We

		We,
creatures of mimicry –
the gatherers of forked leaves, cherry blossoms
	stowed warm in your purse;
the rain bicycle – not cycle – but bicycle:
one we ride home, all “gung-ho”, better
	in a thunderstorm

		So,
instead of talking to we,
we, talk mostly, to the trees.
Or,
	the blush-hop of a robin
(splinters for tea) and, sometimes,
the rat-tat-tat of light as
		it flashes through iron
				fences
On Sundays,
	as the crowds line up, we,
well-wishers, used lovers of 
		Yggdrasil;
ticket buyers
terracotta sticking-plaster hoarders
newspaper wrapping
plastic perfume bottle top burning
			“We”

bury thumbs in jam pots
	honey bee hotels
		swallow-throats,
and
	sometimes
	the odd cactus flower

			Followers of
anything called
		house
		home

Until we, replace "I"
	with
coat-tails
	rock-graves,
the crawling on all fours until we find 
	something
		
	“finer”.

© Eve Redwater 2012

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

Fishtank

A tepid nose pressed on the glass,
the fishtanks' in which marbled golds and putrice swim
surrounding the tossed gold coins in whirlwind movements;
I liken myself, akin to those fish:
with their glassy eyes and ink pot irises
that would drown your soulless pen and ink nibs whole.

				Ten hands stuck to the bottom,
each with a ring upon their wavering fingers,
questioning their worth at the nether edge of an elder soup;
where time sticks like oil to fire,
and all wretched earth and soil are turned to silt in the
silicone jaws...
	O amphibious beings,
take unto yourselves the obligation!
At the end of this day I am your Master,
where the flowers and the fats in your first name
are washed a away.
We become the ebony husks of someone else:
someone else’s hand I lost to your kind long ago,
one I cannot reach for the stench in my hair
thick, within its amorphous malodour.
		O lungs of mine, 
you swell with analgesics,
the salted water,

of a long forgotten dream.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Glove

Black glove left tenuously on the iron fence,
what hope have you for warmth again;
Begrudged by sniffing old dog noses
that reek of boiled bones' decay?

A little fingered friend you must have had.
Five digits in a balled up fist.
An alibi in several strikes
On sisters, even chalkboards.

Instinct tells me I should wait,
for its cold master to return.
Kneeling by the front gate now,
and whispering to the neighbours dog.
One gloved hand unclasps the collar;
her one blue finger points at me.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Library at Night

The pleasures of youth
sit back to back.
In a library of quiet.

Leafing through a worn-down Hamlet,
The faceless ones 
that return there nightly

in visitation. 
Sifting through the works unseen.
Their use of eyes are buried, gone.

The white haired twins,
their trapped annoyance.
They always miss the last bus home.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Hello everyone, just a quick update. Sorry this one took so long to post, I’ve been having a lot of trouble with my University funding recently, and it’s been a bit touch and go. For now, things seem indefinitely okay, so it’s just fingers crossed from now on. I’m a little out of practice writing, and I’m slowly working my way through responding to comments, so I’ll do my best to catch up this week. Thank you for all your support and comments! Eve x

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.

Read more… 872 more words

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!