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.
Saturday, 9 October 2010
Monday, 4 October 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
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
Wednesday, 15 September 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
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
Sunday, 29 August 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
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
Saturday, 28 August 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
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
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
Thursday, 19 August 2010
What do you think?
Inspired by the fantastic works of Antony Gormley - (in specific the sculpture called 'three thoughts'), I created my latest offering in ode to the genius that he is.
What do you think?
What’s in a thought and how is it free -
do our visions confine how you and I see?
A bubble of air or a strand of your soul;
an imprinted record in the rings of your bones?
Should they fly, could you catch them – and tie them to stone;
then be judged on intentions of actions untold?
If thoughts were a colour, what hue would they be;
are pessimists blue and optimists green?
To consider iniquity, does it make you bad;
or add to your virtue when you fail to act?
When a thought turns to memory,
where does it go?
There’s one thing for sure:
nobody knows.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
What do you think?
What’s in a thought and how is it free -
do our visions confine how you and I see?
A bubble of air or a strand of your soul;
an imprinted record in the rings of your bones?
Should they fly, could you catch them – and tie them to stone;
then be judged on intentions of actions untold?
If thoughts were a colour, what hue would they be;
are pessimists blue and optimists green?
To consider iniquity, does it make you bad;
or add to your virtue when you fail to act?
When a thought turns to memory,
where does it go?
There’s one thing for sure:
nobody knows.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010
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