Unwelcome

We are unwelcome in the back-water of daguerreotypes
where the foxes hold their own
            (as we must do)
peated under thick mud burrows
the raven-song of May and June,

but autumn holds with no alterations
the brushwoods bend with gold and beechwood
            – the plated faces of tawny owls
under a moon I inhumed long ago
            in a cup under the stairs, mostly

unwelcome: same as loves’ soft laughter
were we spout ourselves wholly selfless in the spring,
where the white foals in
            their clumsy baying match the burr of blueish water,

and not unlike our hexed state of mind,
            a for-get-me-not moment in the corner
when thoughts astound our pin-prick heads
            and in baldness flows the light of questions.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Posted for dVersepoets “Open Link Night 32″

For a Mother Who Doesn’t Sleep

       for Mum

Unlasting, the same as
the creases in a sleeve,
a here today-gone-tomorrow-type
action.
Almost baffling;
the amount of shell-worn
trowels and pincers you’ve
stuck into the earth
at godless hours,
the salted water
and lasting smiles
with two dogs
in the corner.
The breaking of morning,
the creeps it takes:
first the leaves
of the hazelnut tree,
then the whitish path
where it curves like tallow,
sneaking up
on the bathing bird
in the centre of it all.
Stopping to tap its
finger
on the side of
your temple,
almost gone now,
a soft yet finite
incognito.
Unlasting, the same as
the creases in a sleeve,
the bird is gone,
but chased by the sun
and the wafts of
wind over
the gangrels
of grass –
steeped and steady
he leaves the water
sonorously,
and then there was you –

© Eve Redwater 2012

Nosebleed

for my Headmistress

A feisty nose-rush of amber,
you caught me off guard: stuck
as I was between the gate and the
wall. A sudden implosion; what heart
wouldn’t shake, stirred hot by loose
capillaries? I lean over, as conductors
do. Their white batons’ swirling: a
voltage of serenades to please older ears.
Pinching, what alternative is left? I
implore to my school Headmistress.
The concern in her eyes, almost violet,
very kind, always ringed, always old.
She smelled of lavender, too; the way
of seniors that I’ve taken a liking to,
one none other than I can fully
understand. By the time my head met the sink,
she had already unclogged it. I took the time to
wince my eyes, pricked with ten salted tears.
Only ten. No more were allowed, she said:
the triumphant mark of bravery. Past the
Calla flowers and into her gold office.
More lavender swathed my irony head
as I took my place among the novels,
the Vivaldi she kept in a leather chest
beside her desk. Turning my now carrion
coloured mouth towards her, we smile.
The last smile before the graduation into
another life. One where I’d meet her, one
autumn afternoon in the bakery where I worked.
Did she remember? That time I replaced
her sweetish office musk with metal, and
tissue? Word has it, the winter took her,
blessedly old that year. Beautifully scented
with the beloved fauna
my body so desperately
tried to conceal.

© Eve Redwater 2012

The Sight of the Trees

What sight of the trees makes
me dream? The bare bones of winter:
their coppice leaves are dead and buried;
shoelaces thick with the grime and the
spittle of mulchen earth. Molten. Catching
strands of my hair in a belittling tug.
Twin white gloves stuck to the tips of
branches, where do you hail? I can but
whisper through now berry-reddened teeth.
You’ve made me more than oxblood,
more than the water – the sweat and the
sweetness. Trees of beauty, my comrades;
what hearts are stolen into pine-cones,
into bracken? The ferns are your fingers now
and they waft at my ankles, the cuffs of my jeans;
the blue, blue, blue of my exposed feet.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Eve Redwater, Taking Poetry to the Next Level!

Reblogged from The Captain's Blog!:

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Writing is a lost art form in my opinion, we’re a very visual society these day. By that, I mean that a 4 year old can look at a picture for a product and not only be able to tell you what it is but can sing the associate jingle. Words are the most powerful weapon in any arsenal; the pen is always mightier so to say. That being said, I write to preserve a skill. However, there are people who hold it to a much higher standard than I do; People who can use their inner arcane intelligence to change simple …

Captain Jace over at “The Captains Blog!” has so very, very, very kindly produced an article about me and my work! Words cannot express how wonderful this makes me feel, especially after these days of self-doubt! Thank you so, so much Captain! Please everyone, I’d love if you’d take a peek at his wonderful blog; there’s insight, mischief and giggles to be had with every post. He’s a real rising star!

The Paper Cutters

We had a penchant for trees,
the two of us, in younger days.
Filling paper cups with muddy
water, two vestal home-makers

Listening to the sky. Crushing
berries and leaves between
two rocks that likened marbled
floors, ones I saw and tripped upon

Long ago, when my feet were still
unsteady. I made our nest from
dented newspaper. Ones that told of
oncoming boons. Wars. Insecticide.

Making myself comfortable
in the crook of your arm. My dearest
sister. A partner in crime, if that were
even possible.

