From the Nose

This is the dawn.
                  dawn 
		Ƌɒʍɳ
		

	it is the dawn,
		garden, harden, pardon? Larvae, ᵂondering whether
						
	
				or not
			   as the case most usually, isn't or,


			is
			isn't	
				not

but, where or
		who
		who
			is 
there?
	
			garden gate
			penny, farthing
				gate, g(r)ategate	Ḕaten
		
	
		then a 
			me
				bee?

			In the nose
				from
		the nose

				no, nose 
					he knows
	
		
		

		

				better than me
				bee in me,

			
		could you
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 




	
	
						ssᴤstop?

© Eve Redwater 2012

[I wrote this for DVersepoets "Poetics: Nightmare Verse" - where we were charged with writing about a recent nightmare/nightmarish situation. It was a fun exercise! I based this of a recent dream I had: I tried a as-surreal-as-I-could composition; most of my dreams are as such! Can you spot the things hidden within it? I drew the bee picture (which you can click on for a larger preview) with some new software that I'm playing around with! I've also made a few changes around the site, too - what do you think?]

Harvard’s Bestiary

Blessed are the birchmarked trees and pilchard burn,
the brought-out batteries of packed sardines and mellow tails –
the beekeepers net, soft and wild. Linen, muslin; fabric-genius.

                                                                  The holders of honey.
The bees sough, graze flower tongues and meet their Queen,
clandestine sorceress in jail-break colour.
Take chance and mount the hill beside, the lofty light,
and watch as pen to diary makes: to tell what of leaves,
a brier of twigs and fox-foot-fossils left in mud.

© Eve Redwater 2012

[Hello everyone! I've written this poem as a kind of addendum to The Bees - a poetic partnership of sorts. This week has been eaten up by my dissertation, phew - I've got some catching up to do!]

The Better Loaf

Hot bread on the windowsill,
a round-out crumbling banquet
as the Sparrow, Goldfinch, Blue Tit
don their finest topcoats.
The white and the grey, the reflection of blue pools,
thought and patience.
Wholemeal, rye and blackburn,
tin-topped feet find a merry, merry, dawdle
between the breadth of the wood
and the microfiche pane.
The top of the beak, a fork:
akin to those we set sail at the dinner table –
(feet to the floor)
the bottom, a mother in the dark
with a spoon for deep feeding,
caters her loves in pinches soft as
peppercorn mouthfuls.
As adroit and grandeur as the threading of a needle,
pray, be her child and their child in the warm of next year.

© Eve Redwater 2012

[Inspired by some tiny, hopping, adorable visitors I had on my windowsill this morning. I've put out more bread, so let's hope they come back! (I'd like some pictures!)]
Posted for DVersepoets - get involved everyone!

The Dia of Gnosis

Somewhere in the back of my mind, 
comes the honey-bled answer of yes,
but not no.
	Waiting by the black forest gate,
without song or the speech of my elders
long gone
buried in the depth of wintry mud and clandestine of stars;
		paused with a chalk-mark I drew of the sun,
still there on the red brick of my life-long house.

Before we left and the curtains of memory were drawn.
After the doctor's appraisal
	that mind was enough
	that, 
		just as you are, I am no different.
			A sunk arm in a bedroom of boredom,
and here I still sit with the query of health.

Be it after a life 	long-lived in worry, 
or found beauty in the love of trees,
	the calmest of sights,
	wherein you know 
			that the sun will still rise in the morrow,
and money matters less
than a pen to paper,
a phone-call,
a stinging tinnitus of the ear when all in knowledge is known
			may I finally rest.

© Eve Redwater 2012
 

The Bees

Blessed are the flockmarked trees and bees made gold.
Indispensable bumbles, fluffs and fauna.

                                                                   Boysenberry,
Cranberry, tulle, Boysenberry, pawnbroker, penumbra. They scatter.
A fire above the blazing garden battle. Honeylove for a pout,
teacakes, Earls in Grey and flour white loaves. Caught at
the edge, the bee-sage makes a heavenly stout: pressed to lips,
a pleasant hum to make good the year and sun’s sweet sallow.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Today (21st March 2012) is World Poetry Day!

Eve’s Check-In: March

ello everyone, I hope this post finds you well!

Recently, I’ve been thinking that I should make some monthly, regular updates to check in with you all, see how you’re all doing, feeling, etc. and generally have a space for us all to have a natter and share a few smiles, so let me know what you think in the comment section below!

Since my last post, “Hello!”, where I voiced some personal concerns, I feel as though my poetry writing has taken another turn, and it’s certainly for the better. When I wrote “Hello!”, I was feeling a little put-out; I was lacking confidence and worrying a whole lot about meeting and exceeding my readers expectations. Now, things feel a little calmer; though that’s not to say I still remain — not so much anxious — but eager to make my writing better. I hope that comes across.

Everyone who follows this blog is special to me. Without you, I wouldn’t be writing the way I do, nor would I be as grateful as I am that I started writing again. Genuinely, thank you to you all for sticking with me, reading my work, and of course commenting. I read each and every one of your comments, and try my best to answer them all. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate them all, so thank you so much!

I was away for a few days last week because of university. I’m currently working on my dissertation, so things are really starting to get busy! I really missed posting, so I’m making sure to keep this blog up to date as I go. Writing poetry is an extremely relaxing and enjoyable process for me, and as a general rule, I try to write each day. I’d post every single day if I thought I wouldn’t bombard you, but I’ll do my best to refrain from overloading you all!

