Mandarin

 
Upon this glory moulded gilded gold and morning
         Fell obscure to seams behold, the flutter-blood of earth upturned
         The yellow folds, twas kingdom sworn – finer picking, pluck it yearned,
Dawned, upon what love to tell, the finer song in lovage yawning,
I swore, by song in swelled out throttle chords, to mouth, oh spring! –
         Under thimbled tips your swift unsingly, your greener, large rudder wings
         The palest gourd: as fend-off-falcon-gentle swings sweet to the little things,
blow, and wind be fearless upon thy single shin:

You turn, a sibyl songstress the amberest pluck, nihtegales’ wold,
         And be not a tempered thing, shadowed over gleaming sight
         Beauty in the marksman gully thy paints upon mine height,
The slender, supple, oh, wonder flutter of a neck in reddish gold –

Majesty of one that does not contend, nor bend the will of vixens’ den,
         A prairie-borne of one who knowest the better sough
         Unknown to thee bee-catcher wings form finger grins below the bough –
Thy comrade nature, be a beating plume, an eye for eye o’er gloaming glen.

© Eve Redwater 2012

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

[I've written this for DVersepoets Form for All, where we've been tasked of writing in the style of Gerard Manley Hopkins and his beautiful "sprung rhythm" poetry. I wanted to capture the flight of a Mandarin duck over a field with this poem. I'm a big fan of Hopkins, so this was a joy to write!]

Eve’s Check-in: An Instagram Addict is Born!

Hello everyone!

So, the deadline for my dissertation is fast approaching. I know that my posts have been few this month, but it’s been a super busy one so I hope you all forgive me!

I’m making sure to read everyone’s posts as they come, but bear with me, I’m a little slower than usual at the moment!

I’ve recently discovered Instagram, I know, I’m slow, right? But as a small token of my thanks for your all your thoughts, comments, and ongoing support, I’d like to offer you some photographs that I’ve taken over the course of a few months/years.

Some are fairly recent, like the ones in the Peak District, Sheffield, and others are from my time in Kyoto, Japan 2011. I’ve even thrown in a pic of my doggie, Jodie; isn’t she a little cutie?

“Nature does not hurry.” – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

Perfect – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

Pretty Peaks – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

Where’s the birdy? – Sheffield Botanical Gardens.

Sakura – Kyoto, Japan.

One of my lovely doggies, Jodie.

Cloudy~ – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

Up in the clouds~ – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

High-five! – Sheffield Botanical Gardens.

Lost in the woods – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

Across the bridge – Kyoto, Japan.

Cherry Blossoms – Kyoto, Japan.

Snowy trees – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

River Guardian – Kyoto, Japan.

How far does it all go? – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

Birds in flight~ – Weston Park, Sheffield, UK.

What a view! – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

In the hills! – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

So much green to see~ – Peak District, Sheffield, UK.

Open wide! – Kyoto, Japan.

Firey Maple – Kyoto, Japan.

© Eve Redwater 2011-2012

That’s it for this months check-in! I hope you enjoyed, and that you’re all well! Thank you once again for following, commenting, and being as lovely as you all are.

Until next time~

With love,

Eve xxx

[If you would like to follow me on Instagram, I'm simply known as everedwater - lets link up!]

Second Skin

Turn back time and I will be
as of the wind
sugarcrafted on the skin
with pause for eyes the nose
salacious teethings
and sometimes
when the moon sucks the wood
from yonder trees
and chiff-chaffs stick
their nosey points towards
grey bony threads of
sickle-clouds
remember me
when all is sifted and I a
graft
a slump and spendage
around the shoulders
of stalwart better things

© Eve Redwater 2012

[Posted for Dverse - Meeting the Bar: Allegory – come join the allegorical fun! Also, remember you can always click on my photographs for a bigger view~]

Of Hunting

 
We begin with the warming, the pip of a heart.
Day mould in the leaves,
rust in the flora scatters in shudders.
Stuck to a tree comes a bellow of cuu. A sparrow I drew
with the yew in my bow; sadly, sorry. Mouthlings are split.
A mermaid-purse for the insides-out:
                           the forgotten smell of worms.

© Eve Redwater 2012

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

[Short and sweet today everyone, my workload is not fun! This photograph was taken on a trip to the Peak District one afternoon; a lovely snowy day. Submitted for DVerse Open Link Night.]

Cutpurse Flight

Each in bird a hive to grow,
to tell of quiets lest profound,
to make the bee-buzz brim,
                                             that,
waft-like swoon of beak to bulb, a brief repast,
in ground, inside; an inescapable palette
                                             that,
even as the white bloom of flies
in saffron beds, be bold be, of the bee
                                             dear bird,
you swivel, darling, there above the yew;
in a field that swells with the burst of grain,
dipped and then green after a week of un-taste.
                    We bow,
                                we bow,
                                             below we bow –
blest be you for cutpurse flight.

© Eve Redwater 2012

                                                                                                    
[Posted for DVersepoets "Poetics: New view for you", where we were tasked to write a poem from a pool of beautiful photographs by Tracey Grumbach. I hope you enjoy my contribution today!]

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!

Crow On A Perch

The tree-ferns they buttress, an inch-thick cream
Curd sits tall, sits pretty- on his feet;
As snow and milk scatters, from the moon
Wiping his beak into the froth.

Languid, smiling, cackles does he, tempting
Feasts under feathered tin cups, the apple
Sleeping, snow-borne, rotting nicely, he
Is pecking. Arrow-tipped eyes,

Watch, they are watching, watching me, always.
He is busy, he is trite and black
and bony. Rustling pearly ball-gown
Feathers, boring out the forest chill.

Mindless, mindless wandering- he is sore,
He is Kingly. A dotted branch, snaps-
Matted curly nooks he falls like stones
That scarlet fish gobble as jewels.

Perching, the crowny thorns sit left and right,
The nimble spider, he spins and drops
A moonstone pebble, upon the ground;
He ticks and watches, better-born.

© copyright Eve Redwater 2011

Bird

We blow rictus words
Forth, dear Night-Mother,
Pluming, brushing, still

Filling mouthlings all,
The uncanny worm;
Plunges, head-first, whole.

Sinking little feet,
The bracken stings us,
Anchors us, lucky

Save plunging, outward,
Out there, outside, into
Sky-fold, cloudless pit.

We caw, we cry, we
Lament loamy grounds
We helpless tumble.

We are not nimble,
We are brave, we are
Catching, like our claws

We catch the worm on
Sunny days, under
Rain, or peaches cloud.

Little leaves of gold 
Craven umbrellas,
Tumble, they tumble

They save us, above
They wait, nacreous.
We huddle, brothers.

Our feathers are warm,
Our feathers are warm!
We are mud, gold, ash

And opal. Always,
Rounded and wholesome,
Just like our Mother.

© copyright Eve Redwater 2011