There was once a chance
that I didn’t take:
Groaning under the thorough attention of
the maid slut, attentive to their needs:
getting deep into the crevices with
Written as part of The Gender Book project, as I am a Gender Scout! You can see my earned badges here, if you scroll down.
The door swung closed, locked on the outside.
A poem for Plumptious Pea, because she inspired me so!
He opens up
to accept the length of loaf –
Sleep eludes me. The humidity is high tonight; the air stifling and heavy with heat. Auckland in the heart of summer breathes moisture, and that same dampness has kept me awake when I should be sleeping.
So I have risen, leaving Apollo to slumber. I sit quietly at the keyboard, desk fan whirring beside me and a glass of milk cooling my throat. One cat keeps me company, resting on the chair beside me, while the other is out prowling the neighbourhood, making his mark and claiming his territory.
The day has rolled around, so The Luchador comes calling
With red and silver mask, showing cleavage to distract.
No matter who the foes, she’ll beat them in the brawling
Poetry has always been one of the touchstones of my life, both as a writer and as a reader. In times of particular emotion I revert to it – both laughter and tears.
There was a poem that intensely moved me when I first read it, mere months after my mother died. I was visiting Te Papa in Wellington for the first time, wandering and absorbing, and in the late afternoon I came to a long room with paintings on both sides – sketches, pacific artwork, poems. In that room I saw rain-washed canvases, with words written across the landscape. I worked my way across the poem, then returned to the beginning and read it again. Tears pricked my eyes, and I sat down on a low black leather ottoman to reflect upon it. In my handbag was my notebook, and I pulled it out, then stood and slowly, re-reading as I wrote, copied down the words.
It’s a special time of year
when the Easter Bunny comes
with eggs all in a basket
What does one have to do with the other? Well, when I was eight I memorised a poem for a class competition (and I won a book – I have always loved owning my own books, so it was a good incentive). The poem was an A.A. Milne one – and I memorised it well, so I’ve been able to recall it ever since.
Which is very handy if you’re being told to recite a poem whilst your inner labia are being pinched, pulled, squeezed, twisted, and otherwise tormented. A poem that you can remember – one that you can belt out the first verse of, albeit somewhat raggedly and with the occasional additional interjected swear word – is an extremely useful thing to have.keep looking »