I’d also like to mention that I have decided to refrain from accepting any blog awards from now on. I am aware that some of you have awarded me some, (they’ve not gone unnoticed, thank you for thinking of me!) it’s just that for now I would like to concentrate on improving this blog as it stands. I really appreciate it, but please pass those nominations on to another well-deserving blogger!

“A poem is never finished, only abandoned.” – Paul Valery

Also, some lovely news regarding a publication. One of my much older poems named: “The Bell House” is going to be published in print via Forward Poetry in one of their poetry anthologies called: “The Clock Strikes Thirteen”. It will be distributed throughout libraries in the UK and Ireland soon! I wrote this poem at the beginning of my blog’s life, so I was extremely surprised (and ecstatic) to receive the news. To be honest, I think it’s one of my much weaker poems as I was just starting out. As such, I feel honoured that they’d even consider me, so to be published is absolutely fantastic. It’s an important first step for me, and perhaps it will help take my poetry that little bit further in the future. It’s the longest poem I’ve written so far, so I don’t expect you to read it all if you don’t want to! If you want to take a peek however, click the link and let me know what you think – I’d love to hear any and all of your thoughts about it as it never really had much exposure.

I think I’ll leave it there for now, but before I do, I would just like to say a big, big thank you to every single one of you for taking the time to read, rate, comment and subscribe to my poetry and blog. It means more to me than I can possibly express; you all keep me writing and I look forward to it each day. If you have any burning questions, thoughts, etc. you’d like to mention, please leave me a comment below! It’s always lovely chatting to you all.

Lets keep creative~

With love,

[Edit: As of 21/01/2012 I've updated my "About me." page, too! I hope it's a bit better!]

Anthropology

Does a runner see with his legs?
Two capillary sticks of all-purpose material
fit for exercise, ice-skating,
kicking moss-balls down a country road in the blur of winter.
Fit for a King of dancing, upright in doorways eating jam.
Going inside trees and kneading the knolls with the edge of your shins.
Blushful as you jitterbug across an ice-rink,
steaming from the top of your bald head were thoughts are more than alive.
Becoming a soaring back against the sky should you sprout three wings.
Two for flying,
one for catching mayflies, buzz-words as you head back down.
The rub-rub-rub of two thighs together,
like striking a fire between flint and Burdock.
Or, falling flat on your back,
you still wouldn’t know all there is to know.
Running with multi-coloured ribbons around your wrists,
a fox mask on,
a ceremonial sword,
smoke bellowing from your ears
beating down Alstroemeria,
beating it down,
down,
beat it down;
until you’re running
without duty to dress.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Back Then

It reminds me of a summer day in June.
Cats caterwauling, one ginger-striped alighting a rooftop
walking the spine I thought far too high.
The bees, hungry for the watermelon, swarm the flesh-bit pairing knife.
Mother swats them away with a wooden spatula as we giggle behind
sticky gun-shot fingers.

Dogs in the yard play finicky with their shadows.
The son next door swaddled in a rough pink towel after the water fight.
That time that we both posed for a photograph,
balloons in each hand.
When a bird flew in through the French doors, quick to recognise its mistake;
like a businessman caught in a lift in the depths of winter,
I’ve never seen a decision to leave made that quick.
The biggest dragonfly we’d ever seen;
we screamed together, swatting with a newspaper, magazines,
and sweating hands,
then fell laughing on all fours after it was gone.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Evolution of Ideas

Upon entering the greened-out park,
you find a man slumped beside a derelict potting shed.
The dogs attached to silver chains in both your hands
realise him long before you do,
raising their old white faces to sniff the acidic lull of liquor.

Not long after, you find a blackbird.
Feet first before the heavens,
like that spider you crushed under a Ministers face last night.
Feathers drawn out in its final butterfly stroke toward the air,
eyes plucked out already, probably by a lifelong friend.

And you remind yourself that,
not so different to the pull on your arms,
the soft accidental slide of a baking worm beneath your feet,
that should you peer around the corner
to the sleeping mat of that one slumped man,
or behind a tree, under that park bench, or even
a compost lid,
you’d find no friends
nor amber stout to feed his voice,

just the cramped up newspaper from yesteryear,
three shoes with holes in,
two shoelaces in a river,
him, all alone in the world.

© Eve Redwater 2012

Silence Speaks

I see the twitch in the net-curtains again this morning,
the neighbour, unknown, nameless to meet, busies himself
with morning papers, pastries, the steam of the iron is clear
to me now; no more so remote than the long tails alighting
the telephone pole – chattering to themselves several hymns thick,
dowsing the street below with a harmonious clink, a harmonious
clatter.

Mr. Unknown unfolds the news, unaware.
Not a penchant for watching, more of a hobby of sorts,
politer than stalking, perhaps even talking to his cheeks,
like so many people do when they’re not really
listening.

Never to meet him past the bakery stand; even in June when
loaves are at their most swollen, the rye and the blueberry jam
(half and inch thick), like a pleasant curd, a winding curb
children enjoy driving their oxblood mouths around,
pale fingers, all smiles, sticky, sticky; sticky.

Across the road, my nameless venture exposes a tooth,
then a tongue. But rather than the red you’d so come to expect,
that dental room exposes its palatable secret;
as white as his eyes – of course, of course,

blind as anything, clumsy, hungry, human; afraid.

© Eve Redwater 2012