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

New Eyes

Son, you take
this dusty bowl
to the autumn
hospital bed

let the nurses fill
with ragged bones
and stitches cut 
from chirping birds

their legs a pin
stuck into cork
the note attached
a referendum

of better days
when I was young
and had eyes 
that were my own

© 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

Grey

What makes the toilet paper damp?
I wonder, as I break a piece to wipe his mouth.
Propped up in bed, 
He's a vision in cloth and corduroy
on better days.
The plump white rolls sit on the radiator.
Steaming like soft chimneys. 

Ten years ago, 
he could have bared it.
Today, with hands in knots, 
it's not so easy
when he speaks in garbles,
and the froth of spit
sometimes
graces a shoulder.
Well-wishers remain concerned, while wiping with a handkerchief
a little bit
disgusted.
But, they persevere. 
Because, 
his words are not of lighter days,
or times he climbed a plastic slide,
likely at the age of thirty
just to reach his lover's 
lost stiletto.
Maybe,
he's forgotten?
I wonder as I sit with him
in his paper room
of paper lamps.

The world at his pajama feet.
Enjoying pillow's cold too much.
Now, he has all the grace of a merry Merman;
when the lampshade spots the ghosts
that sit under his eyelids.
And he winces,
when there's a weight placed lightly atop his head;
thinking it's some shoddy helmet,
from who knows where, 
or "what’s-his-name".

Though he has the knack
for soup and bread,
sometimes, the spoon 
akin to soap,
the lavender one he so despises,
shakes him loose
and makes me mop him. But,
Today I thought,
I'll hold his hand. 
When eating,
Sleeping,
Maybe tomorrow
but-
you never know.
Actually,

I never did.

Outside, there is a dove.
Its grey reminds me of his hair.

© 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

A Loss of Five

There are two
Who bend the river,
One with a crooked shoulder.

The other,
With two carcass feet,
The sinew stitched
From left to right

Drags what he can,
Back and forth
From placid minnow water.

Between the hut,
Absinthal cold
Clings to fur around
Their ears,

The thud as axe
Swings quickly past.

Unknown, the wind is
Chilled above.
All noses
Past the point of caring;

A foal kicks shivers
Down wet flanks,
While mother feeds a hungry
Four.

One's leathered hand
Misses the chill– 
A space
That lost its unity;

A vow that tumbles down the river,
A digit caught in winter's melt.

Its arctic shell that's
Sinking, sinking– 
Bobbing
Like a spiny cone.
 
One that's
Broken. 
	
       Cold. 
             
             And fat.

© Eve Redwater 2012

On His Way to Bitter Work

Too many fingers tug his satchel
On his way to bitter work
One where leather gloves 
May not be quite thick enough

To the pits and endless mounds
Of lavish bodies ones where teeth
Are all ready flat
And torches bare no comfort

Hauling them to barracks
Or even boggy trenches 
Watching as their skin slides off
Into the other side

In his hand only a penny
One he stole from empty pockets
And shoes that barely fit him
As his toes stick out like lamps

© Eve Redwater 2012

No Answer

Your impish, oily, freckled faces
were bright that night on Milton Road.
Where you made the cats claw doors
in a careless wailing stupor,

Of fear. Yes, the men in camper vans
rode in like the silvery knights, just
like the silver-fish that eat the floor-
the ones that chew and reproduce,

The parasites. The one's where society
has no qualms, decisions, answers;
and they sit in their bleak evenings: a 
little turret, waiting for anything,

To break down barriers. Like the doors,
Large holes in walls are not enough. 
Not large enough to house a bird, 
with sticks and bones instead of tongues, 
but, in their nests their children pinned,

Down are my legs and long arms kept. Where 
road and rocks they turned to flint, as the
morning siren soared. But by my sides, my arms 
stood still.

Nor did the 

Neighbours wail.

© copyright Eve Redwater 2012