the toffee apple’s burnt,
November nights are drawing in without the fireworks

December days are nearly here;
and with them bringing festive cheer –
a reminder that another year, will soon be on its way

So 2010 is nearly done; eleven, not-quite yet begun,
this year I wrote lots; just for fun,
and created my own page

If you like the things I write, regularly read, or peruse my site
Share the link with friends-alike;
I ‘Tweet’ as Ink_Champagne

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

This city

I challenged myself to write a poem which illustrates a juxtaposition. It's slept easily and lay dormant for far too long in this PC, so here it is:

This city

He walks tall but stands unnoticed;
sadness pulses in his veins,
then the rain falls from the heavens, and he’s
homeward bound again

Lights shine bright and unforgiving,
illumined glitz absorbed by night
casts deep shadows on the busy;
our city sleeps tonight

His attractive face once jaunty
is now painted slick with pain,
he sits sheltered in a doorway, and he’s
homeward bound again

Metal bones and sleek glass towers
house cosmopolitan delights,
within the heart of human hubbub;
our city dreams tonight

He rests at feet of strangers; and waits
to see the day that it’s not concrete
for his pillow, and he’s
homeward bound again

For now the two are allied;
like our moon is linked to sun,
yet it's not fated like the stars are;
you can help to break that bond

So if ‘homeward bound,’ to you, means one thing,
and you want to close your eyes,
they'll still be there in the morning...
sleep well; sweet dreams, good night.

(c) Jane Edwards 2010

Quote, un-quote

Francis Xavier's quote: Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man, got me thinking. As a result, here's my latest offering.


Quote, un-quote

She scratched the quill across his face,
each stroke an invisible tattoo, meticulously
layered, to reveal
a watery reflection.
Yet even when the feather stops moving, the words continue
to curl and knot into his flesh, like bindweed;
roots of black ink creep, as ivy,
around his bones.
They continue to stretch and twist, unceasing,
until compacted, then overflow and snap to release an
alphabet of iron filings which tumble,
for others to breathe in, and commit to memory.
His etched young carbons compressed into being;
ready designed to view the world, with an early choice:
thrash those weeds with a sickle, or let the ink
flow freely through his veins.


Poem copyright (c) Jane Edwards 2010.

Woldgate woods

Inspired by the series of paintings by a certain David Hockney, this one's for you Denise!! :)

Woldgate woods


The fire-trees stand tall and bony,
shedding redding-autumn leaves
crying crispy tears of crimson
to knit a blanket at their feet

How they hate this change of season,
yet know it's only just begun
though now lonely, pull together,
and pray silently for sun

More ligneous than luscious; a foliage reprieve
until the first few buds of spring offer chance to shoot new leaves
then the fire-trees are happy
when they know they'll once again stand green

Copyright (c) Jane Edwards 2010

Penny for your thoughts

'Penny for your thoughts,' he says, face shadowed,
but I discern a glint.
The pomp faded some thirty years before, and now
he sits; legs covered with itchy crocheted patches - days spent counting
the raindrops.
My mouth pulls towards my taut left cheek as I search-
for words. There are none, so my shoulders rise, and fall,
in answer.
Gifted raconteur, he disturbs torpid air with sing-song tales of his
wife and an enchanting account of my childhood. A priceless treasure,
overlooked and nestled between the other discarded;
brittle with wisdom and accustom to the ephemeral acceptance
which is youth.
I'm still learning; apologetic that I didn't
graciously accept that penny when offered the chance.
I would be richer for it.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

Recollection

Full of creepy bugs and covered in moss,
I knew it even then; with infant eyes:
when it rained, the algae would turn my clothes green
and mother crimson.
On summers days it scratched my legs as I made daisy chains
and served as a goalpost with its jacket-buddy;
a timeless hero to the generations.
I wonder if that log knew how much it was loved –
incorporated; a childhood hub.
Had it known it would be severed from its roots;
removed from its coppice family – status downgraded from tree to log –
would it have volunteered its fate?
Knowing that one day
it would jog just one child’s memory
and make that child smile.
I hope so.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

Kick the can (haiku)

Someone will pick it up soon, surely? Though it has proved an unintended muse!

Aluminium skin:
noisy tumbleweed -
chivvied by brazen currents.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

La luna

I've been moongazing tonight. This is what I saw.

La luna

Our moon is bright tonight;
through whispers of clouds, it bathes,
makes darkness heavy and eyes sparkle
casts spell on serenity and bustle without bias
and as crescents of chalky water gently lap:
illumines us equally, though we are distant

That’s why I love you, Brother of Sun.

Our moon is bright tonight;
a cosmic sentry, trusted to remain when the Neon’s and Argon’s fade,
purified chills soothe scorched earth
icon of romance,
you join us when we are apart:
a lunar reminder

And that’s why I love you.


(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010