It’s the first day of autumn, and last night there was a harvest moon. That makes me think I should be posting some poetry, but I can’t find anything particularly suitable.
Still, the weather really is quite autumnal today, and if it stays this way, it wouldn’t surprise me if the swallows started gathering early for migration. I’ve had telephone wires and communications on my mind a lot recently, so maybe this will fit the bill:
Continue reading “autumn”
in the glass beside the sink
my toothbrush
kisses yours
Having come across the above snippet in an old notebook, I was reminded of a definition of true love.
I couldn’t quite remember it, though, and it’s taken me nearly an hour to track it down; it wasn’t Shaw, as I had thought, but Somerset Maugham, in The Constant Wife.
Maugham’s works are presumably still in copyright, so not so easy to find on-line, and although I have the complete short stories and a couple of novels, I don’t have the plays. Finally, though, I have found the piece I was looking for.
Continue reading “of love and toothbrushes”
He comes to her at dawn,
sweet-nothings her awake
as he nuzzles past her ear,
whispering his desire, telling
how her sweat draws him, how
he would risk his life to serenade her,
to tangle through her hair and kiss
the smooth curve of her neck.
I’m not exactly bubbling over with new ideas at the moment, so I’m looking back over old notebooks and reviewing pieces that I never thought sufficiently polished to submit for comment and critique, let alone for publication. So this is still a draft, but it amuses me, as does the idea of writing a poem to a mosquito. Of course, if you’ve interpreted it as meaning something different, that’s your prerogative as reader.
We may not be growing such good grapes as the previous house owner did, but the pears this year are magnificent.
Writing the post title – and remembering that this blog was originally intended to include poetry as well as random thoughts – I was reminded of Dorothy Parker’s One Perfect Rose.
Over the years, I’ve received my fair share of bouquets of flowers – though never (yet), I think, long-stemmed red roses – so I, too, wonder why no one ever thought to give me “one perfect limousine”.
Continue reading “a perfect pear”
The Matins bell sounds honey-clear
across still valley air. It chimes
outside my window where
a carillon of grapes calls
to the rising sun.
The photo is actually from the year we moved to the village – the previous owner was assiduous in his use of pesticides and chemicals, so the fruit that autum was far more photogenic than what we produce.
The words are not recent, either, but I’m hoping that now the summer is effectively over, and I am ready to settle down at my desk with fewer distractions, visits and visitors, I may be able to find space again for poetry.
don't confuse the narrator 