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?

© 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!]

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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.]

Man, Rain, Everything

For those who remain stood
With the slope of their back
To a creamblooded wave,

The pickforks and toothpicks
To the feet and the toes,
Observant as they needle

The maws of scarlet crabs,
And to the right, in the firm
Of an April frost

Comes a snuff of italic rain,
A blackwhite chipped grey
To the nose of a dog yet swift,

The batter of purple-bruised berries
Under a calamity of wet,
They learn to do rhythm

In the mouth with a caracal pinch,
Unravelling soured pieces
A calla flower bursts in the throat,

Stops, then blooms on the crest
Of your limbic rose tongue,
Stopped, before the vaccine words

Blew short an incognito, ochreous dandelion,
She who tips her lost children to the wind
Against flat-palmed duns in the tide,

And you, this day,
Black shoes beached
Through a tumult of sand,

Imprinted on the mould
Of a sugar tipped hill,
The water, air, a flurry of green-cud grass,

A pale of flowers to the ears,
Poor motes sot wild in the breast,
So many of us, together.

© Eve Redwater 2012

[It’s been raining all day today, I love it! It helped me write this for Dverse~]

Ariadne’s Child

Where the birch meets water,
lost in the mouths of lilied frogs
beyond and involved, evolved with the foxgloves,
purple of the edible pansy blooms;
the breadth of a bee sting, slowsoft in butter colour
as it spreads;
take care and be well
whisper down to the lambkid, she says:

down there, bygone by buttress and marigolds,
swiftsure and buried in the browns of soil,
out there, take the tail of a queen and walk forever,
           foxtrot,
                              merry,
downward where a willow meets pine.

© Eve Redwater 2012


[This photograph was taken on a lovely sunny day a couple of weeks ago in my local park. A day or so later, it snowed!]

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!]

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