That tree was a hollowed brothel.
Where birds found mates in all their
numerousness. Where we found tiny
skeletal feet: two squirrels in their last

embrace. 'Such beauty in the throws of
death', you said, and cried for those
departed souls; while I mixed flowers,
grass and stones in the corner,

And blocked your wailing
	with the collar of my shirt.

© Eve Redwater 2012

I selected this post to be featured on my blog’s page at www.poetryblogs.org.

(Posted for Dversepoets “Open Link Night”)
I felt inspired by everyone’s kind words from my “Hello!” post, so thank you! This is for you!

Hello!

Dear blogging friends,

Hello, a bit of a different post today!

As prompted by Debra from Three Well Beings, I’ve been thinking that perhaps I should write a little more about myself recently, and that perhaps you might like to read more about me. So, ta dah! (*Jazz hands*)

To think that I’ve met so many wonderful, gifted people on WordPress, that constantly enlighten my day makes me eternally happy. I enjoy writing poetry so much, and never would have imagined I would make a blog to try and share my thoughts and work with you all.

But, I did. This blog started completely at random. It was an impulsive decision, much like the decision that caused me to start writing my story (I suppose you could call it a ‘novel’, but it’s still in its infancy.), but that’s just the way my mind works sometimes!

When it comes to my poetry, I feel honoured by all of your kind comments and thoughts, and your support genuinely helps me continue working.

But recently, I’ve felt uneasy about my work. While writing is a pleasurable exercise for me, my self-doubt has begun its uncomfortable creeping, thus I feel like my poetry is suffering somewhat.

The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore. — Vincent Van Gogh

I realise that when I first started, my poetry was indeed rubbish, I’ll wholeheartedly admit that! I look back at it and think: “Wow, really? You thought that was good enough?”. It kind of makes me laugh, though! Again, I wrote entirely on impulse. I didn’t think about the entire poetry writing process, I just let the words fall out of my head. Now, I try to be more careful whilst still maintaining that ‘random’ style of writing that is me. I know that I’ve improved since I started blogging, but now I feel as though I’ve hit a glass ceiling; and I know for a fact its been put there by me.

I admire many successful poets, but feel frustrated whenever I compare myself to their work. Which is understandable. However, that feeling drives me forward to write better material. It’s just when I realise that even then my work is under par, that I become frustrated. I blame that on my childish nature in part.

I simply do not wish to put my readers off. To have developed a following in the first place is more than I ever dreamed would happen. It really is a lovely thing so, from the heart, thank you everyone!

I know that my poetry is different. I’m not writing about unicorns and cupcakes, but, that’s just not my style. We all have a personal style don’t we? I suppose what I’m trying to say is: bare with me. Improving my writing will take time, I know that.

Sorry, everyone. This has turned into a “pour my heart out” piece; my apologies! I would however, love to hear your thoughts.

I want to make my writing better for all of you – and for myself.

All the best to you all, wherever you are in the world.
I hope to hear from you soon!

With love from my rambling mind,

Eve
xxx

As I usually add photographs to my posts, I thought I’d add this one. I took this at the Imperial Palace in Kyoto, Japan (京都御所, Kyōto Gosho) last autumn. I thought the colours were beautiful. Once autumn starts, nearly all the trees look like this.
© Eve Redwater 2012

Palatable Green

There was a ditch not far from home,
Where bird eggs rested broken and warm
Crackling under bicycle tires.
Hard, like juniper potpourri.
A fragrance that often liked my nose.
The mistake of biting one as a child.

The boy with the long blonde hair
Falls from his trusty steed:
A rusty blue Raleigh.
Scuffing a knee before the sunrise,
Picking shell-bits from his nostrils.
A most unwelcome invasion of privacy.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Prologue

There was a time
Where a door could be empty,
Just thin slats of colour
That stroked at the paper-boy.

With a Biro lid rattling
On one miner's shoulder,
We spent the short days
Like fat Roman emperors.
Ill-clad with gold.
And the sweat off our backs.

In one hand a meat,
The other a finger

I counted out zeros,
And leftover pie lids,
To a boy they called Lemon
Whose hands were like glass.

We used a letter opener
	To cut off his hair.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Familiar

It is hard to know what is innocent,
	and what is ominous.

The black cat with an eye no bigger than a penny.
A tap left running for days on end.
There is no such thing as ethical leather.

A woman of the church laughs behind her broom
secretly,
as she spies the dog with three legs only.
His chequered coat is so very quaint,
as he hobbles like a lamb shank.

And days pass by that toy shop window,
With wooden tracks and paper dolls to excite the child.
I see bin lids rattle by the back door,
as the toy-train painter stumbles sheepishly.
	One loaf in his pocket.

Until the day he tips turpentine instead of milk,
into his morning coffee.

The glacé cherries the girl eats straight from the jar;
unaware of her mother returning home.
	Laughing at her hands
In nothing but a coat.
She rolls marzipan on a plastic table.

The playing cards I burned in my room.
But was too afraid to show anyone.

© Eve Redwater 2012